When I entered junior high, even though I was mainstreamed in a public school that had a deaf program, I chose not to participate in the deaf classes most of the time. I took regular classes and had a sign-language interpreter with me throughout the day.
I thought I was too smart for the deaf classes.
I didn’t know that deaf kids who are only exposed to sign language and don’t use any speech whatsoever—like the kids in the class next door to me in elementary school—often read below grade level because their English isn’t honed. Mistakenly, I associated reading below grade level as being less intelligent. Most of those kids didn’t speak either, which I also mistook as a sign of being less smart. I sure was wrong.
In eighth grade, the pull to prove to myself and everyone else that I could “stay hearing” was stronger than ever. I left the deaf program altogether and transferred to my neighborhood junior high school, which was right up the street and where all of my hearing friends went. I didn’t want to be in a “special” school anymore. I wanted to walk to school with my friends and be a part of it all. I was the only deaf student in the entire school, and they gave me a full-time interpreter named Joyce Zimmerman. Joyce sat near my desk in every class and interpreted for me. She was awesome because she blended in, giving me space when I needed it, but was always there when I needed her. She would meet me at each class but did not follow me there. She let me be independent and did not come to recess or lunch.
That year, I became president of the student council. When I first ran for office, I read my speech over the intercom and then had a friend reread it to be sure that everyone understood. Once elected, I used my voice to run meetings and do other things; Joyce would sign to me what people said. In ninth grade, I remained local as well, attending Naperville Central High School with my neighborhood friends and, again, was the only deaf student in the school.
That was the year when things really began changing for me.
Central High had so many more students and teachers than my previous schools, none of whom knew me or my family. Despite having my friends there, who were as welcoming as usual, and Joyce, who interpreted for me all throughout high school, I began feeling very isolated. My self-inflicted pressure to stay hearing still remained in full force and began taking its toll on me. Chris still had very high expectations of me, and because she was older than me, I looked up to her. She really believed I could be successful in the mainstream and continued to support my success. I would hear her voice in my head saying, “You’re not different; you can do it!” I didn’t want to let her down or let myself down. I was proud of myself for being able to manage in that hearing world and in a hearing high school, and that pride felt good.
It was the era of Flashdance, and, believe me, I knew what was “in” with those hearing girls. Chris made sure of that. We went to see Rocky when it first came out, and she taught me the popular song from the movie, “The Eye of the Tiger.” She would tap the beat on my leg, and I mouthed the words. In the same way, my hearing friends taught me all the popular songs of the time: “Last Dance,” “Hard to Say I’m Sorry,” “Time for Me to Fly.” I so appreciated them for teaching me those songs because it made me feel like I was part of the group.
But life was a mixed bag. I was missing things. At the Lutheran Church, I didn’t have an interpreter, so during my confirmation classes, I had no idea what was going on when they read from the Bible. I just sat there, wondering what was happening in the silence. Later on, my interpreter from school, Joyce, joined my church, so I got lucky.
Once during summer vacation, I went to the movies with my twin cousins, Heather and Heidi. They were identical twins, beautiful girls with dark brown hair. They were my age, and we had grown up together. To them, I was just Brandi, their cousin, not Brandi, the deaf girl. I had gone to the movies a few times with my father—who was an avid James Bond fan. The movies were heavy-duty action and easy to follow, so I was looking forward to going with my cousins. Heather and Heidi were the most fun people for me to hang around with—always daring and getting into trouble. We fed each other popcorn and had sodas. We had gone to see the Chevy Chase movie National Lampoon’s Vacation (which wasn’t closed-captioned, of course).
Perhaps it was because of the amount of dialogue, but I didn’t understand a thing. What’s so funny? I thought. As I watched my cousins laugh, while I sat there in silence, I was painfully reminded that my hearing was not what it was supposed to be. I was beginning to feel very different and alone.
The thing about lipreading is this: even though I’m very good at it, at best I can only follow 50 percent of what’s going on, which is usually enough for me to get the gist of the conversation and respond appropriately, but sometimes it isn’t. One-on-one, I communicated very well. I did fine. But in a group, it became impossible to lip-read what everybody was saying. At night, it really became difficult when I couldn’t see my friends’ faces. Yet, I thought about my deaf friends, over there in the deaf program, whom I saw on the weekends and at other times, playing around and having fun with deaf people whom I hadn’t met yet, and I started longing to be a part of that.
I was caught between two realities, yearning for fuller communication and to be around deaf people, yet feeling that gigantic pull toward the hearing world; my friends’ and family’s influence on me was just so huge. I knew that they were all well intentioned when they told me that I was fine in the hearing world. But deep inside, I began feeling more and more that I was different and functioned differently than they did, and that they were so wrong.
THE SPRING OF 1984, toward the end of my freshman year, was brutal. Torn between wanting to stay in the hearing world and yearning for a fuller connection with deaf people, I realized I needed to decide whether to stay at Central High or transfer the following fall to Hinsdale South, which had a deaf program and was thirty minutes from my home. When I mentioned it to Chris, she was extremely disappointed that I would even consider Hinsdale South. She just genuinely believed that Central was the best place for me and that I could make it there.
I agonized over the decision for weeks; no one knew what I was going through, not even my mother. I couldn’t express it, but at fifteen years old, I knew that I wasn’t just choosing a school—I was choosing a life. Staying at Central meant I’d probably go to a college such as Illinois State with my friends, marry hearing, and remain in that world. Going to Hinsdale South meant I’d probably go to Gallaudet University or National Technical Institute for the Deaf (NTID), marry a deaf person, and be in the Deaf World. Being on the fence—dabbling in both worlds but never fully embracing either—no longer felt tolerable.
It was an overwhelming decision, yet my heart knew the answer—and had known it all along. I finally chose Hinsdale South and that year said good-bye to my hearing friends from the neighborhood. I couldn’t articulate to them why I was leaving; I just told them that I was going to South, to the deaf program. I didn’t know how to say that I felt tired and defeated from playing a game I knew I couldn’t win and wasn’t good for me anyway. How could I tell them that I was mourning the life I had known since I was six, or that the things I had done had been fun and had served me well but could no longer lead me where I needed to go? On some level, I think they understood. After that, I only saw them when we bumped into one another on the street, and it was always bittersweet.
I’d made my decision in the spring but avoided telling Chris until school was almost out. I was too scared to tell her, for fear of disappointing her. Carrying that pressure around inside me all that time felt awful. I think