Clerc Scar 30 22-27 March 2010 Contents ===== Chasing Vistas 28 Melanie Bond [Memoir] ===== The Call of Duty Adrean Clark [Cartoon] ===== Food Pyramid Handout On the Hill Mary J. Thornley [Poem] ===== The Deaf Parent's Nightmare Adrean Clark [Video Essay] ===== This Incontestable Superiority Michael Uniacke [Story] ===== Dog-Friendly Matt Daigle [Cartoon] ===== The General Raymond Luczak [Film Review] ===== Stoffel's Guide To Snazzy Responses: Deaf-Blind Edition Scott Stoffel [Humor] ===== FEEDBACK FRIDAY [Letters to the Editors] ===== We welcome letters to the editor in response to this piece. Send to editor@clercscar.com. We reserve the right to edit letters for space and clarity or not to publish a letter. We are always open to submissions. Submit your writing, artwork, or video to editor@clercscar.com. To subscribe, email subscribe@clercscar.com with the message "Subscribe daily" or "Subscribe weekly." To unsubscribe, email subscribe@clercscar.com with the message "Unsubscribe me." Find us on Twitter and Facebook! Visit our archives or bookstore at http://www.clercscar.com. Copyright 2009 by Clerc Scar. All rights reserved. ==================================================================================== ===== Chasing Vistas 28 Melanie Bond Words: 1,108 [Memoir] WChapter 87 Whitney Gallery of Western Art We raced back to the Buffalo Bill Museum Complex in Cody, Wyoming. I hadn't quite noticed from the day before how architecturally and artistically beautiful the grand entryway to the museum complex was. We headed back into the Buffalo Bill's Wild West Museum and finished looking at the rest of the Old West exhibits which we had missed the day before. I couldn't wait to go back into the Whitney Gallery of Western Art. There was no doubt in my mind about how wonderful this art museum was and that I would probably never see another one quite like this one anywhere else. After all, there's only one Wild West and this was it! The huge gilded frames that graced the oil paintings were a work of art themselves. The colorful oil paintings brought Native Americans and the Wild West to life. One of Harvey's favorites is a painting called "Cattle Round-up" which showed tall trees in the background with a cow-puncher trailing behind two cattle and two calves. Another piece that attracted him was the one called "Indian War Weapons" where about ten weapons were mounted in a circle on a dark background with a mystical blue center. The Native American weaponry included the tomahawk, hatchet, bow and arrows. And, oh, the sculptures! A museum guide spotted my white cane and informed me that I was allowed to touch any art object even though "Do Not Touch" signs were posted everywhere. How wonderful my first-ever hands-on sculptural experience was! Up to this point, I did not know that museums could accommodate visually impaired people in this special way. To me, this was a startling and empowering revelation. I thrilled every time I touched various western-themed sculptures of cowboys on horses, cattle drives, covered wagon trains, and Native Americans on horseback. My favorite one was a life-sized bronze sculpture of a cowboy giving water to his horse by letting the horse drink from his cowboy hat. It was easy to feel the loving care and the camaraderie between them. To me, this was an exhilarating spiritual experience. I felt honored to be here! Dano enjoyed touching the sculptures too but when the museum guide noticed what Dano was doing, she informed him that he was not to touch anything because he had normal vision. Dano sulked a bit but not for too long. Harvey enjoyed the "Cosmos" sculpture which featured a tangled mass of steer-horns (just the horns, mind you) all painted in different bright neon colors of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, greens, whites, and who knew what else! Chapter 88 Plains Indian Museum After we had indulged our soul and our senses in the Whitney Gallery of Western Art, we walked over to the Plains Indian Museum which was also housed in the same Buffalo Bill Museum Complex. Harvey enjoyed listening to narrated real-life dioramas which told the story of the lives of Plains Indian peoples, their cultures, traditions, values, and histories. This was a living, breathing museum, more than just a place where Indian objects and artifacts were on display. We stood on a high balcony overlooking the stage below and watched the scene unfold before us as players took on interpretive roles of what life was like living as a Plains Indian people. The stage had a few props such as a tipi, a glowing fire pit and some trappings. And the stage was bathed in a soft dim light as if we were viewing an Indian village at twilight. I was somewhat disappointed by the dim lighting because I couldn't really see what was happening. I also couldn't understand the gentle narration of the dioramas though its soft voice did soothe and comfort. I could not help but wonder, Where are the accommodations for deaf, blind, and deafblind patrons? Were there no open-caption screens available? What about brailled displays? And where were seats for people to sit down and view these living dramas? Was there no consideration for people with tired feet? By this time, we had already been through three museums and our feet were beginning to ache after having been on them for at least 2-3 hours. We quickly left the Plains Indian Museum and moved on to our fourth museum. Chapter 89 Winchester Museum of Rifles and Guns After nearly three hours of being immersed in art and history, we rushed through the Winchester Museum of Rifles and Guns which featured rifles and guns--exactly as the name says--and other weaponry dating back to pre-Revolutionary War times. Since Dano was becoming more restless and wanting to leave, we did not take the time to check out most of the exhibits except to take a quick glance at a few weapons. To our surprise, we walked into a room that was built to look like a hunting lodge with displays of game animals, great and small. These included a huge towering polar bear standing on two hind legs, a large antlered moose, elk, deer, bighorn sheep, brown bear and a few smaller mammals. I teased Dano a bit when I told him, "Hey, look who's here! This must be Buddy Bear's grandpaw from the North Pole!" Dano's small stature as he looked up at the polar bear's face was totally eclipsed by the polar bear's massive height with both its front paws stretched out. Harvey quipped, "Well, it looks like he's just come out of hibernation cuz he's looking a little on the thin side!" Dano was becoming a bit more edgy because he wanted to leave the museum and go grab something to eat. He was also getting tired after having been on his feet for nearly four hours. His behavior up to this point had been exemplary. Good behavior merited a just reward. We knew it was time for us to go. It was as simple as that, no matter how wonderful all these museums were! Considering that Dano had not eaten since early yesterday afternoon when he fell ill while visiting Medicine Lodge Canyon, we knew that he needed to eat to keep up his strength. His hunger was a good sign! We headed over to the A & W's at around 5:00 p.m. and enjoyed our creamy root beers and momma-sized cheeseburgers which hit the spot right in our tummies! After a fine and satisfying meal, we settled in for the short 105-mile drive to the east gate of Yellowstone National Park. Note: This museum has been re-named "Cody Firearms Museum." In 2002, a fifth museum, the Draper Museum of Natural History was added to the Buffalo Bill Historical Center. ===== Melanie Bond is a deaf-blind writer based in Bay City, Michigan. Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== The Call of Duty Adrean Clark [Cartoon] To view the cartoon, visit http://www.clercscar.com/?p=722 For those who are Braille readers, a text translation is provided below. A very pregnant interpreter is on her cell phone as her husband drives their car. "I'm going to have my baby, but are you sure you don't need me to interpret??" ===== Adrean Clark is a Deaf cartoonist based in St. Paul, MN. She is currently working on her first comic book, 8 Ways to be Deaf. New pages are posted Monday-Fridays at http://www.adreanaline.com/blog Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== Food Pyramid Handout On the Hill Mary J. Thornley [Poem] When I'm out walking on Capitol Hill, A man gives me a handout, a small handbill I think he is soliciting but it's a pyramid sheet, He says "No vegetables on it--government's all gone to meat!" Oh, DisDonald, DisDonald! Can you come out and play With all the sick children who ate today DisMuffins, DisBurgers, DisFries? What's in your mobile health unit for children with too many disshakes, Xs on their eyes from too many disfries? The pharaohs made the pyramids--ask them what they eat? Did they feed the builders 73% dairy and meat? They were people of the pomegranate, the pepper, and the cube! It's a chiller night! The discarded vegetables rear out of the ground, their healthy king struts at the head of the phalanx, we wait breathlessly for him to leap on tiptoe . . . He's pharaoh! He's tomato! He's potato! He sees a carrot top! It's DisRonald! He's sober for a change--not that madcap before He's been dispensing a cow--don't ask me how! The cholesterol man, ground and fried, He's been found and tried! Oh the animals that died! His hat is a basket of fries! His shield says Super Dissize! His pike is a shaft cut from a tree cleared for another DisDonald? But now he's got on his plate --where he used to have steak-- Whazzat? (Munching sound) Yes, it's something never been disfried, never been tried, never been found Guilty! They're coming back! There is a rumor the Amazon forests are looking for another abode And they shoot out of the ground where a DisDonald grows! Chorus: Oh can it be true? Oh can it be true! Wouldn't you rather leave the bovines alone? Wouldn't you rather not see a ham bone? Wouldn't you rather eat your own homegrown? Wouldn't you rather go on home? You wouldn't have to groan After eating too much fat, You wouldn't have to moan After passing the hat For the latest casualty-- Don't you need broccoli to make you honest? Don't you need celery to make you clear? Don't you need the word to get out that you're done eating deer? Don't you want to be steer clear? Chiller night! (Rhythmic sound of eating crunchy vegetables) Refrigerators! Open your doors! They were abattoirs! But now they're ambassadors! We don't need a John Brown, we've got a new town! Every Amazon is looking for a DisDonald! DisDonald! DisDonald! ===== Mary J. Thornley is a Deaf writer and a graduate student at Georgetown University. Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== The Deaf Parent's Nightmare Andrean Clark [Video Essay] To view essay, click http://www.clercscar.com/?p=727 For those who are Braille readers, a text translation is provided below. I'm Adrean Clark and this video is "The Deaf Parent's Nightmare." We watched the movie Beyond Silence recently. The deaf parents in that movie have a hearing daughter. She aspires to be a clarinet player. Her father feels threatened by her musical inclinations because of a bad experience in his childhood. As the movie progressed, I thought about my own children. I have three hearing boys. Sometimes I feel powerless when it comes to sound. I had speech therapy and hearing aids when growing up so the power struggle over sound is ingrained in me. Sometimes when I bring my kids to school or to the doctor, people will look at me and my kids, then tell us the kids need to practice listening and speaking. They need more exposure to sound, but that is something I don't have power over. That feeling of powerlessness -- the thought occurred to me that "the other side" would experience it as well. Hearing parents with deaf children are faced with a similar conundrum -- they feel powerless when it comes to the absence of sound. As they struggle with how to communicate with their children, hearing parents can find it easier just to expect children to fit in to hearing culture. The fear of losing children is real to hearing parents and deaf parents alike. Maybe it is expressed in different ways, but it is the same fear. Back to the movie. In one scene the hearing CODA happened to be playing her clarinet, and her father was far in the back, watching her. As his daughter finished playing her clarinet, he asked, "Have I lost you?" She answered, "Ever since I was born, I loved you. You will never lose me." That brought tears to my eyes. How true it is! It doesn't matter what method, what expectations -- the point is to love children for who they are. Find the best way to respect children as they are, to connect with them in a way that honors their being. ===== Adrean Clark is a Deaf cartoonist based in St. Paul, MN. She is currently working on her first comic book, 8 Ways to be Deaf. New pages are posted Monday-Fridays at http://www.adreanaline.com/blog Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== This Incontestable Superiority Michael Uniacke Words: 9,426 [Story] Liverpool, Great Britain, November 1880 "Mr Archer. Sir! Boss wants yer!" These words from young Joey, the copy boy with permanently inky fingers, were my summons from Mr Harry Cruikshank, and immediately aroused in me interest and apprehension. Mr Cruikshank was the editor of the respected London newspaper, The Globe, and normally he would have little reason for dealings with a junior journalist such as I. He preferred the company of senior writers such as McKenzie or Smithers. However by nature I am confident, and I strongly believed I had given the paper cause for complaint about neither my work nor my conduct. Indeed, surely the very opposite was justified! Had I not recently succeeded, where many others had failed, in uncovering the real story of the collapse of the Seven Seas Shipping Company, which occasioned much consternation among the City financiers? So, with a jaunty air I made my way to Mr Cruikshank's office, and outside his door paused for some moments. I straightened my tie, brushed the shoulders of my suit-coat, and rapped smartly on his office door. Thus began the stirring tale of my first trip to the Continent, which alas led to my fall from grace and consequent banishment to this seaport of Liverpool. But of this I of course knew nothing as I heard Mr Cruikshank's muffled "come in", and entered. I spotted Mr Cruikshank immediately at his desk, amid piles of newspapers and clouds of blue tobacco smoke. To my considerable surprise I recognised another gentleman, a portly, imposing figure standing beside Mr Cruikshank's desk. It was Sir Henry Rashmore, the famous shipping magnate! A wealthy philanthropist, he was a man of great influence and was well-known in London's financial and industrial circles, and was a part-owner of this very newspaper. Such exalted company was usually denied me, but following the most cordial of introductions, as I settled in the leather visitor's chair at the urgings of both, I fancy I felt my confidence justified, for Mr Cruikshank's bewhiskered visage beamed at me. He sucked on his pipe, expelled a great volume of blue smoke, and cleared his throat. "Mr Archer," he said, "am I mistaken in my belief you are conversant with the Italian language?" I kept my wits about me, because Sir Henry, with arms folded, peered at me intently. "Si signore, certamente conosco qualche Italiano," I replied jauntily. "I do know a little Italian, sir. My grandmother hails from Naples, where she lived until she met my grandfather, an English sailor." Mr Cruikshank and Sir Henry exchanged glances. "He will do, Cruikshank," said the latter, and with that mysterious remark, took his leave. I stared after him, and my face must have registered bewilderment, for Mr Cruikshank explained. "Sir Henry was impressed with your Seven Seas story, and he does not hand out compliments lightly. Anyway, I'm sending you to Italy. To Milan." "Milano," I exclaimed. What a delight this was! What was the story? Whom would I interview? Mr Cruikshank's next question to me was completely unexpected. "Do you know any deaf-mutes?" For a brief moment all was confusion as I digested the thoughts of a sojourn to the Continent amid deaf-mutes. Was I to interview a deaf-mute? How was I to communicate with him? However I quickly recovered my senses. "No sir," I replied. "The grandmother I mentioned occasionally makes use of an ear trumpet, but of course she speaks. In fact she speaks only too well." Mr Cruikshank grinned. He sucked on his pipe, but kept his eyes on me. "There's a chance we'll soon be hearing a lot more from the deaf-mutes themselves. The deaf can be taught to speak. Some new method of instruction. I'm sending you to Milan to cover a conference of educators of deaf-mutes. You'll write a story about the conference. Describe the method and get a few interviews." There was indeed a rush of thoughts to my head as I absorbed this good news. I was going to Milan! And because of this new method of instruction, the deaf could speak! This was another exciting development of our age, and how doubly glad I was that I chose journalism as a profession, rather than law, with its fusty volumes, or medicine, with its cold, grey cadavers and interminable beakers and test tubes. As a journalist I would be the first on the scene in this golden age of discovery and development, reporting to all the world in my solid, concise yet fluent prose. Why, I fancied I could see the opening lines of my splendid report: NEW INSTRUCTION METHOD TO ENABLE DEAF-MUTES TO SPEAK By David Archer MILAN, ITALY, TUESDAY. A conference of educators of deaf-mutes in Milan today resolved to speedily implement a new method of instruction . . . Such was the keenness of my mind that it has taken me several minutes to inscribe these words telling of my very thoughts, yet these perchance took mere half-seconds, and Mr Cruikshank broke in on them just as I was pondering the split infinitive in the first sentence of my report. "There's apparently some opposition," he said. I was aghast. From whom? Surely not Blakely, that odious poseur who once thought a Proper Noun was a village in Warwickshire? Or was it to sending me to foreign shores? The paper had been losing staff, and I was indeed surprised that a foreign assignment could still be afforded. But of the paper's parlous finances, much was rumoured and little was said, and I could hardly expect Mr Cruikshank to reveal the intimate workings of the company to a junior such as I. It was then that I realised my editor was referring to this conference. "To the new instruction method? But how could there be?" "Some advocates of the deaf say instruction should be in the manner of the language of signs." "But our world demands speech," I cried. "Speech is essential for ordinary commerce. Why, sir, the idea is so obvious. And if this new method ensures the deaf can speak, then surely the advocates support it fully." "They don't, apparently. Be sure to find out why." "Oh yes, that I must," I assured Mr Cruikshank. A journalist must report all sides of a debate, without fear or favour. I would certainly report the views of these advocates, but even so, looking at it with such fairness and objectiveness as I could muster, how could anyone oppose a way to bring the deaf into communion with their hearing fellows? At least it added an interesting piquancy to this journey of mine, my first beyond the shores of Britain. Mr Cruikshank informed me of the practical details of the assignment. The Globe has a writer on European affairs, a Mr Romano, who would be travelling north from Rome on another assignment. Mr Cruikshank said he would delay Mr Romano's assignment so he could spare a day or two to assist me in Milan. "I said assist you, not nurse you," he said, but the bushy thickets of his eyebrows rose, and there was a twinkle in his eye. He leaned back in his chair. "Mr Romano is of course familiar with European ways, and he shall be instructed to keep an eye on you and to help where necessary. But you are a fast learner and I should be surprised if you keep him busy. And we can only spare him for a couple of days." He shuffled some papers on his desk, put them in a folder, and checked his pipe. I watched as he inserted a metal probe into the bowl, before he looked to me again. He tilted back in his chair, and I wondered if the day would come when he tipped the chair too far, creating an unexpected vacancy in the editorial department, thus entertaining for me the possibility of a promotion. "Any questions, young man?" "About Sir Henry," I enquired, "does he have an interest in this?" "He does have a deaf daughter. She's a sweet young thing. So to that extent, yes, he has an interest. And a very natural interest, if I may say so." He straightened his chair, shuffled more papers, and I realised the interview was concluding. "Wilson in Accounts will see to your bookings and itinerary. We don't have a lot to spare, so watch the pennies. We expect a good story from you." "That you may, and that you will get, sir," I grinned, and took my leave. = Soon I was aboard a train speeding south through France enroute to the city of Milan, in Italy! When one is a young man, one's hopes are new and fresh, and weighed down by neither domestic cares nor financial encumbrances, one sallies forth into the world, eager to make one's mark. Certainly I took this assignment seriously, but there was a small voice in my mind that suggested I could be excused for thinking it a pleasant working holiday. Mr Cruikshank granted me five days leave of absence after I filed my report, and I determined I should see a little of the Continent, but not much, alas! I dearly wanted to visit the seaport of Naples, my grandmother's home town, for my story on the Seven Seas Shipping Company perhaps stirred some maritime longing in my blood. Of money matters I was thrifty, but my grandmother was needy and depended on my support. I had little to spare, and my expenditures had risen considerably with the neccessity of engaging a nurse for her during my absence. My grandmother cared for me when I was a child, but was left impecunious by my wastrel of a grandfather who cared more for rum and gambling. At the very least, I planned to secure some cheap lodgings near Milan, and by careful enquiry, indulge in a walking tour of a suitable local district, perhaps some vineyards, perhaps one of the northern lakes, such as Como or Maggiore, or even, if finances permitted, a quick trip south to Genoa. This would be my reward, and was one of the things that gave me much to contemplate as my train sped southwards. Of course, I did not neglect my professional duties! I reviewed the debate on the issues of the education of the deaf-mutes, for the first duty of the interviewer is to acquaint himself intimately with the subject under discourse. I managed to tear my eyes from the sights of the green French meadows and the charming petites villages at which the train would halt for a few minutes, and I bowed my head to study the pamphlets and writings of those experts in the education of the deaf who were riven by a fierce controversy. Many educators favoured speech as the prime method of instruction, and believed that with diligence and patience, the deaf could be taught to enunciate. These were called the oralists. On the other hand (Ha! Good pun that!) the deaf advocates maintained that signs were the deaf-mute's natural mode of expression, and therefore, this should be preserved and encouraged. With some vigour they argued that signs gave the deaf all they needed in order to learn about the world, and that to them, speech was artificial, and efforts expended on learning to speak would be better expended on education itself. The oralists' arguments however were many, and to my enquiring mind, the more convincing. Signs were unnatural; signs lacked connection with thought and feeling; signs could not convey abstract thought; signs lacked the precision of speech; speech was what distinguished us from the animals, and signs excluded the deaf from speech which was the common heritage of all mankind. But of course; I felt this was all so doubtlessly true that there scarce appeared cause for argument. Perhaps DEAF-MUTES WIN GIFT OF SPEECH would make a splendid headline for my report! I believed I was adept at languages, and wondered if this was behind my selection for this assignment, which after all, was about language. I knew a good deal of Italian, I was handy at French, and my profession naturally demanded skills in language. I even went so far as to speculate that this assignment was a test to see if I would make a proficient reporter of European affairs, like Mr Romano. With much excitement and a growing sense of purpose I disembarked at the central railway station of Milan shortly after midday. The early autumn air was most agreeable, and the open four-wheel cab that took me to my hotel, the Pozzo, afforded me a view of the purposeful bustle of the modern Italian city. After unpacking, I had ample time for a promenade of the city environs, for I had digested the written material of the controversy, and this was an ideal way to relax prior to meeting and talking to some of the delegates. The hotel concierge recommended some of the sights, and thus I passed a pleasant interlude, strolling through the market and along the bustling lanes, and gazing at the magnificent Gothic splendour of the Duomo, and the Palazzo Marino. = It was approaching darkness when, famished and not a little weary, I returned to the Pozzo. I was shortly due to meet my colleague, Mr Romano, and I contemplated indulging in the Italian custom of a glass of wine before the evening meal. As I passed through the lobby, the concierge caught my attention. He gave me some papers, a monograph, that he explained were being made available to the delegates, and said that most of them had arrived. This was ideal. Such important papers would certainly make for some useful reading over a glass while I waited for Mr Romano. I proceeded to the dining room doors, pushed them open, and was overcome with confusion. I thought I had entered a seminary. Everywhere I looked there were gentlemen in black and dark brown robes, with clerical collars and other ecclesiastical raiment. However this mass of priests and preachers made for a jovial gathering, and I soon discerned other assorted gentlemen who sat with the clerics at tables crowded with papers, bottles and glasses. Among the hubbub of many animated and spirited debates I recognised Italian and some French, interspersed by bouts of laughter. From their bright outlook and cheerful demeanour, a bystander could be excused for assuming here was a group commencing a roistering tour of the Continent. Imagine the look of surprise on his face were he to be informed they were attending deliberations upon such important and wide-ranging matters! I ordered a glass of red wine, and settled down at one of the few vacant tables remaining. I was gazing at the assemblage when a short, barrel-chested gentleman came and introduced himself. This was Mr Romano! I enjoyed a convivial discussion with my colleague, who took considerable interest in my assignment, and listened attentively to my story thus far. He helped me a little with the monograph. It was in French, my knowledge of which was good, but inferior to Mr Romano's. He read it for some minutes, looked at me and grinned. "You are right--it is written by the director of a French school for the deaf, a M. Magnat," he said. He gazed at it again for some moments, and looked at me, puzzled. "What is the purpose of this congress? You told me it is to consider a new method of instruction for the deaf-mute?" I said it was. "Well, I do not understand," he continued. "This document is, how do I say, is not of even temper. It does not inform. In Italian I can say it better. This paper, I think, is using a large hammer in order to crack a pistachio." He gave me some words of advice; I had not asked for advice, but I realised it must have been perhaps a part of his brief, and his soothing and reassuring air meant I did not take offence. He told me that things are not always what they seem, and if one side in a dispute tended to be heavily favoured and spoken for, that was good reason to question it thoroughly. I wondered if Mr Romano spoke these words in the light of my earnest conviction about the merits of oralism, and I admitted some surprise at them, but there was little opportunity to question him, for there was an announcement that dinner was to be served, and soon he wished me well and left. There were many smiles among our introductions as we gathered at tables. I may say that considerable interest was shown when I informed my companions that I was a journalist on assignment for The Globe in London, and I fancy this excited comment on more than a few tables. Indeed, one of the clerics, in a dark brown cassock and white collar, introduced himself to me just as I completed a most pleasant dish of rissoto, the consequence of which I began to feel much revived. We struck an agreeable conversation almost immediately. The Reverend Don Balestra, a tall man with watchful eyes and a vigorous countenance, was the director of a school for the deaf near Lake Como. When I revealed my plans for a walking tour in that vicinity, he immediately and with much warmth invited me to visit his establishment and inspect its facilities. He even intimated that through the offices of a friend of his I might be able to afford a visit to Naples. That was promising news! Of the controversy, the Reverend Balestra pronounced views that to my mind were deserving of much merit, and I began to ponder the heading DEAF RESTORED TO SOCIETY for my report. The Reverend Balestra urged me to seek his counsel if there were points about which I was uncertain. During the evening I spotted a little group huddled at a table in a far corner. I could see them wave their arms, and even from a distance I could observe the grotesque expressions on their faces as they conversed in the language of signs of the deaf mutes. They appeared to take much longer to complete their meal than the rest of us, no doubt because of the energy necessitated by the signs, and I resolved to mention this as an amusing aside in my article. After the many new sights seen, gentlemen met and conversations conducted, and knowing the morrow would bring fresh debate, I soon became pleasantly weary. I retired to my room, and slept comfortably. = If the delegates enjoyed laughter and carousing the previous evening in the dining room, then on this bright morning, as we hurried to the assembly hall, they were models of sobriety and reservation. Several heads nodded at me as we sat in tiered rows before a stage upon which was a table with papers, glasses and jugs of water. Five men sat at this table--the Reverend Balestra; the leader of the Congress, a pudgy Italian cleric named Giulio Tarra; and others whom I did not know. The Reverend Balestra even caught my eye, smiled, and said something to his colleagues, with the result I was pierced with glances from these eminent dignitaries! This made me resolve to observe and record as carefully as I could the proceedings, and when the Reverend Tarra rapped his gavel, I, with my pad and pens, was poised and ready. Opening address: Augusto Zucchi. Who? Where? President Royal School. Milan. (Check. Private or govt school?) Big man. Rapid speaker. Living speech is the privilege of man. Expression of the soul. Obviously favours oralism. Links with God. Then some shouting and a heated exchanged PASSION HERE!! before one of the delegates starts to read. And reads. And reads. PASSION NO LONGER. It's Magnat, Marius Magnat, who wrote the monologue that was handed out. Is reading from it. Dull speech. (Dull fellow?) Follow from paper. Very anti-sign. (What did Romano mean?) Delegates restless. (Maybe fait accompli?) Some mutter among themselves. One in front of me cleans fills lights pipe. It stinks. Little attention.--Tarra cuts him off! Ha! Ha! Some delegates nearly cheer. Support for signs? Next speaker: Adolf Franck, a scholar (Check). Saying something in objection to Magnat. Who gets up again. Wants to read more of his wretched mono. Tarra puts it to the vote. Good majority against Magnat--he sits down, muttering. Ha! More shouting, calls, seems a bit anarchic. Balestra holds the floor. He has presence. Book written in 1855 (get title). Everyone quiet. Calls for vote on the question. Speech or signs? Motion not carried--passed over. Floor granted to a Mrs Ackers. (English speaker at last!) Reads from a paper, another in favour of oralism. Says speech imp for intell dev. of child. Shouldn't compare with sign schools in America where deaf pupils have a longer education than children at an oral school. ("Pure oral" what's that?) Next Edward Galladay (? check sp) from America. Looks calm but determined, defensive. Age perhaps 40s. First speaker in favour of signs!! Speech is imp., but so are signs?.have to be able to speak properly and for deaf, v. difficult--worth it? Says even if signs can be happy, educated, intelligent, etc. Balestra again. Looks agitated. V. passionate, says deaf Italians CAN speak. If deaf goes to confess. in signs, difficulty for priest (odd argument?? Is also diff for deaf if they have to speak??) Pleas for vote for speech. (Lopsided--Edward G. only voice for signs) Next Tarra. Long oratory. "The kingdom of speech is a realm whose queen tolerates no rivals. Speech is jealous, and wishes to be the absolute mistress." The Reverend Giulio Tarra was short, fat, and dressed entirely in black, with a white collar. I remembered his oration well because not a few things struck me as incongruous. An orator in heavy black garments does not often speak such high-blown, florid language, although I would concede an exception were he to address matters of heaven and hell, especially the fiery horrors of the latter. "Let us have no illusions. To teach speech successfully we must have courage and with resolute blow cut cleanly between speech and sign. Who would dare say that these disconnected and crude signs that mechanically reproduce objects and actions are the elements of a language?" Tarra: Can follow a lot of what he says. Very anti-sign. (They all are!!!) Laboring the point? Delegates silently cheer him on. Finished? Speech repeated AGAIN--in French. Edward G and his party barely taking notice. Congress seems biased. This session: 9 speakers, only Edward G favours signs. Franck? Doubtful. Heavily slanted for the oralists. Need more direct proof. = That afternoon, after lunch, I mingled with many of the delegates as we gathered in the hotel's reception foyer. The excited hubbub grew silent at the urgings of a little Italian man, besuited in black, with a gold chain looping to a fob watch in a breast pocket, and with the air of the professional greeter and waiter. He conferred in earnest with the Reverend Tarra, and then spoke to us, in Italian, then French, and then in precise, meticulous English to explain that we would be afforded every opportunity to see for ourselves the results of the oral method, and therefore we would witness an assembly of pupils from the Provincial School for the Poor, where Tarra was the director. The pupils at this school, previously unable to speak, would prove the oral method by a demonstration and a recital. This was news to me, and looked as if this may provide the evidence I believed was lacking heretofore. Impassioned speeches were one thing, but where did they leave the children? Surely this would settle the argument once and for all! Perhaps the oralists were a trifle over-excited, but there was certainly no denying the claim that speech, the natural mode of expression, kept men in communion with their fellows. Thinking deeper on the subject, it became clear to me that because signs were formed by the physical expression of the arms and hands, it was not possible for the deaf-mute to express concepts in the abstract form, and this must of consequence, therefore, impede the deaf-mute when he wished to communicate the higher realms of thought such as truth, beauty, and sobriety. Indeed, I wondered if this could even limit the development of their mental faculties. What about SPEECH: THE KEY THAT FREES THE DEAF for my article? We spent a delightful hour with a charming group of about a dozen well-groomed Italian boys and girls, all instructed under the oral method. They recited The Lord's Prayer, and answered clearly their instructors when asked questions. Some of them gave perfect and well-enunciated replies to very many questions. If these children could be so successfully instructed, then there was hope for the future of deaf-mute children everywhere. DEAFNESS IS ABOLISHED would say it all! Indeed, I contemplated retiring early to my room for the express purpose of composing a substantial outline of my report, for as those children demonstrated to me there hardly seemed many further matters for debate. That evening, as I settled happily to supper in the dining room, I made the acquaintance of a Mr Elliott, a tall Englishman with an aquiline nose and a teacher's authoritative air. I made a friendly remark about the fluency of those Italian children whom we witnessed that afternoon, and to my very great surprise he looked up and emitted what sounded like a short groan. At first I suspected some digestive discomfort. "Did you really think so?" "Well, I heard for myself. True, their speech was not perfect, but without their oral instruction they could hardly have spoken at all." Mr Elliott carefully put his knife and fork down on his plate. He dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and almost slammed it on the table as he turned to me. "Did you notice that one boy commenced his recital even before his teacher finished asking him? Did you notice just a few boys were questioned at length while others were asked but a single question? Why did only the Italian teachers examine the pupils? I am a teacher myself. I asked to observe the children while a stranger read a passage unknown to them. My request was refused." I stared at him, my mouth open in surprise. "Are you not a journalist, Mr Archer? Did you not observe? Surely you must have seen how practised and rehearsed was the presentation? Did you notice how carefully the teachers enunciated their words? Do you think people really speak like that?" I could scarce believe my ears, but Mr Elliott did not relent. He leant close to me, keeping his voice low and firm. "Did you not notice it was just too correct, too polished, too perfect? Did you ask anything about the star pupils? Did you think to ask the teachers such a basic question as whether their star performers could speak before they even entered their academies? Were you satisfied with the pap they served to fool us all?" What could I reply to this barrage? I mentioned I had just started my research and was gaining first impressions? "Then for God's sake don't make them your last," he snapped. He picked up his knife, and waved it in a direction across the room. "Speak to Dr Gallaudet. Dr Edward Gallaudet. He's with the Americans. The dagoes are screwing us." I was too embarrassed to admit I had not sought out the champions of the deaf-mutes. I looked in the direction Mr Elliott indicated. I had the oddest feeling that my arrival at the signers' table was not unexpected. I approached as unobtrusively as possible, not wishing to interrupt what was obviously an animated discussion. Then it seemed I was shaking hands with everyone of these gentlemen, five in number, and in a thrice I was ushered into a chair. A glass of red wine appeared before me, a cigarette was proffered, and I was transfixed with many expectant looks. And I had not even advised my role as a journalist! I was exceedingly apprehensive. I, who had not the foggiest notion of signs nor of the ways of the deaf-mutes, was now expected to discourse intelligibly with them! However the advocates went to great pains to put me at ease, and I shall never forget the very first sign I was taught. Of our party, it was only Mr Denison, from Washington, who was deaf, but the others, including the aforesaid Dr Gallaudet, signed so fluently and rapidly one imagined it was their native language. With the greatest of ease they translated both for Mr Denison and myself every word that passed around our table. There was a brief exchange when Mr Denison enquired of Dr Gallaudet something obviously to do with me, and there was a roar of laughter and glances in my direction. "Obviously you are aware the joke is about you, but don't be afraid," said Dr Gallaudet, his keen eyes twinkling as he spoke and signed simultaneously for Mr Denison. "We all have special signs for our names. You have just gotten one." I was flabbergasted. I looked at Mr Denison, who had a broad smile on his alert face. He pointed to my chest. Then he brought his hands close together, and holding them at chest height, formed them into fists. With tension he drew his right fist back towards his right shoulder, as if drawing a bow. The meaning was unmistakeable. "Ar--Archer," I cried, amidst a roar of laughter and applause. = Even now as I sit before a fire in my Liverpool flat, reflecting on my sojourn to Milan, I know that the tale I have to tell is nought but of sorrow, betrayal, and dashed hopes. Yet that instant, when first I witnessed my name in sign language, was a most singular moment. After I learned what was called a name-sign, I am afraid I relaxed my journalistic endeavours. The professional enquirer, such as I was, ought to keep a little distance from his subjects. I had fully intended to pose a few questions, perhaps lead a short discussion, in order to ascertain the views of these advocates. However the wine was rather excellent (even to my uncultured palate), the conviviality was infectious, and the subject of our intercourse was of the greatest interest. I realised there would be time enough for questions, for this was my introduction to the world of the deaf-mutes, and much did I learn. I was shown the method of manipulating the hands and fingers to form the shapes of the letters of the alphabet, and fast learner as I am, I soon mastered it. Many other signs, too, I absorbed, simply by seeing them repeatedly, and hearing the English for them. My new friends were vociferous in their defence of the language of signs. Articulation, they said, was important if the deaf-mute could master it, but for the majority, it required intensive effort for a great many years. "And what," asked Dr Gallaudet as he leant forward, "of their general education? Years and years of effort in getting them to pronounce a dozen words, and meantime the world has passed them by!" The basis of instruction, he said, must start with the language that is familiar to them. He pointed out the great number of teachers and other professionals who themselves were deaf, and intimated their success was due to their education in their own language. "The deaf chemists, the deaf astronomers," he said, "would they be so accomplished if instead of learning and mastering the complexities of their professions, their entire education was devoted to the enunciation of a few words? There would not be the deaf teachers and the professionals we have today!" Mr Denison took up more cudgels on behalf of the mutes. His signs were wholly absorbing, and I could capture a broad sense of his communication, even if I did not know the fine detail. What I previously took to be the grotesque expressions of his visage was in fact a canvas that conveyed with exquisite clarity the nuances and subtleties of his discourse. With his wiry frame he seemed to create a very theatre in the air; when angry his signs became sharp, clipped, and angular, when jocular, he leaned back and his signs became larger; and when serious, he appeared to shrink a little, and his signs somehow became more vertical. Mostly his signs flowed, with an ease and grace that was indeed a pleasure to watch. Best of all, was the opportunity to put to them questions that had been forming in my mind. "What Don Balestra pointed out to me yesterday," I said, "was that speech was necessary to restore the deaf to society. That seems not unreasonable, given that speech is the way we commune with our fellows." A rush of voices and signs followed as all of the party replied at once. After quick glances among them, Mr Denison replied. "Mr Archer, if we are not already in society, where are we? We live and work amongst the hearing. Certainly, we gather in our schools and clubs, but so do the hearing gather in their own little communities! The oralists want to restore us? From what? And to where? And what do the oralists mean by society? Of whose society do they speak? What do the oralists know of our world? They know nothing. But they presume everything!" His arms slashed through the air, and his hands formed blades. "This congress is all about the deaf," said Dr Gallaudet. "Why, then, are they not permitted to attend? The oralists show such concern about restoring the deaf to society, yet ban them from this very congress," he cried. How could I reply? It seemed as if for the second time in less than an hour I was subject to a barrage of questions the answers to which I could not know. I freely admit that my interrogation by Mr Elliott had stung me, and for some moments I felt I was remiss yet again. However I collected my wits to understand that this anger was directed not to me but to the opposing side of the debate, and more glimpses did I perceive of the fiery passions behind the issues. How misguided was my earlier enthusiasm for speech! I did not even know one deaf-mute personally, yet I presumed to know what was best for all deaf-mutes. I paused for some moments to digest this, and a congenial silence descended on our table. I sipped some wine, lit a cigarette, and thought about DEAF BANNED FROM CONGRESS. Presently I turned my attention once again to my new companions. I asked another question about the language of signs that had much engaged my curiosity. How could such a physical manifestation convey abstract thought? Mr Denison smiled. "Ask me the signs for some of these concepts." I quoted some--truth, beauty, honour. He smartly executed the signs. "It is a common yet erroneous belief that signs cannot convey abstract ideas," said Dr Gallaudet. "You mention the physical manifestation, but speech itself is a physical manifestation. Speech can no more present abstracts than can signs. Mr Denison's signs conveyed abstract ideals to the signer just as your very words also conveyed them to the interlocutor." Mr Denison added some more comments about this language. "Signs take place in three dimensions, and so this language is an excellent way to convey spatial arrangements. In front of, behind, next to, near, and so on. Hearing people use gestures to do this all the time, even oralism's greatest champions! Have a look around you." This I did, and my eyes locked immediately on the Reverend Balestra, who was seated at a nearby table and staring straight at me. He could not have failed to observe my obvious interest at the discussion at our table. I quickly looked away, and I warned myself I must not be intimidated. "The Reverend Tarra affords me much amusement," said Mr Denison. "He is a classical Italian, and a born sign-maker. Look at his extreme mobility! His expressiveness! You may have noticed the irony, Mr Archer, of how Tarra uses signs to reject signs." "He is certainly a dominant fellow," said I. "Too dominant," cried Mr Denison. "This is really an In-Tarra-national convention!" Presently our party broke up, and having completed farewells, I made my way back to my own table, as yet uncertain of what I should do next, for my head was spinning with the fascinating revelations of the past hour. GRAVE INJUSTICE AGAINST THE DEAF now seemed more appropriate. I only knew I would abandon my earlier plan of composing an outline of my report, for indeed the subject took on considerably more complexity than I had at first imagined. My reverie was interrupted by a shouted greeting. "Mr Archer! Mr Archer! This way please!" I looked up to see a shortish man, expensively dressed, well-groomed, beckoning to me. He carried the air of a man used to giving orders and getting his way. Soon I was plied with another glass of wine and another cigarette, and was seated at the table of the gentleman who introduced himself as Benjamin St John Ackers, a barrister and member of the British Parliament. He wore a goatee, and his receding hairline revealed a high-dome forehead that glistened slightly in the light. He peered at me intently, with a penetrating gaze, steepling his hands as we made small talk. I asked, "Was that your wife who spoke at this morning's session?" "Yes. What did you think of her paper?" Whatever I had thought at the time had since become submerged in the new perspective I was rapidly gaining of this congress. "She spoke lucidly. As a mother of a deaf child she certainly gave a new perspective not evident from the previous speakers." I prayed that my quick-witted reply assumed there were in fact no other parents who spoke. St John Ackers smiled, so I guessed my assumption was correct. "And Sir Henry Rashmore, I believe, serves on the board of your newspaper," he said. "We are acquainted." He took a sip of wine. "What is your interest in this congress? Your child?" "Sir Henry's daughter and mine are deaf, and naturally we wish to give them the best possible start in life. Do you have children, Mr Archer?" "No." "Well, perhaps you may not appreciate the gravity of this conference. I have travelled to America and throughout Europe and Britain, inspected their schools and academies for the deaf, and have spoken to many dedicated educators who have made the welfare of the deaf their lifelong vocation." He smiled, but his features did not soften. "I have carefully given the fullest consideration to the methods presently in train, and I believe, very firmly, that the gift of speech is the greatest gift we can give our daughter." The revelations I learnt from the signers' table rose and died in my throat as an instinct told me not to contest his claim. "Young man, you've been getting around a bit," he said. I was certain he observed my encounter with the deaf advocates. "It's my job," I replied carefully. "Your first time on the Continent?" "It is." "Do you like it?" I realised I was being cross-examined. Perhaps this barrister knew no other way of conversation. Already I was giving clipped answers in the style of an interrogation of the witness box . "I appreciate the European culture, the thought, and the influences that so recently led to the discoveries and colonisation of the New World. They are the subject of much personal interest." "Yes. There were brave men who pursued with vigour an ideal. And the very best temper their zeal with kindness and compassion," he said. "The seafaring traditions of the Italians interest me. It was their ports--Genoa, Naples--that launched many great voyages of discovery. You must try and visit them." "I hope to." "Make the most of this opportunity, Mr Archer. I know Rashmore. I am sure he will reward diligence and accuracy. The implications of the many new discoveries of our age are still being felt, and we rely on dedicated young men such as yourself to reveal them to the world." "Thank you, sir. You can rely on me." "Anything you need to know about this congress, ask me," he smiled. "I can certainly disabuse you of misapprehension." "Thank you, sir." I took a deep breath. "Can you tell me why there are no deaf persons at this congress? The matter of course concerns them greatly." St John Ackers gazed at me for some moments before taking a sip of wine. "The question is not unreasonable, if misguided," he said. "Does the patient query his treatment by the physician? The physician has undergone many years of rigorous training. He knows the latest treatments, the newest drugs, the current researches. He is in communion with his learned colleagues. He knows his patient and is the only one who can prescribe the best possible remedy. How can his patient possibly know, much less question, the physician's breadth of knowledge?" "I understand your point, sir." "Those gathered here are pre-eminent in their fields, and unquestionably are devoted to the deaf-mute and to his best interests. Even Dr Gallaudet. I sat next to him this morning, and his dedication was obvious. But I suggest, Mr Archer, that you heed the difference between fruitful progress and discredited fears. Do not linger with those who dwell in the past!" St John Ackers drained his glass, and the interview appeared ready to conclude. On impulse, I thought of something. "I will remember that, sir. I wondered, just now. Your daughter and Sir Henry's. Are they of a similar age? Do they play together?" "They are just a few months difference in age, but they do not play together. In their own interests they are best apart to avoid the great temptation they will revert to gestures, thus injuring their articulation lessons. That is a risk we cannot and will not take." That night I lay in bed, but sleep had gone to the devil. On the one hand, my progress was excellent, for had I not interviewed the key persons of the controversy? But sorely troubled was I, of my own feelings on the matter. I could not deny the great difference twixt my reception at the table of the signers and at the table of Ackers, oralism's fervent champion. And was it a coincidence that Ackers mentioned Naples? I remembered the counsel of Mr Romano, that things are not always what they seem. And thus I cudgelled my brains until at length I must have fallen into exhausted slumber. = "Oral speech," cried the Reverend Tarra, his arms flailing, "is the sole power that can rekindle the light God breathed into man when, giving him a soul in a corporeal body, he gave him also a means of understanding, of conceiving, and of expressing himself. On the one hand, mimic signs are not sufficient to express the fullness of thought, on the other they enhance and glorify fantasy and all the faculties of the sense of imagination." One of the Reverend's arguments afforded me much amusement. The cleric made the interesting but dubious point, using the confessional as an example, that signs re-awaken sinful passions. The deaf sinner, by using signs, re-creates the the very passion that led him to sin in the first place! On the other hand, he claimed, speech allowed cool and calm reasoning. Merely by observing the Reverend himself I spotted the flaw in an instant. If signs awakened passions, then so did speech! One had only to notice the Reverend's passion and how it soared whenever he spoke the Italian word for speech! It is well-known the propensity of speech, when handled with eloquence and flair, to inflame the passions of the listeners. I resolved to put this very question to him in an interview. Yet there was no stopping Tarra. "The fantastic language of signs exalts the senses and foments the passions, whereas speech elevates the mind much more naturally, with calm, prudence and truth, and avoids the danger of exaggerating the sentiment expressed and provoking harmful mental impressions." He certainly was not speaking with calm and prudence, even if I could not comment on the truth. If signs were so wicked, he was using them plentifully, flapping his arms with the utmost vigour, and slashing the air in angry jerks. He challenged anyone to define in signs things like the soul, faith, hope, charity, and God. He pointed to the ceiling for that, and he could merely have meant the chandelier. "No shape, no image, no design," he shouted, in high excitement, "can reproduce these ideas. Speech alone, divine itself, is the right way to speak of divine matters." A clamour erupted in the chamber, and I heard shouting and saw the waving of arms. It was then I realised the proceedings were drawing to a close, and resolutions were being put. With my knowledge of Italian and the help of the bilingual translator, this is what I heard: "The congress, considering the incontestable superiority of speech over signs, for restoring deaf-mutes to social life and for giving them greater facility in language, declares that the method of articulation should have preference over that of signs in the instruction and education of the deaf and dumb." And amid the uproar there was yet another resolution: "Considering that the simultaneous use of signs and speech has the disadvantage of injuring speech, lipreading and precision of ideas, the congress declares that the pure oral method be preferred." At once, almost every one of the delegates raised their arms amid much shouting of si. And the hubbub died a little, when in response to calls from those opposing the resolution, six arms arose. Five were from the Americans, and I was not surprised to see the Englishman, my interrogator, Mr Elliot, stand tall with them. But I had barely time to take in such a forlorn gesture when a cry from the podium rent the air, "Vive la parole!" This cry was taken up, filling the hall as every delegate seemed to be shouting these words in their languages "Vive la parole!" "Long live speech!" Swiftly I gathered my papers and tucked them under my arm as I slipped down to the exit, and dashed along the curving corridor to the last entrance at the end, near where I knew where the American delegation sat. I shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. I sped up the stairs and pulled open the oak doors, and the hubbub, smoke and sweat enveloped me in a rush. It was hard to see Mr Denison because of the press of bodies, the shouting, the brandishing of papers, the waving of arms and the pointing of fingers. I spotted him and was taken aback. His signing was all angles, harsh, sharp, and uncompromising. The grace and fluidity which on previous occasions gave me cause to remark with pleasure had vanished completely, and for some moments I was not sure if this was the man I knew before. So furious were his signs that I held my distance as I approached, lest one of his sweeping gestures should connect painfully with my person. As I was wondering how to signal my presence, he suddenly turned to me from his companions, rushed over and clasped my biceps with a fierce grip. His face was angry and red, his hair was dishevelled, and his mouth worked silently. He suddenly released me, and signed furiously, with a type of angry pleading. Dr Gallaudet, his face flushed and eyes moist, was instantly by my side, translating. "What have we done to make them hate our language so much? What is our crime? What have we done? Why do they hate us so?" With regret, I realise now that I did not then comprehend the import and profundity of his pleas. The intense emotions of my companions certainly aroused me, but against the Reverend Tarra. In the clamour, the uproar, and the excitement, I selfishly had only concerns for correcting the cleric on one small sign. "God," I said to Mr Denison, as clearly I could. "God. God. God." Mr Denison watched intently, not my lips but my whole face in the disconcerting way he had. His eyes seemed to widen in order to take in my whole visage. He dropped his arms as I brought my hand up. Thumb and forefinger parallel, remaining fingers curved into palm--G. Tips of fingers resting on thumb to form a ring--O. Index finger in pointing handshape, held upright--D. I pointed down to the podium, where the Reverend Tarra gesticulated at the centre of a knot of admirers, several of whom appeared anxious to shake his hand. Mr Denison followed the direction I indicated with my finger, and then watched carefully as I imitated the sign for GOD which the Reverend Tarra had demonstrated only moments earlier. Mr Denison's response was remarkable. He slapped my hand down, and proceeded to demonstrate the sign for GOD. It bore no resemblance to the contemptuous way in which the Reverend Tarra pointed to the ceiling. Mr Denison's sign ascended gracefully, and seemed to encompass the glories of the heavens above while also indicating its highest point. I was astounded that such a reverent sign emanated from such an angry man. Mr Denison raised his eyebrows at me. Did I understand? And then Mr Denison executed a most marvellous sign. He suddenly flashed a pointed middle finger at the Reverend Tarra below, then twisted his hand and smoothly raised it, still pointing but to the ceiling. To my mind, as yet untutored in the signs and ways of the deaf, Mr Denison made perfectly clear two things. Not only did he successfully imitate the Reverend Tarra's sign and the feeling behind it, but he also clearly showed his contempt. I still do not know how he conveyed such mischief. Perhaps it was the narrowing of his eyes or a shift in the angle of his finger, or perhaps it was some trifle unobserved by me, yet I declare he excited the very air around him with the depth of his contempt for the Reverend. I wonder if what Mr Denison actually demonstrated to me was a pun. With heavy heart I must now write of a grievous error on my part caused by haste, a lack of judgment, and a foolish desire to use a simple right to correct a complex wrong. Wiser heads would have counselled forebearance, but my own head, so filled with the sight of so much conveyed in so simple a gesture, determined I should rush down to the Reverend Tarra and immediately confound him with all my vast knowledge of this wondrous language of signs, gained in barely two or three minutes! What a fool I was! I have a memory of rushing quickly to the exit from where I stood with Mr Denison, of the latter remonstrating as if to obstruct my passage, and of thinking as I sped down the corridor that as a journalist I was under a strict obligation to give equal reportage to all sides of a dispute. I remember too that this was my opportunity to engage the Reverend in an earnest discussion. Perhaps, flushed with excitement, he would be amenable to my questions, even to some probing questions gained from my conference yesterday with the signers. This thought surely added to my headlong haste! The Reverend greeted me kindly, and listened respectfully as I introduced myself and gave the name of my newspaper. I thanked the Reverend for his most illuminating address, referred to his request for a demonstration of the sign for GOD, and advised that I knew the proper sign, so unlike the sign he showed in his address as to render possible an alternative view of the language of signs. "And this sign. What is it, my child?" My senses deserted me. I, who had just witnessed Mr Denison's eloquent gesture of the deity, could not will my body. I fancy I raised my arms and hands upwards in a confused jumble of thumbs and elbows, stopped, tried again and gave up, and I felt myself reddening in the greatest of embarrassment. The Reverend smiled sweetly. "My child, the Lord in His wisdom has demonstrated for you the spiritual poverty of signs and the great need to bring the enlightenment of speech to His deaf children. I shall pray for His blessing on your endeavours to report to the world the good news of the bringing of the light of speech to the dark world of those cruelly deprived." I stood there aghast, and stared at his greying temples and his perspiring dome of pink scalp. Such composure! Such arrogance! Then another of his brother clerics grasped his shoulder and pumped his hand. Rapid Italian assailed my ears, and the Reverend Tarra turned his back to me. = I now feel weary, very weary, of this business. What is the point of recounting my story? Methinks I have as little influence as a straw tossed among the roiling seas. I believe--no, am certain--I have been used as a pawn. Certainly the Spaniard Balestra accosted me soon after my scene with the Reverend Tarra, and intimated it might be possible to fulfil my wish for a holiday in Naples; he would not go so far to say it depended upon a favourable report of the proceedings of the Congress, but I soon realised it was a bare-faced bribe. I looked for Mr Denison and the Americans, but they were nowhere to be found. I rushed to the hotel reception in a vain bid to cable a message to Mr Romano, but was informed he had departed for Germany. I retired to my room in the highest indignation, and wrote a full and frank report of the congress, and again I erred because in my haste I gave vent to outrage and failed to heed the journalistic objectivity to which beforehand I had prided myself. Angry words gushed from my pen, of the extreme oralist bias, of the dubious demonstration by the children, of the banning of the deaf from the congress. I think I even described the congress as a farce. Against my better judgement I wired this report to London, and very soon there was a curt order to me to return in all haste, and my plans to tour the districts or the lakes near Milan were in tatters. I have no energy to report the horror I experienced when back in London I read the paper's report, written by I know not whom. I have no energy to recount the dreadful scene with Mr Cruikshank, how narrowly I avoided instant dismissal, and how I was assigned--demoted--to report the shipping news at Liverpool, where I now gaze at the forests of masts at the quays even as I inscribe these words. Many times I take a stroll along the quayside and gaze out to sea, for at least the sea is solid, substantial, and unchanging in its changefulness, unlike the turbulent ways and devious means of the affairs of men. Every now and then I put my two fists together, and draw back my right fist to my shoulder. That is my name sign, Archer, and to a handful of people it is a sign that carries the memory of an impressionable young journalist who tried and failed to convey their message to the world: do not try to make us into something we are not; accept us for who we are. It was such a simple message, but it aroused fear and loathing among so many men of substance and learning. Frequently I ponder Mr Denison's plea: What have we done that they should hate us so much? I do not know what, but I wonder it lies in a fear of things that are different and unknown. And I have vowed that where ever I go and whatever I do, it is this fear I shall strive to conquer. ===== This story first appeared in the Tactile Mind Quarterly Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== Dog-Friendly Matt Daigle [Cartoon] To view comic, click http://www.clercscar.com/?p=731 For those who are Braille readers, a text translation is provided below. As a hearing-ear dog and his master approach the men's and women's bathroom doors, they are pleased to find a new door devoted to hearing-ear dogs. ===== Matt Daigle is a Deaf artist and graphic designer whose work has been widely published and recognized. He lives in California with his wife of thirteen years and their son. Matt has a serious passion for cartooning and coffee. His website is http://www.mdaigletoons.com Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== The General Raymond Luczak Words: 949 [Film review] [Or, Why I Love Silent Films] The other day I had a hearing friend over at my apartment, and he wanted to watch a movie. Being the film connoisseur, I of course had a number of movies on DVD and Blu-Ray (BD) that were waiting, unopened, to be watched. One of them was Buster Keaton's 1927 classic THE GENERAL, which had been the first silent film to come out on BD in this country. My friend said that he didn't want to see it. I asked why not. He said that he just didn't like silent films. I decided not to press the issue even though the film had been often included by critics in the top-twenty lists of the greatest American films ever made. Because of this, I had bought the film without seeing it first. When my friend left, I thought about why he didn't care for silent films. The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized why hearing people don't care for silent films. Of course, there is a lot of stilted acting, a carryover from the days of vaudeville when one had to play to the farthest back rows of the theater, but I think it's deeper than that. I don't remember the first silent movie I ever saw, but I am sure that I felt at home with it from the first frame. There were no sound effects and heard dialogue; it was much closer to the reality of how I live as a deaf person. I am constantly watching people around me, decoding what they must be saying to each other. I am used to this. Hearing people are not, and therefore they aren't comfortable with having to decode what's going on the screen if intertitles aren't provided. They are often guided by music and sound cues to feel and react; without such cues, they feel lost. What are these people saying to each other? I never worry about the "what" part; I simply watch their body language for the "how" part, how they are relating to each other. I am sometimes amazed that hearing people do not understand just how much we deaf people rely on decoding their body language. Words mean nothing when their bodies tell everything. I think that is why I love silent films so much. It captures a language that requires translating without a dictionary. So: how was THE GENERAL? It looks great on BD, and it is as great as they say. After a slow beginning in which the setup is explained (a train engineer wants to enlist as a soldier when the Civil War breaks out), the movie turns out to have two elaborate train chases. The speed may not seem all that fast compared to our supersonic times, but suspense fills literally every frame once the train takes off to chase a stolen train. It was shocking to realize that when the film came out in 1927, it was considered a flop. It is truly remarkable that so few intertitles were used during these two set pieces. People were expecting more of a comedy so Buster's famous stoic demeanor ("The Great Stone Face") seemed to make it less funny. It is much more than that; it is a story of a train engineer who, rejected because he couldn't be a soldier, wishes to redeem himself in the eyes of the woman he loves. Even though it is a mere 78 minutes long, it is a great example of how superfluous sound can be. If you haven't seen many silent films, may I suggest the following? Go devour Louise Brooks, the girl with the "helmet hair" who inspired the iconic haircut of the Roaring Twenties, in the G.W. Pabst film PANDORA'S BOX. Her charisma, stirring a potent mix of innocence and sexual allure, nearly overpowers everyone else on the screen, so much that a woman falls for her. (As far as I know, they have the first filmed lesbian kiss in the history of cinema.) Their acting is completely natural, so natural that you almost don't need to hear what they're saying. But if you want to see what I think is among the most jaw-dropping performances ever recorded on film, you must see Renee Falconetti in Carl Theodore Dreyer's THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC. Based on actual transcripts of the court testimonies from Joan of Arc's trial, the film, as the most expensive film at the time, broke a lot of ground. Dreyer told the actors not to use makeup. Dreyer constantly panned the actors as they interacted with each other. Dreyer angled the camera. Dreyer directed the actors not to be "stagey." Dreyer showed how judgmental the Church could be. Dreyer continued to push the look of German Expressionism even further, but in very intimate ways. And so on. But more than anything else, you cannot take your eyes off Miss Falconetti: Is Joan insane, or blessed by God? You cannot make up your mind as you watch her face. (Her performance easily blows Janet Gaynor, the first actress to win an Oscar for her work that year, right out of the water.) And the looks of these clerics leering at Joan are strikingly no different from hearing kids on the school ground judging me as a deaf boy. Again, it is not about what they are saying; it is what they are NOT saying that interests me so. Perhaps that's why hearing people find silent films to be "boring." They simply do not know how to read body language as well as we deaf people do. After all, body language is our master key to living among hearing people. ===== Raymond Luczak is the author of many books, the latest of which is MUTE. His Web site is at http://www.raymondluczak.com Back to Top ==================================================================================== ===== Stoffel's Guide To Snazzy Responses: Deaf-Blind Edition Scott Stoffel Words: 425 [Humor] Don't you just hate it when people ask stupid questions or do thoughtless things that make your life more miserable than it already is? You'd love to give those idiots a piece of your mind, but, alas, you haven't enough left to spare a slice. Take it from me: When you're deaf-blind, those knuckleheads seem to have taken over the Earth. It's time to fight back! We can't take any more of this crap! Here are some snazzy responses you can deck the dorks with. When people say, "You're deaf? Oh, I'm so sorry!" . . . You say, "I agree totally." When people keep shouting at you in a public place, even though you're deaf . . . You shout, "No, I don't have a vibrator you can borrow!" When people comment that your poor spouse must have to take care of all your needs . . . You yell, "Honey! My Depends need changing!" When people leave the dishwasher door open, even though they know you can't see well . . . You leave a thumbtack on their chair. When people keep talking to you through another person and saying, "Tell him I said . . ." You say to the middleman, "Tell him I said, 'Screw you!'" When people don't believe you are deaf because you can speak . . . You tell them you don't believe they're coherent, because they keep saying stupid things. When people run their sprinkles too close to the sidewalk . . . You pee on their lawn. When people grab your white cane and ask what you use it for . . . You say, "Unclogging toilets." When people ask you how they can ask deaf people if they can hear in sign language . . . You point at them and smack a fist to your forehead. When people stare at you . . . You put both hands on their face and say, "This is how blind people stare." When people grab your arm and ask if you need help . . . You say, "Yes! Can you make the idiot holding my arm let go?" When people ask if you can hear thunder . . . You ask them if they can smell a rainbow. When people ask why you don't wear hearing aids . . . You ask them why they don't wear dunce caps. When people ask if you read Stoffel's Guide . . . You say, "Of course! Where do you think I get all these snazzy responses?" If there is something you would like to have a Stoffel's Guide for, send your ill-advised request to: scottmstoffel@yahoo.com ===== Scott Stoffel is a deaf and illegally blind systems engineer, freelance writer, and a leading authority on face-washing. ===== This article is also available at http://www.clercscar.com/?p=651 Back to Top ==================================================================================== FEEDBACK FRIDAY ===== Re: "This Incontestable Superiority" by Michael Uniacke The story THIS INCONTESTABLE SUPERIORITY by Michael Uniacke was fascinating. I liked the author's portrayal of a hearing worldview. Mary Thornley ===== Re: "The General" by Raymond Luczak I loved reading THE GENERAL by Raymond Luczak. I have not seen the films he mentioned but am intrigued now that he's made me aware of them. Mary ===== We welcome letters to the editor in response to this piece. Send to editor@clercscar.com. We reserve the right to edit letters for space and clarity or not to publish a letter. We are always open to submissions. Submit your writing, artwork, or video to editor@clercscar.com. To subscribe, email subscribe@clercscar.com with the message "Subscribe daily" or "Subscribe weekly." To unsubscribe, email subscribe@clercscar.com with the message "Unsubscribe me." Find us on Twitter and Facebook! Visit our archives or bookstore at http://www.clercscar.com. Copyright 2009 by Clerc Scar. All rights reserved. Back to Top ==================================================================================== privacy policy : site map : contact us