silence is golden
* * *
—
Up in Old Quarters, February is perched by the window, and catches bits of the morning news via bunny-eared TV. She returns her coffee cup to her lips to divert her smile, then descends the spiral stairs and walks back toward her house. Not wanting to scare Mel, she rings the doorbell first. Mel appears in her pajamas, holding a mug of her own.
Can we talk? says February.
Mel opens the door wider to let her in.
* * *
—
Across the quad, sunlight vaults off the pavement and steals into Charlie’s room through the space between window shade and sill. A text message arrives, vibrates her phone and bedside table. The boys are anxious for her to wake, but Charlie sleeps soundly. Around her swirl the echoes of 150 years’ worth of pranks played and loves lost, of scraped knees and stomach viruses, breakfasts served and cigarettes smoked. Of experiments warmed over laboratory flames or carried out in darkness, breath quickened beneath blankets. Of silent conversations stirring air into motion, stories receding back into stone. If these walls could talk, would it matter? Who would hear the secrets we bear?
author’s note
To be a member of the Deaf community has been a great source of joy in my life—it has made me a better writer, thinker, parent, and friend. Though River Valley School for the Deaf is an imagined place, the essential nature of Deaf schools as community hubs—the safekeepers of our language, our history, and our dreams for the future—is very real.
So is the threat of their closure, and with those shutterings, the slow destruction of a rich culture and tradition. Today’s prevailing educational philosophy centers on a mainstream approach, but at what cost? For many deaf and hard-of-hearing students, the result has been a veneer of “inclusion,” without true equity. While society praises hearing children for being unique, deaf children are taught that they are a broken version of their peers, and should invest all their energy in trying to fit in. Kept apart from one another, deaf children frequently receive not only substandard education without full access to language, but a suppressed understanding of the self that can only be righted by representation and a sense of larger community belonging.
It’s my hope that we will find allies in the hearing world willing to stand with us and fight for our self-governance, dignity, and the value of human diversity before the effects of educational isolation and genetic manipulation are irreversible.
Alabama School for the Negro Deaf-Blind, 1891–1968
Austine School for the Deaf, 1904–2014
Braidwood Institute for the Deaf and Dumb （Cobbs School）， 1812-1821
Central North Carolina School for the Deaf, 1975–2000
Colored Department for the Arkansas & Madison School for the Deaf, 1887–1965
Crotched Mountain School for the Deaf, 1955–1979
Detroit Day School for the Deaf, 1893–2012
Florida Institute for the Blind, Deaf, and Dumb Colored Department, 1882–1967
Georgia School for the Negro Deaf, 1882–1975
Kentucky School for the Negro Deaf, 1884–1963
Maryland School for the Colored Blind and Deaf, 1872–1956
National Deaf Academy, 2000–2016
Nebraska School for the Deaf, 1869–1998
North Carolina School for Colored Deaf and Blind, 1869–1967
Oklahoma Industrial Institution for the Deaf, Blind, and Orphans of the Colored Race, 1909–？
South Carolina Institution for the Education of the Deaf and Dumb and the Blind, Colored Department, 1883–1967
South Dakota School for the Deaf, 1880–2011
Southern School for the Colored Deaf and Blind, 1938–1978
Tennessee School for the Colored Deaf and Dumb, 1881–1965
Texas Blind, Deaf and Orphan School, 1887–1965
West Virginia School for the Colored Deaf and Blind, 1919–1955
Wyoming School for the Deaf, 1961–2000
For the students at Rocky Mountain Deaf School,
Pennsylvania School for the Deaf,
Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind, and
St. Rita School for the Deaf,
and for deaf people everywhere.
acknowledgments
I am greatly indebted to so many in the wake of this project. Thank you:
To the Deaf community, which has given me ASL and the confidence to be myself—without you I could not have written this, or any, book.
To the brilliant Caitlin McKenna—this book is smarter, cleaner, and all-around better because of you. Thank you for your passion and your patience.
To Wylie wonder team Jin, Alex, Alba, and Elizabeth, and to genius/confidante, Kristina—the best agents and advocates in the game.
To Emma and all those at Random House who kept the wheels turning on this project through strange and terrible times. To the thoughtful people in design and production who helped make the 3-D language of ASL a little more alive on the page. And to the publicity and marketing teams who are already working hard to hurl this weird little book out into the world.
To Brittany, for your beautiful illustrations and linguistic expertise. This book would not be complete without your work.
To Teraca Florence, for your astute feedback toward an authentic representation of intersectional identity in our community.
To the students at Deaf schools around the country who shared their stories, and meals, and dreams with me. To the Deaf adults who opened up to me about their educational experiences as part of my research, in particular Rosa Lee Timm, Joseph Tien, and Alexander and Dru Balsley.
To Kathleen Brockaway, for her breadth of historical knowledge, and her willingness to share it. To Ted Evans for his short “The End,” which made a lasting impact on me, and informs some of my characters’ worldviews as a result.
To the residencies who housed and fed me and filled me with joy at various stages of this project—The Anderson Center, Hedgebrook, and Civitella. I learned so much from my fellow artists in these spaces.
To my friends, for cheering me on and talking me down, especially Sam, Eliza, Lauren, and Jami.
To my parents and sister for always enthusiastically being on my side, even when my side was subject to change several times a day. （Where’s the beef?） To Zach, for anchoring me, for your calming presence, for always being willing to read that chapter again. I love you.
To Sully, for teaching me to see the world afresh each morning. For your laughter.
And to the girls at St. Rita who snuck out of the dorm that night to chat—thank you for your inspiration. I hope you made it to New York.