Showing posts with label Deafness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Deafness. Show all posts

February 26, 2019

Kolja, or: how deaf people can be super spies

by Corrie Tijsseling


The Dutch novelist Arthur Japin recently wrote a book with the title Kolja. “Kolja” was the pet name of Nikolaj Konradi (1868-1922), a Russian child who is said to have been born deaf and trained to speak. Or, as the author writes himself: “who was deaf-mute and who miraculously learned to speak”. Kolja was the pupil of Modest Tsjaikovski (1850-1916), the brother of the musician Pjotr Tsjaikovski (1840-1893). Modest was hired by the wealthy parents of Kolja as a guardian and supervised him during his education at the French school of doctor Jacques Hugentobler (1844-1924) in Lyon.

Book cover: Kolja by Arthur Japin.
Book cover: "Kolja" by Arthur Japin.

“Deaf-mute”
Arthur Japin is a renowned author and again managed to write a story that kept my attention till the last page. However, as a deaf historian who specializes in deaf education, I had my doubts when I started to read; would a hearing novelist be able to write an historically and politically correct story about a deaf person? This initial reserve grew after the author and I had an intense debate over the word ‘deaf-mute’. At that moment, I did not know that the author elaborates in his book on the meaning and effects of this word, in which he was advised by a deaf person who gave feedback on the manuscript and had explained that deaf people consider this word as offensive comparable to the effect that the N-word has to black people. The publisher however, had used the word ‘deaf-mute’ in the promotion of the book and this prompted me to post a tweet to both the publisher and the author in which I requested to remove that word.

The author contacted me through the Direct Message-section of Twitter, where one can send private notes to contacts, telling me that he did respect the wish of deaf people but insisted that he needed a word that described a person who is not able to speak, as in ‘mute’. I tried to explain him that ‘mute’ is correct but that a word that connects ‘not being able to hear’ to ‘not being able to speak’ is redundant to deaf people, and even ableist as it expresses what the dominant group considers as ‘normal’. After all, I am convinced that deaf people do communicate, though their language has been denied for many centuries by the phonocentric Western societies that only consider spoken languages as true and meaningful languages, resulting in excluding words like ‘deaf-mute’ and horrific speech training methods such as the method Hugentobler which Japin describes so vividly in his book.

In the end Arthur Japin and I agreed to disagree and the word ‘deaf-mute’ was removed from all communication by the publisher. But damage had been done already: the emphasis on the magnificent speech skills of Kolja resulted in the frequent use of the word ‘deaf-mute’ in all of the book reviews that I have read.

Super spy
Japin’s story starts with the death of Pjotr Tsjaikovski. By that time, Kolja was already an adult and had ended his relationship with Modest, apparently over financial matters. The death of Pjotr turns out to be a suspicious death and it is here that super spy Kolja is introduced. He reads the speech, and the emotions and thoughts of every person that approaches him, even persons he has never met before, with hardly any effort. Or as Japin himself describes it on the cover of the book, Kolja is: “… als geen ander in getraind het ongehoorde te doorgronden” (… who like no one else was trained to fathom what cannot be heard).

In order to fully understand the fictitious nature of this sentence you probably must be deaf. Just as you have to be deaf to understand that the author needs this myth of deaf people’s supernatural speech reading skills and powers of emotion reading and vibe feeling, for developing the story plot. In real life, deaf people have to ask other people continuously to repeat what they said as well as do hearing people often complain that deaf people are rude, ignorant, and cold (though, the same is said about hearing people by deaf people). This I would say is the first myth that is being used by Japin in order to seduce his readership.

It took a while before I was able to identify myth #2, but eventually it popped up halfway through the book: this time the author turned towards the supposedly extraordinary sexual experiences of deaf people. The idea that deaf people experience sexuality in an extraordinary way then is explained by referring to the fact that they miss one sense and that the other senses compensate for the loss. So, someone who cannot hear is considered to have extraordinary visual and tactile experiences. A myth that especially hearing adolescents are eager to test for themselves with deaf adolescents, in a way that can be described as sexual harassment. Apart from these two myths, the author must be applauded for his eminent descriptions of the experiences of being deaf, in which I fully recognize my own experiences. For example on page 138, where it is described that being deaf means that one has to register, interpret, conclude, deduce all kinds of elements of information in order to make sense of it all. And: to be persistent as each withdrawal or failure puts yourself offside. As Japin writes: “Ons hele begrip hangt af van op te lossen raadsels” (Our complete understanding depends on riddles to be solved).

The different meanings of “deaf”
How about the historical aspects of the book? Regarding the lives and times of the brothers Tsjaikovski, I dare not to give my opinion as I lack knowledge on this matter. Regarding the history of deaf people and their education, however, there are several things that can be mentioned. First of all, there is the question of what “deaf” actually means? And secondly, related to the previous comment, what is understood by “education”? According to the author, Kolja was born deaf and learned to speak. I would like to reframe this as “Kolja, the boy of whom it is thought that he was born deaf, and who was trained to speak”.

Classroom scene
Classroom scene.

Kolja was born in 1868 and in that time, it was not possible to measure hearing loss. The profession of audiology only started hesitatingly in 1920 with the first audiometers (Sente, 2004). It was only after WWII when audiometers could reliably measure hearing loss in magnitude (dB) and frequency (Hz). And it is then that the categories of mild, moderate, severe and profound hearing loss were created. This means that, before WWII, anyone with any amount of hearing loss which formed an obstacle for informally perceiving and learning a spoken language, was labeled ‘deaf’. In fact, there are very few people who hear nothing at all as most deaf people have some hearing residues - though most are not aware of it. However, these residues do help in learning a spoken language.

Another aspect is that we only know since the start of audiology that it matters when the deafness started. The first three years of life are known as the prelingual period, in which the fundaments of language acquisition are laid. It does not matter if this is a sign language or a spoken language, but it does make a difference if there is a rich language input. As mentioned, we do not know if Kolja had a mild, moderate, severe or profound hearing loss but we also do not know when this hearing loss had started: at birth, in his early years or later in his childhood? The story suggests that Kolja has been able to hear for some time, and had an awareness of sound, as he clung to people and pianos, and searched for rhythms and patterns.

Post card view of the Hugentobler Institute
Post card view of the Hugentobler Institute.

Education, or modeling?
As Kolja’s parents were very wealthy, they were able to send him to the Hugentobler Institute in Lyon, where he was trained in the oralist method in which the use of signing was strictly prohibited. The method controversy in the education of deaf people reached its climax in 1880, when the International Congress on the Education of the Deaf (ICED) decided that the pure oral method was preferred over the combined method in which speech was combined with signing (Brill, 1984; Beelaert, Bruyneel & Leeman, 2009). The oral method was at its best a training method, but definitely not an education method. One of the goals of education is individuation in which a child becomes a free, independent and autonomous person. In the time of Kolja, this process was known as ‘Bildung’ but this word was not used in deaf education. Here, a different kind of ‘forming a person’ took place, that is: ‘modelling’, to shape deaf children in the form of hearing people (Tijsseling, 2014). Many books on deaf education describe how to train deaf children to sit and stand without moving (instead of waving arms and hands and move heads), to communicate only with the mouth (instead of using your hands and facial mimics), and to walk correctly (instead of shambling and pounding).

Rigid measures and strict discipline were used to make deaf children speak. Japin describes the method of Hugentobler very well but this is just one of the many oral methods of that time. The psychologist Vygotsky (1896-1934) valued the oral method as it made it possible for deaf people to communicate with hearing people (and not only to communicate among each other, as they did and do) but it could not be regarded as social education as it was so hard to learn deaf children to speak that it turned out as a form of disciplining and conditioning (Tijsseling, 2014). Vygotsky also gives a horrific image of this “education”: “When forcing a pupil to master a difficult sound, the teacher could knock out his tooth and, having wiped the blood from the hand, he would proceed to the next sound.

To conclude, “Kolja” offers an insight in the life and education of a deaf son of wealthy Russian parents at the end of the 19th century but it is recommended to read the book for the suspense story about the Tsjaikovski brothers while ignoring the extraordinary supernatural talents of Kolja, that are necessary to reveal the truth.




Corrie Tijsseling is a research coordinator at GGMD - a Dutch non-profit organisation for Deaf people. In 2014 she defended her PhD on the history of education for the Deaf in the Netherlands.
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References
Beelaert, B., Bruyneel, C. & en Leeman, K. (2009) Vive la parole? Milaan 1880 als scharniermoment in het dovenonderwijs. Gent: Fevlado-Diversus.

Brill, R.G. (1984). International Congresses on Education of the Deaf. An Analytical History, 1878-1980. Washington D.C.: Gallaudet University Press.


Sente, M. (2004). The history of audiology. Medicinski Pregled 57(11), 611-616. Doi: https://doi.org/10.2298/MPNS0412611S


Tijsseling, C. (2014). “School, waar?” Een onderzoek naar de betekenis van het Nederlandse dovenonderwijs voor de Nederlandse dovengemeenschap, 1790-1990. Utrecht: Universiteit Utrecht.


Vygotsky, L.S. (1925). “Principles of social education for the deaf-mute child”, in: Bieber, R.W. & Carton, A.S., (Eds). The collected works of L.S. Vygotsky. Volume 2 The Fundamentals of Defectology (Abnormal Psychology and Learning Disabilities), ed. R.W. Bieber & A.S. Carton. New York/London: Plenum Press, 1993, 69.


Recommended citation:
Corrie Tijsseling (2019): Kolja, or: how deaf people can be super spies. In: Public Disability History 4 (2019) 3. 

May 7, 2018

The Paris Banquet and the Swedish Deaf Movement, or: A Signed Room on Stage

By Jenny Schöldt
Translated by Ylva Söderfeldt

On May 3, 1868, a group of Deaf gathered together with a few hearing friends – today, we would probably call them ”allies” – at the Manilla Deaf-Mute Institute in Stockholm. The three initiators were the school’s hearing director Ossian Borg, the Deaf teacher Fritjof Carlbom from Tysta Skolan (“The Silent School”, another Stockholm Deaf school), and the artist Albert Berg. Carlbom had paid a visit to Berlin and, inspired by the Deaf club there, had decided to start something similar in Sweden. On this day, twenty-two Deaf and five hearing persons agreed to form the Deaf-Mute Society, Dövstumföreningen, predecessor of today’s Swedish Deaf Association. This remarkable event, a milestone in Swedish Deaf history, celebrates its 150th anniversary this month.

It was the actor Joakim Hagelin-Adeby, chairman of the Stockholm Deaf Society, who came up with the idea to stage a play in honor of the history of the Swedish Deaf movement and the banquets that were held in Paris in the 19th century to celebrate Sign Language. The title was going to be Parismiddagen – the Paris Banquet. His suggestion prompted Tyst Teater, a theatre company that has been performing in Sign Language for more than four decades, an audition for Deaf writers. The framework was in place, and now prospective playwrights were free to be creative.
When I found out about the idea, I immediately envisioned a table in a room, with two Deaf persons seated, signing: artfully, quickly, humorously, like I’ve seen my Deaf friends sit and sign so many times before, and like I’ve done myself. I often think of Sign Language as something that goes on in the room where it is ”spoken”, that can’t be translated or captured. Sign Language is a language without tenses, consisting, put simply, of lexical and non-lexical signs. The non-lexical signs are descriptive verbs that are modified (signs are not inflected) according to context, or created as a result of the syntax. Very much like what happens on a theatre stage.
To write a script in one language that is supposed to be performed in another one, because the latter lacks a written form, is a problem that has been discussed over and over again within Tyst Teater and the rest of the Deaf artistic community.  In the past, for a different project, I had tried writing in a modified Swedish that made it clear how the lines were supposed to be signed. But this solution killed the creativity of the actors, and impeded the artistic work of the director.
I realized that I can’t decide how another Deaf person has to express themselves.
That has to happen in the room. In the conversation.

Actors Joakim Hagelin Adeby and Mette Marqvardsen on stage, seated across from each other at a long table set for a banquet, dressed in historical costumes and signing. Photographer: Urban Jörén
Actors Joakim Hagelin Adeby and Mette Marqvardsen on stage, seated across from each other at a long table set for a banquet, dressed in historical costumes and signing. Photographer: Urban Jörén

So this is why I wrote the play in Swedish. I was fortunate to know the previous work of the director, and to some extent the style and skills of the actors. The fact that they had to work with translation and interpretation gave the piece a dimension I now find invaluable.
Writing a play about a movement that is still ongoing, as a person who is part of that movement, is a strange and exhilirating meta-emotion, and perhaps something historians can relate to. A piece of history, alive, that I am observing and part of creating. Myself, and other Deaf. This was my intellectual starting point. I wanted to use my perspective on Deaf history, as it appears when I ask myself the question: what is Deaf history? Milestones such as the French signed education, the deaf schools, the official acknowledgement of Swedish Sign Language by the state in 1981, the Swedish Deaf movement. I want to be clear that I am concerned here with Nordic Deaf history, with a few links to other European Deaf communities and the US.

One table. Two signers. Leaping from one milestone to the other.

Actors Mette Marqvardsen and Joakim Hagelin Adeby on stage, Marqvardsen with a pipe, Hagelin Adeby with glasses, shaking hands and cheering. Photographer: Urban Jörén

Then I started reading and exploring, somewhat, these milestones. I soon found myself annoyed at how most of the documented history of the Deaf dealt with the schools, or consisted of dull summaries of club proceedings and such. This gave me reason to reflect on why this is what the sources look like, questions that I incorporated in the piece. In this manner, I brought myself onstage, and I hoped that the audience would be able to identify with my experience, even if their questions weren’t exactly the same. Speaking of documentation, we are among the peoples that lack historical records, since we didn’t have written language, and since we are not born into our group. We are born into another linguistic community, and grow up among the hearing. In order to sign, we need other Deaf people. An somehow, we always seek out and find each other, and somehow Sign Language always finds us.

Actors Joakim Hagelin Adeby and Mette Marqvardsen on stage, standing behind the table holding up a banner that reads, in Swedish: "TO BE. DEAF. SIGN LANGUAGE FOR ALL." Photographer: Urban Jörén
Actors Joakim Hagelin Adeby and Mette Marqvardsen on stage, standing behind the table holding up a banner that reads, in Swedish: "TO BE. DEAF. SIGN LANGUAGE FOR ALL." Photographer: Urban Jörén

Words come and go, but the Deaf are here to stay.

Parismiddagen is currently on tour in Sweden. Some of the performances are accompanied by seminars on Deaf culture and history. See https://tystteater.riksteatern.se/parismiddagen/



Recommended Citation:
Jenny Schöldt: The Paris Banquet and the Swedish Deaf Movement, or: A Signed Room on Stage. In: Public Disability History 3 (2018) 7.

May 25, 2017

“I guess I’m in between” A conversation with my mother about disability.

by Ylva Söderfeldt

“Disabilities? I don’t have any!” This is my mother making a joke when I asked her if I could interview her for the blog. She’s visiting from Sweden to hang out with her grandkids (and me), something she does often as she’s mostly retired from her work as a neurologist. My mother is a professor of neurology, holds an M.D. and a Ph. D., and still practices medicine sometimes. She has four children and seven grandchildren. Born in 1946, she belongs to the post-war generation and although she was quite busy raising children and building a career, she has also been a life-long activist. She is also hearing impaired since birth and now has a cochlear implant. I’m her youngest child, now a historian, and have focused on Deaf history for most of my career, a topic I got acquainted with through her. I wanted to talk with her about the many ways in which disability figures in our lives.

The thought I had was to have a conversation with you about disability from different perspectives.

Do you mean hearing impairments?

Yes, that would be one thing we could talk about. And there are different dimensions to that too, professional, personal…


Well, I realized at a very early age that I had reduced hearing. But to be honest, although I realized that there are many things I just can’t do, like singing, I never thought that it was a real obstacle. I just didn’t have that perspective. I think many others think like that: “I can’t do this because I’ve got this thing”. But I never thought that. Maybe because I did very well in school. I was better than the hearing kids! So maybe that immunized me from thinking that hearing is superior.

You mean you didn’t see it as a problem?

Yes I did see it as a problem. But I never thought that I couldn’t do the things I wanted. OK, I can’t do everything, I was never going to be a ballet dancer for instance, but those are all things I never wanted to do anyway. What I wanted to do, I could do. But it was harder for me than for others, that’s something I’ve realized now that I didn’t before. I had to work harder than other people.

I think everyone else realized that. I know we talk about it, among the siblings. “How did she do it?”

Yes, I realize now looking back that a lot was tough.

When I was little, you had hearing aids, and it’s a favorite anecdote of mine how I used to think I’d get them too when I got older, just like I’d get other things I associated with an adult woman: hearing aids, nail polish, heels… But you didn’t have hearing aids growing up.

No. And that’s a funny story because many disabled kids think their disabilities are going to go away when they grow up. But for you, it was the other way around. Anyway, I’ll tell you: I grew up in the administrative region that belonged to Örebro, and in the 1950’s, they were the most advanced in Sweden when it came to hearing impairments. They had a deaf school there that was very oral-focused, and the kids there were the ones with the most residual hearing, or who were deafened late. So maybe because of that, they were prominent and very modern in audiology, and there was a training facility. I lived in a small town so I didn’t have regular access to this, but I got sent to a summer school for hearing impaired children. I didn’t feel very at home there, I must say. But it made me aware of that Deaf people existed. Some were more deaf. We definitely didn’t sign or anything but a couple of the kids knew Sign Language. So I learned that it existed.
But I still thought, for a long time, that I was only mildly hearing impaired. But then, quite late, in my twenties, I had to realise that I was actually quite severely hearing impaired. And at the same time, it got worse. The high frequencies almost completely disappeared. When I was almost thirty, I got my first hearing aid. I think I had tried some on as a child but I never wore them before that. They weren’t that good back then. And my hearing was better.
So then I got my hearing aid and I did have some troble coming to terms with that at first. And so I got curious, what are my options if I can’t compensate for this with technology? And that’s how I started getting interested in Sign Language.

This was in the 1980’s, right?

Yes.

Me and my mother in 1984

 So at that time, you were a doctor, you had been working for a few years. And it was also a time when all kinds of disability movements, not least the Deaf movement, really took off and were quite radical. Was that part of the attraction?

Oh yes absolutely. The way that it happened was, there was this organization for deaf and hearing impaired people who didn’t sign, it was called “Höreselfrämjandet”, which means something like “Pro-Hearing”. And I thought that was so stupid! So I wrote something about it, for their paper. And then lots of people contacted me, younger people, my age and younger, who liked what I’d written. And then I suddenly had a new network. I started to connect more with deaf people, went to Sign Language classes, and joined the Deaf club where we lived. And you know I was part of this little group that made the paper. [In the late eighties and early nineties, she was one of the people behind a fanzine-type publication for hearing impaired people with a left-wing profile].
But I never got very good at Sign Language. And I don’t know why.

You can’t have been that bad. I remember you had interpreters.

Yes but that was more Signed Swedish. And I understand better than I sign. I think it was just too much, in my life at that point. I couldn’t go all-in.

Yes, you had lots of children at home in the 1980s. 

Yes I did! But I also chose not to go all-in, because I knew, this is a special world, and I don’t want to live in the Deaf world full-time. I didn’t want to make that transition.

Did you think of that as a choice you made?

Yes, that was a choice. Some people I knew, who had a similar background, they chose to go the other way. I’m not really in touch with them any more.

What I’ve thought about is that the disability rights movement, including the Deaf, they were in opposition to the medical model, and one of the main confrontations was with the medical sphere. 

Yes, and that was another thing, when the cochlear implants came, I reacted against that. So that was one of the issues that also brought me there, that I didn’t agree with the ideology behind that, and I still don’t. Even though I have an implant now.

But at the same time, I think if I’d ask you, as what do you identify? My guess is that your first answer would be “as a physician”. You have a very strong identification with your profession. 

Yes I do! My identity as a physician is very strong. But I had an education in behavioral science as well. And that helped me at the same time to have a more critical view of medicine.

Were there any conflicts though, with people you met in the Deaf movement, and your identification with medicine?

No. I think the opposite. People liked it, that there was a doctor who were on their side. And I also met some people with the same situation, in the United States, who were physicians and Deaf. And that was important to me. They were even more deaf than me, biologically and socially. So I never felt that was a conflict.

How about the way the experience in the disability sphere influenced you professionally? I mean obviously it did, you did a Ph.D. about neuroimaging of Sign Language.

The research I did, that was mostly because I wanted to finish what I’d started before going to medical school, when I studied psychology. Doing a Ph. D. in psychology, which happened to be about Sign Language, was a way to finish that. And the best thing that came out of that was that I got into working with neuro-functional methods, and I’ve kept doing that.. But in the clinic, I never wanted to work with deafness. There are people, you know, paraplegic doctors who work with spinal injuries. I never felt attracted to doing that, working in the rehabilitation or anything. But think I do have a more nuanced view than some colleagues, on what it means to live with a disability. And I had to work harder.
But I don’t want to complain. You should see this facebook group I’m in, for hearing impaired people, they complain a lot! [She starts telling an anecdote about what gets posted there.]

I’ve heard you joke about hearing and deafness a lot over the years. Maybe we shouldn’t do that in a public forum! 

Well but you know within any group it’s ok to joke about ourselves, isn’t it? But in terms of groups, I don’t know which one I belong to. I guess I’m in between. That has it’s own charm!

Recommended Citation: 
Ylva Söderfeldt (2017): “I guess I’m in between” A conversation with my mother about disability. In: Public Disability History 2 (2017) 9.

January 18, 2016

"When your past is omitted in the history books, it’s invisible“: The Deaf Time Machine

By Michaela Caspar
Translated by Ylva Söderfeldt

If we look for the history of the Deaf in archives and libraries, we tend to find mostly hearing people. Hearing doctors, teachers, clergy, philosophers, linguists, or politicians and their perspective on deafness and signed languages. The hearing have documented the history of the Deaf. But what do the Deaf have to say?

Five people on stage wearing white T-shirts and black pants holding signs with slogans in the air: “I’M DEAF. I DON’T UNDERSTAND A SPEAKING TEACHER”; “I’M NOT ALLOWED TO SIGN AT HOME EITHER”; “LEARNING SPEECH DOESN’T MAKE ME HEARING”; “1880-1981”; “PATERNALISM”; “ADAPTION”). Behind them picture a photograph is projected showing two young boys – hands folded on their back and wearing headphones – from behind.
Five actors on stage.
Photo: Lisa Wischmann
The Deaf Time Machine is a play about the history of the Deaf, performed by Deaf and hearing actors for hearing and Deaf audiences, in German Sign Language (DGS), Signed German (LBG), and spoken and written German. It uses historical sources, interviews with survivors, and improvisation based on the personal experience of the performers, and presents these through live acting, film, live cam, discussion, and music.
In order to connect current controversies on the cochlear implant (CI) with their historical background, the audience is invited to join the eight Deaf and four hearing actors on a journey through the history of the Deaf. This is the story of a largely unknown, but vital community with its own language and culture, but it is also a history of persecution and oppression.