The Gallaudet Syndrome: Rebirth
Alison L. Aubrecht (‘01, G ‘03) and Ryan Commerson (‘01, G ‘08)
March 1, 2011
“I had emerged . . .from the asshole of an organism whose sole function is to excrete the... the-the-the poison, the ammo, the defoliant necessary for other, larger, more powerful organisms to destroy the miracle of humanity…I had been coated in this patina of shit for the best part of my life. The stench of it and the stain of it would in all likelihood take the rest of my life to undo. And you know what I did? I took a deep cleansing breath...”
From: Michael Clayton (2007)
In this final installment of the Gallaudet Syndrome series, we begin the journey from reflection to action. Both elements are essential if change is to come into being. The choice to act is a powerful statement and it is also a decision that evokes fear. But it is as necessary as breathing. Absolutely.
For centuries, and in too many places, still: deaf people have been treated as if we are less than human. We have been denied the right to own property, to marry, to bear children, to drive, to employment, and to be fully educated. In the Sunflower, Simon Wiesenthal writes: “It is impossible to believe anything in a world that has ceased to regard man as man, which repeatedly “proves” that one is no longer a man.” Is it any wonder then, that we feel so hopeless?
We often draw parallels between eugenics in the deaf community and eugenics in Nazi Germany. We write poetry about ways that our own internal scars are similar to the raised flesh of those who have experienced the lash of a whip. We note similarities between the child who is forced into a closet for prolonged periods of time and the child who is rarely communicated with at home.
We do so despite substantial criticism. We do so regardless of being told that we cannot possibly compare the wounds of a deaf child—their small hands, their tired old tears—with the wounds of a battered woman or a tattooed Jew or young Black men living in ghettos or women in refugee camps whose clothes hide terrible, bloody wounds between their legs or protesters in Bahrain’s Pearl Roundabout who are fighting for the very freedoms that we Americans take for granted.
We do so despite being painted as “whiny,” “childish,” “thankless,” “dramatic,” and when those words don’t seem to shut us down, they call us “militant,” “irrational,” and “radical.” This is just one of the many ways that the Gallaudet Syndrome attempts to destroy us. Our oppressors are shrouded in gowns of missionary goodwill and masked with the glory of benevolence. We are too often brought to our knees under the weight of a heady guilt that we do not understand when scolded by our “good, kind masters.” Yes, Scolded.
And yet, we persevere because at the very base, all of those layers of violence sprout from the same roots: the need to assert power over another. We do so because we know that wrenching pain a child feels when he is left out of conversations at dinner tables. We do so because we too often look into the dead eyes of a traumatized deaf woman who trusts no one. We do so because too many of our children grow up with little or no skills to navigate the world.
We do so because those acts of depriving individuals of language and a sense of belonging are appalling and heartbreaking. Those acts are catastrophic. It is long past time that we stop minimizing the criminal oppression of deaf people.
In acting to stop oppression, you will experience resistance. The oppressed individual with a hand in his face will, of course, want that hand removed immediately. And those that do not have hands in their faces will say: “Not now.” “Wait.” “Be patient.” “Let the system work.” But those of us with hands in our faces do not worry about anything beyond the simple act of removing ones hand from our face and anything else is just fluff, just window dressing, just. . .bullshit.
Worse, perhaps, are the ones holding hands in our faces while at the same time telling the world about the plight of the poor deaf children with empty ears and hands in their faces. . .
It’s like we are in a small room with limited oxygen and the ceiling is dropping while the floor rises. The room is an illusion. Right outside of these false walls and doors that are invisible; just beyond that thin barrier is a wealth of cleansing air, a world majestic. One that is full of hopes and opportunities and optimism. Is it any wonder, then, that we want--- no, need—more, feel morally responsible—to rip, to jackhammer those walls so that the raw, nourishing energy of light can touch the skin of that deaf child, so that it becomes he and she and breathes humanity back into her soul?
The first action we must take is to declare ourselves fully human, completely worthy—and believe it deep down inside. And the next step is to share that declaration.
We ask you to make a very brief video of yourself stating the following: “I am human. I will resist oppression,” and post it on Facebook - FE: Butterfly Effect. If you know someone who may not have access to video or internet technology but may want to post, work with them to get their declaration up too. As a symbol of unity we ask that you wear a red shirt in the video.
A parting message: “People who shut their eyes to reality simply invite their own destruction, and anyone who insists on remaining in a state of innocence long after that innocence is dead turns itself into a monster." -James Baldwin
Thank you for staying engaged throughout the series. We have very much enjoyed your participation.
Michael Clayton (2007) Film
Simon Wiesenthal (1997). The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness.
Frederick Douglass (2005) My Bondage and My Freedom
Chris Hedges (2009). Empire of Illusion