A Not So Silent Community
By: West Magazine
Tags: American Sign Language, Deaf, Featured, Features, Deaf Awareness

A Not So Silent Community

The increasing exposure of deaf culture

Story by Bailey Mount Editor-in-Chief

Translation by Kirsten Hernandez Contributor

Cover design by Tara Thomas/Art Director

Christopher Corrasa, planted squarely against a shelf of mugs and coffee bags, stood in a corner of the Starbucks watching a nearby table. It was the largest one in the coffee shop and most of the seats were already full. It was also right in the middle of the room. In the fading light, the overhead lamps were like a spotlight on its occupants, attracting slight glances from neighboring tables that went largely ignored, as the center table occupants were engaged in intense conversation. From his place by the shelf, Corrasa’s eyes travelled back and forth between them, missing no exchanged gesture or facial expression.

His own hands, however, were still. At the moment, he had nothing to say.

When he did want to speak, his fingers were a flurry of activity and worked alongside his face to convey his intended tone.

“I got sick when I was a baby,” he explained.

“ASL learning needs interaction with deaf people.Your learning continues when you meet people and stop being shy.” — Christopher Corrasa

Because of this, Corrasa is deaf. He does not speak, but he knows English and American Sign Language, the latter of which serves as his main form of communication. He’s also the organizer of the evening’s Deaf Chat Night, a weekly three-hour event where deaf and hard of hearing people meet up and talk with one another in and around the Long Beach area. He was only standing in the corner to make sure it was going well and, judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, it was. In his social media post for the event, he’d encouraged hearing people and ASL students to show up as well. They had.

“ASL learning needs interaction with deaf people,” he said. “Your learning continues when you meet people and stop being shy.”

Shyness was something that Corrasa certainly lacked. Whenever a new group of people came in, he raised his hand to gain their attention and immediately approached them. He looked like he could be — and probably was — someone’s idea of what a grandfather should be, with an ambling stride and casual attire that made anyone feel welcome. He laughed a lot, in short bursts of sound that were both surprising and pleasing.

Deaf Chat Night was also indicative of a greater desire: the deaf community’s effort to showcase their culture and be acknowledged in the larger hearing world. To LBSU student Kirsten Hernandez, Deaf culture is often discouraged from doing this because hearing people are quick to classify it as a disability.

“Many people infantilize deaf people,” she said. “Deaf people can lead successful lives just like hearing people.”

Because of this assumption, the deaf community uses a capital “D” and a lowercase “d” to differentiate between those who are immersed in deaf culture and those who aren’t.

“Little ‘d’ people try their best to ‘fit in’ with the hearing world,” Hernandez said. “Big ‘D’ deaf people are proud to be Deaf and use sign language every day.” She added that Deaf people did not wish to be “mainstreamed like their little ‘d’ counterparts.”

“People in Deaf culture view deafness not as a disability but as a difference, such as hair color or racial background.”-Kirsten Hernandez

Hernandez is not deaf. She’s hard of hearing, but is likely to become deaf when she reaches senior age. For now, she only wears hearing aids. They’re tucked behind her glasses, covered by her long brown hair. They’re not noticeable and to people who don’t know her well, she looks like she “fits in” with the hearing world.

But once again, it’s all in the hands. When she spoke, they refused to stay still. When they did the speaking for her, her mouth still formed words and sentences. She was quick to stress the importance of normalizing Deaf culture as a first step toward inclusivity.

“People in Deaf culture view deafness not as a disability but as a difference, such as hair color or racial background,” she said. Sometimes, this viewpoint leads to heated controversies within the deaf community, particularly over the subject of cochlear implants.

Like a hearing aid, a cochlear implant doesn’t restore hearing. Instead, it directly stimulates the auditory nerve, helping them realize the signal as sound. For parents worried about the quality of their deaf baby’s life, Hernandez said, the procedure sounds like a miracle.

“[The medical industry] uses fear to convince them,” she said. “They omit telling them that their child could be a part of this rich culture.”

To her and many other members of the deaf community, the implants were erroneously seen as a “solved problem.” To them, being deaf wasn’t even a problem to begin with; it was a source of great pride.

The next step in establishing this pride and inclusivity was to adjust parts of society that created that perception in the first place.

Hernandez pointed out that deaf people were only perceived as “less capable” because of “institutional discrimination,” in this case, accessibility to parts of society that hearing people took for granted, such as cinemas and universities. Both often fail to make accomodations for the deaf and hard of hearing.

“I grew up with no captions,” said Jason Allan, a Deaf Chat Night attendee. “When I was around 15, captions in movies started.”

Like Hernandez, Allan doesn’t settle on using one form of communication. He mouthed sentences as he signed. Occasionally, he even said a few. He mimicked wearing glasses, referencing the text-displaying glasses that some movie theaters recently installed in 2013. They were designed to bring more deaf and hard of hearing cinema fans to the theater.

“Sometimes they don’t always work,” he said.

He described “access” as being the most challenging part of being in the deaf community. With that access came awareness and a sense of community, a large part of Deaf culture and something that Allan had drove all the way out from Palm Springs to find tonight.

“I want to meet people here,” he said. “I want people to talk to me.”

He and Hernandez talked for a moment. After she made a particular sign, he stopped her, eyebrows knitting in confusion. She made it again, slower this time, more deliberate. His expression didn’t change, but he looked around, asking the other people present what the ASL symbol was for “event.”

Someone made it and he looked back at Hernandez, gently correcting her; she’d been signing “anniversary” the entire night.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, in both ASL and English. Allan frowned, dismissing the apology. This event wasn’t meant to criticize mistakes or ostracize non-native speakers. It was meant to encourage learning for all members, something that Hernandez did not feel at LBSU.

“It isn’t right to advertise yourself as being an inclusive space for people to express themselves while ignoring the needs of a whole other minority group.” -Kirsten Hernandez

“Disabled Student Services does their best with what the university gives them, but sometimes, in my opinion, it’s not always enough,” she said.

She cited one instance where the new ASL department chair requested a secretary who knew the language to maintain a faculty “deaf space” — a space for deaf people to gather and be around those with similar experiences. It was denied. Most of the other forms of dismissal happened on a more subtle level.

“From what I’ve heard, most of the classroom interpreters show up and interpret for their students,” she added. “But other than class, deaf and hard of hearing students are pretty much shut out.”

She thought it was ironic that LBSU President Jane Close Conoley’s “No Barriers” campaign — meant to dismantle educational obstacles based on sexual orientation, gender identity, religion and race — only provided more barriers to deaf and disabled students by leaving them out.

“It isn’t right to advertise yourself as being an inclusive space for people to express themselves while ignoring the needs of a whole other minority group,” she said.

In the end, however, Hernandez had her own ironic piece of advice for the institution: to “just fucking listen.”

At Deaf Chat Night, no one had to ask for that. Everyone — hearing, hard of hearing, or deaf — treated one another with the utmost attention and respect. No one was left alone for too long. If they were, Corrasa inevitably swooped in, settling down next to them and striking up a new conversation.

Under the overhead lamps, this small section of a larger community ensured that no one felt excluded as they often did. Around this wide wooden table, they were inviting people to share their pride.

“I’m happy helping hearing people learn if they want to communicate with deaf people,” he said.