Now Hear This

I had gone to the U.C. Berkeley administration office to apply for part time work. The woman at the desk handed me a questionnaire that inquired into every breath I'd taken from the Battle of Hastings (1066) to Darfur in 2016. The woman smiled as I eventually handed her the compendium. She held it over a basket already high with previous applications, few of which, I assumed, were for the Chancellor's post. 

As she was about to let go, she paused, looking more closely at a part of my application. She looked up at me, and said, “You've done counseling?”

I know, when applying for any position, one is supposed to reply with “I'm working toward a doctorate in regenerative psychology,” or at least “I've mapped the South Pole twice.” Something dramatic like that. But as I turned toward the
office exit, I told the truth.

“Just Y.M.C.A. summer camps and 'Y' club leader stuff.”  I'd never thought of those times before as anything but volunteer fun.

Instead of dropping my packet into the basket, she put it by her phone. She made a call, spoke to someone, and, after a few words, gave me an address.

The next morning between classes I was accepted as a something-or-other (that I never quite figured out) at the California School for the Deaf. I was about to spend two semesters discovering a world I'd barely knew existed.

After a short interview, I had a room about half a mile from the campus, three meals a day, enough income to wash my clothes, buy books, and attend a couple of proms. I could even take the “Big Red” electric car to San Francisco once in awhile. My parents liked that.

Two other fellows shared my quarters and tasks. Both were pleasant and interesting. Neither was a sociology or psychology major. They came from “The East,” meaning one was from Nebraska, the other from Chicago. (Later, he explained that his home was really Elmhurst; but hardly anybody knew anything about Elmhurst, or any of the rest of Illinois, either). Both were bewildered that a human being would select English literature as a major, particularly when they found that I had to learn some Middle English, which only barely resembles modern speech. I'd gotten used to that by then, and they didn't push it.

Working with the deaf students was fun and more than enlightening. I soon realized that I actually had had some valuable experience that contributed to working reasonably well with these young people. I was more comfortable with the deaf students than my roommates were. As ignorant as I was, the secretary had had good reason to yank my name back from oblivion.

Our duties were routine and typical, mostly being available for keeping order during recesses and physical education classes. As the students began to feel comfortable with me, they included me rather naturally in their activities. They took special smug pleasure in making me learn the rules of the games THEIR way. Also, I became their de facto umpire. That was because the staff -- half of them also hard of hearing -- were generally much stricter than I. They were really nice people, both the men and women, but negotiating was not built in to their protocols. When a child's complaint came to them, they made instant, irrevocable decisions. With me, it always took a while to find out what the squabble or complaint was really about By the time I began to filter through their Kabuki dances, the heat had already expended itself, and my decisions were less threatening or frustrating.

It wasn't my genius: Often, it was my ignorance of ASL. Sometimes, the student problem devolved into a lesson in what their gestures meant. I suspect that that their anger was often burned out by their violently waving a visual language that was 85% Greek to me. What I did know was that they usually left no longer frantically doing all those crazy things with their fingers.

My name, I eventually learned, was drawing the right forefinger across the left side of the chin. When I asked a teacher why that motion, she said, “Oh, the violin.” But, of course! I mean, I should have figured that out: Singer =violin. You knew that, too, didn't you?

The school had a remarkable program, especially in socializing the students. For example, there were monthly dances -- with recordings. Apparently, most people, however limited in hearing, do get the deep bass tones. Introductory notes would be flashed in sync with the record intro by a hearing person, and the dancers would pick up the beats from there.

There wasn't much “Jitterbug,” and most of them somewhat dragged their feet. But it worked. Few students elected to miss the dances, and the girls saved their best and most decorated sweaters for those nights. When one of the directors learned that I knew most of the steps, she had us put on a show for the students. It helped with my approval rating, too, I expect. Afterward, the director had me teach other staff folk. 

The adult staff had a real problem with something that wouldn't have entered my mind -- noise.

Evenings, after “lights out,” some of the teen students would rap on exposed pipes, heaters, and almost any fixed metal device. Pipes were the favorite because striking them echoed throughout the building. We college three, lodged in the basement, could hear all of it. We could tell when some boy had hammered something then leaped into bed to pretend sleep. We also always knew when a boy, or group of them, had been caught. The next day, the girls would be giggling and pointing.

Sometimes I wonder how that place is functioning now. Electrical science, understanding of the brain, social psychology, and the knowledge of language have advanced so far from those days..
But, I bet teen boys still beat on pipes.

Note: The original California School for the Deaf building where I worked was condemned, and there are now at least two campuses: one in Fremont, California, and another in Riverside. Actually, the structure I bunked in was coming apart then.