Setting an example is not the main means of influencing another; it is the only means.
Albert Einstein
I was eleven years old when I started in CID’s advanced section, in fall 1960. We boys were feeling the flush of independence and relished the rare opportunity to escape the confines of our school. We occasionally dined at restaurants, most notably the eatery owned by baseball star Stan Musial, where Stan greeted us and signed his pictures for us. And we went to movies.
We saw a movie in a theater every Sunday night. There were no captions, of course. I often wondered whether the school authorities ever considered how much of the movies we could follow. Did they think we would benefit from viewing and not hearing movies? Did they believe we would understand the plot through osmosis? Were they just plain ignorant about what we could follow or didn’t they care? It was a huge puzzle for me.
We learned over the years to follow the stories on the screen with little or no help from our adult mentors, but it took a lot of practice. The more action in a movie, the more we understood it and, of course, the more we liked it. When the movie was heavy with dialogue, we needed help from a hearing interpreter but rarely got it. If we did, the explanation was usually so brief that we missed the subtleties. Much of this was due, naturally, to the fact that it’s difficult (and embarrassing) to translate in a dark and quiet theater. What we saw on the screen was always so much more complicated than the version our interpreter gave us. It made us wonder about our interpreters’ understanding of deafness. Did they think we didn’t notice that something beyond us was going on?
When I was in the advanced section and we watched TV, I tried to encourage the housemothers and other adults who watched with us to interpret for us in the same way my family had interpreted shows for Jonathan and me at home. I realize now I must not have verbalized well enough how much we were missing. I could have told them it was impossible for us to understand everything on TV and perhaps challenged them to watch with the sound off themselves.
Sadly, those adults weren’t as attuned to our speech as our regular teachers were. Many subtle points of our communication were lost on them. Because we were trained lipreaders, by the time we reached the Advanced Section, we could understand people who were not trained to lipread better than they could understand us. At the time we didn’t know that this was the case. It took me a long time to understand that hearing people had difficulty with my deaf speech and still longer to realize that even many of our adult caretakers at CID had trouble following what we said.
Although we did get out once in a while, we students were mostly isolated at CID. Fortunately, the authorities there did try to bring the outside world to us. The institute director, Dr. Richard Silverman, established a two-year program with Washington University in St. Louis. Each year, twenty Washington students who were training to become teachers of deaf children came to CID to study. Some of these students even lived in the dorms at CID. Dr. Silverman made a similar arrangement for a handful of male dental students at Washington to come to CID. Both groups of these adult students spent a few hours every day taking care of us in exchange for room and board.
For me and my classmates, this was an invaluable link to the real world. These young college students had meals with us in the dining hall and joined us after school hours at the nearby Forest Park, where we played a variety of sports. We had so many fascinating conversations with the college students. We exchanged a lot of teasing and humor between us and learned what life was like for them. Some of us who couldn’t afford to go home for short holidays such as Easter or Thanksgiving were invited to join the college students and their families. One year, Ann Gilcrest, a training teacher, took me to her family home in Indiana for Thanksgiving. Another time, student Joan Sher invited me to her hometown of Rock Island, Illinois. I fell in love with her family; they were easy to talk with.
Paul and student teacher, Joan Sher.
Dr. Silverman’s idea was brilliant. During our time with the college students, we were immersed in a world of speaking and lipreading. It was a great way to practice what we were learning.
I have managed to stay in touch with some of these former college students, including Joan. My wife and I meet with her every year in Palm Springs at a film festival. In addition, a few years ago, I ran into two professionals in the field of deafness who had been student teachers during my first two years at CID. In front of a group of my peers, they recalled with great pleasure (and to my great embarrassment) that they had bathed me at CID. I realize that this early social contact with hearing students was useful in saving my classmates and me from social isolation.
Ellen was one of these student teachers who had an important influence on me. She was a liberal, even radical, thinker who experienced many conflicts with the CID administration. Ellen didn’t like what she saw in the dormitory lives of the children. She disliked the residential institution environment. She felt empathy for the kids and became unpopular with many of the housemothers for voicing her opinions.
Ellen’s most serious conflict with the school authorities arose when she befriended our first black student teacher, a young man named Douglas. Everyone else on the staff seemed to avoid contact with him, because he was black. But Ellen offered him friendship, causing quite an uproar, particularly among the housemothers. In their ignorance and also due to the times, they were shocked that a white girl would show interest in a black man.
Ellen’s stand made me feel a special bond with her. After all, I had been raised in the tolerant atmosphere of a liberal family and lived through a dramatic chapter of the civil rights movement. I had also experienced my own confrontations with a few individuals at CID about the rights of black people. Many people associated with CID weren’t exactly sympathetic to my family’s views. And of course, there had been the visiting sister of a CID student who called me a “nigger lover” at the Cardinals baseball game. The day after that incident, I went to Mrs. Daniels, my reading teacher and the CID ethics expert. She was a fantastic person to talk with and always treated the students as equals. We had a long discussion. She said that I had acted properly and that she was proud of me for my restraint. On that day, I was indeed the son of my father.
Soon, other problems arose about Douglas using our dorm bathroom and eating in the dining hall. I had several heart-wrenching talks with Mrs. Daniels in which I complained bitterly about racism at the school. She spoke quietly about how the biggest problem was public ignorance and suggested that time was the best healer for racial tension. Mrs. Daniels asked me to pray for everyone. I felt comforted at the thought that there were at least some people with my sympathies at CID. Mrs. Daniels, Miss Gossin, and a few others let me know of their admiration for my father’s involvement in the civil rights movement—but there were others who definitely did not.
Ellen finally decided to leave CID and return to Antioch College after her bitter experience with the housemothers. But by then we had established a special friendship. She told me a lot about Antioch College and even lent me the college’s catalog. She said I was the kind of person who would thrive on the freedom, creativity, and cooperative work-study plan offered at Antioch. I didn’t realize it then, but she had planted an important seed in my mind. If the student teachers were meant to open vistas to us unworldly boys at CID, Ellen certainly had done her job with me.
Equally important to our education was the influence of other deaf adults at CID. In the fall of 1960, the institute hired Sally, an alumnus of CID, to teach physical education and home economics. She had received her bachelor of arts degree from Blue Mountain College in Mississippi. She was one of the best lipreaders I’d ever met. We loved her bubbly personality and the attention she gave us.
Sally was direct and frank and talked to us on our level—a welcome change from the hearing staff, who sometimes seemed condescending. She showed us real life—for example, telling us about how she was doing with her boyfriend, or about a problem between a teacher and the principal, or about a conflict between a teacher and a student’s parents. Some might call that gossip, but to us it was an invaluable window into interpersonal relationships.
Sally also showed us how to be more compassionate toward fellow students. When she learned that the mother and father of one of the students were going through a divorce, she took on a motherly role toward that student. She told us what was happening, allowing us to sympathize as well. That fact that she trusted us with such sensitive information was a boost to our self-esteem.
Today, Sally says that we students were naive, that we’d lived sheltered lives because we spent so much time away from home and had gaps in our education about the world. In many ways that is true. One day, some of the girls approached Sally and said that their teacher was pregnant. They knew it because she’d started to wear maternity clothes in class. The girls wondered if the baby would be born any day. Sally explained to them that pregnancy is a nine-month process—the girls had no idea.
That conversation got Sally in trouble with a supervisor, an old maid type who told Sally it was her duty to talk about such things with the girls, not Sally’s. Fortunately for the girls, Sally continued to answer their questions. She simply asked them to keep their conversations confidential.
Sally naturally had more interaction with the girls at CID than with us boys. Fortunately, a new and important influence entered our closed circle. Rich Meyer was a 1953 graduate of CID who had mainstreamed into a hearing high school after graduation. He came back to volunteer at CID in 1961 after graduating from college. For most of us boys, it was our first opportunity for extended personal interaction with someone like us. Rich was not a hearing teacher, not a disciplinary housemother, not someone outside our silent world. He was a bright, interested, deaf adult.
Rich volunteered his time because he knew personally the problems we encountered because of being deaf, the kind of interaction we needed, and how to share it with us. He took a personal interest in each of us and enjoyed our company. Rich graduated from Culver Stockton College in Canton, Missouri, with a bachelor of science degree in biology. He’d just started working as a pathology technician at the Washington University School of Medicine, only a few miles away from our dormitory.
The boys at CID craved the company of this intelligent new person. Rich could relate to us on our level and was willing to carry on conversations with us for hour upon hour, often with a cigar in his mouth. He was exceedingly patient with our lack of experience with the outside world. Rich dutifully answered hundreds of questions about everything from the quality of American cars and issues involving politics and world events to dating, sex, and the responsibilities of marriage.
We were relieved and exhilarated to see that one of “us” was active and successful in the outside world, for that was the whole objective of our long, hard work at CID. School officials had invited two deaf adults to tell us about their experience at a mainstream high school. These two said that they had no problems making friends or adjusting to life in the hearing world. My CID friends and I now call this “The Big Lie.” These two adults wouldn’t admit that life in the hearing world can be hard or that some hearing people are not always nice to those of us who are deaf. Rich, on the other hand, was realistic. He admitted to us that mainstreaming wasn’t always easy and that we would interact with some obnoxious people. Yet Rich had succeeded in that world. We gobbled up this living, breathing proof that it could be done.
It’s a shame that CID took so long to expose us to deaf adults who could serve as role models. But I’m certainly glad they did so while I was still at the school. The time when I would leave CID and enter the hearing mainstream was fast approaching.
One day Miss Lacy overheard some of us asking Rich questions about sex and reported it to the principal. Shortly thereafter, the principal decided it was time for us to have a sex education class. To give us the “lecture,” our principal employed Mr. McBette, a hearing man who worked as an audiologist. Mr. McBette was nice enough, but he was definitely not the right person for this particular job. He didn’t have the skills to communicate properly with us, and this was a subject that required more than the usual amount of skill and tact. Mr. McBette started by explaining to us that we were growing up, that we were becoming men, and that it was time we learned about “the birds and the bees.” He was off on the wrong foot there. Our bodies had already told us we were becoming men and we had definitely progressed beyond the birds and the bees.
Mr. McBette brought a movie to do the difficult part for him, but here we again faced a familiar problem. The movie didn’t have captions and we didn’t understand one word of it. We couldn’t figure out any of the vague drawings the movie used as explanations. We sat and watched with uncomprehending eyes and minds and rapidly increasing frustration.
After the movie, Mr. McBette was nervous and awkward as he searched for words. We were all terribly embarrassed and smiled and nodded, pretending to understand. When he asked if we had any questions, we replied, “No, no, none at all,” to which he showed a great deal of relief. He finally said, “I am very glad you enjoyed the film so much,” and left us. That was the extent of our sex education from the CID administration. But it definitely was not the end of our sex education at CID. The next time we saw Rich, we pumped him for information. What a relief it was to have someone who could answer us—not with unintelligible movies or embarrassed platitudes but from life experiences!
During the 1962–63 academic year, another deaf adult, also an alumnus of CID, entered our lives. Rich spent his time with us on a volunteer basis. But Paul Taylor was hired part-time as an assistant to Miss Lacy in exchange for room and board at our new residence hall. Paul had just graduated from Georgia Institute of Technology with a bachelor of science degree in chemical engineering and was starting a master’s degree at Washington University in St. Louis. He was extremely intelligent and fun to be with. His enthusiasm infected all of us. While Rich was more of a listener, Paul was an extrovert who loved to show and tell us about life. He gave the school authorities many headaches, especially Miss Lacy and the principal, Dr. Lane—he was a bit too much for them. They tried to dampen his enthusiasm and extinguish some of the excitement he poured into our lives.
Paul once asked a group of us boys, “How many of you would like to learn a little math?” Mathematics study at CID tended to be pretty boring, but we knew Paul would make it interesting, so we enthusiastically said we wanted to learn. That Saturday, after breakfast, Paul took us into a classroom. “How can we measure how fast water drains from a bathtub?” he asked. We soon found out, using a formula Paul knew from his engineering study. Then we learned formulas for how to measure the draining speed if the water was hot or cold. It led to a long discussion. For us, it was practical and fun. Paul had a knack for bringing a dull subject to life.
Sally and Paul were popular with all of us. Then Sally began to fall in love with Paul. She ended her relationship with her boyfriend and started dating Paul. When Sally and Paul began spending more time together, we had a chance to associate with the CID girls more. That was a healthy development since we were ready and willing and becoming mature enough to benefit from the social interaction. Had it not been for Rich, Paul, and Sally, my introduction to the world of boy-girl relations would have suffered years of postponement.
We learned other lessons from our new mentors as well. One day Paul took all of us to the movie Lawrence of Arabia. It was a long show and we missed most of the story. Paul often explained a movie before we saw it and talked with us again afterward to answer further questions. But with Lawrence of Arabia, he too was at a loss. Because so many of the actors spoke with a British accent, he didn’t follow much of it either.
We got into a wonderful discussion about the limitations of lipreading, which was a truth we’d sought for a long time. Here was a deaf role model confirming what we’d often suspected. During the discussion, one of us brought up how unfair it was to have to pay for something we did not understand. We were in the mood to rebel and said we ought to ask for a refund. Much to our delight, Paul agreed. He tried to persuade the theater manager to refund our money. Although the manager refused, he did give us a handbook summarizing the story.
Seeing Paul’s assertiveness was very rewarding. Sally also stood up for what she wanted, which was wonderful exposure for us. To see the two of them meeting and interacting with hearing people gave us a realistic picture of what to expect when we grew up.
We also considered revolutionary the fact that Paul admitted he didn’t understand something. We were often dishonest in communicating with hearing people, pretending to understand when we didn’t really understand at all. It was common to feign comprehension when a situation proved to be volatile or embarrassing for us. But that only made matters worse. I worried about this habit and felt dishonest every time I did it. It was a no-win situation and often separated us further from the world we were trying so hard to become a part of.
But here was a deaf adult admitting to a hearing stranger that he did not understand! He was a hero to us for doing so. We saw from Paul’s actions that not understanding was simply not understanding. It was not the end of the world.
Paul and Sally began a romance that quickly blossomed. They announced their engagement and were married in the summer of 1963. During my last year at CID I didn’t see them as much as I had the year before. They did, however, invite some of us over to their house for visits. It was good for us to see a deaf couple living together successfully. In light of my future marriage to a deaf mate, it must have had an effect on me.
Sally stayed at CID as the physical education and home economics teacher. Paul continued his master’s degree studies at Washington University while also working full time at McDonnell Douglas Corporation as an engineer and programmer. These people—Rich, Sally, Paul, and a few others—were perfect role models for us when we needed them. Their honesty and strength brought us what we needed to prepare ourselves for entering the real world.
When CID officials brought other deaf adults to visit us in the classroom, we got to talk to them for periods of a few hours or so. We always asked what it was like to be in a hearing school and to be part of the hearing society. They always answered, “No problem! Things are going fine!” We pushed for more specific information: “Do you sometimes have trouble communicating with hearing people?” “No.” “Can you lipread everything your friends say?” “Yes.” “Do they understand your speech well?” “Yes.” “Do they sometimes ask you to repeat?” “No.” Well, we concluded, perhaps these visitors were very well-trained and very successful at what they did.
It didn’t occur to me until years later that these visitors were fooling themselves with “The Big Lie” or perhaps were trying to be supportive by telling such falsehoods. For us, seeing Paul admit that he didn’t understand Lawrence of Arabia was worth a million happy-go-lucky “No problems!”
One memorable evening in 1964, we encountered role models of a different sort. Every Sunday night, the boys in the residential hall a block down the street congregated with us in front of the black and white television in the dormitory to watch Disney, Bonanza, and other programs. We’d talk about the programs for the next few days.
But on Sunday, February 9, we saw something that changed our lives. We happened to be watching the Ed Sullivan Show when the Beatles made their record-breaking, first live American appearance. Although I couldn’t hear their music, some of the other students with residual hearing could. But all of us delighted in watching their lively body language, their happy faces, and the screaming fans.
Five minutes into their performance, Miss Lacy marched into the television room to tell us how “immoral,” how “evil,” how “awful” the Beatles were. We feared she would turn off the television. Some of us voiced our disagreement while keeping our eyes on the show, hoping we could prevent her from ruining our evening. Even though Miss Lacy continued to pace around and wring her hands, somehow the TV stayed on.
For the next few days, everyone talked about the Beatles. It was the beginning of their “invasion.” We loved their cool look and the response they generated. It seemed that the older people were, the more shocking they found the Beatles and the more they denounced the band. The younger teachers and college students thought they were great. For us, liking the Beatles was a chance to rebel and align with the younger generation. Some of the college students gave us copies of lyrics to their songs, which helped us appreciate them even more.
I got permission to interview people about the Beatles for our student paper, CID News. I never forgot the reaction of Elli Blumenthal, a student teacher. When I asked what she thought of the Beatles, she screamed, “EEEEEEEEEEEE!” I was puzzled by this bizarre response until it dawned on me that she was imitating the fans’ reaction.
We students were looking for a symbol of our desire to protest and rebel. Voilà, we’d found it. Miss Lacy and other school authorities never understood how a world-famous music group could turn on a bunch of deaf kids.