We are in a bar, and the quiet counter in front of us, between us and the bartender, between us and the alcohol, is of deep brown wood.  The bartender, a dapper man named Steve, ambles up and down the bar serving drinks, words, and glances of his handsome bearded face.

On the back of the bar there is the usual motley collection of bottles, of substances and unguents, filled with dreams, miseries, and the occasional liquid laughter.  Off to one side, near us, sits an absinthe fountain, ready to be used, crystal clear and clean.  We have partaken of absinthe before, the last time we were there, and we did not like it.  Rare is the person who likes the taste of licorice, the taste of anise, bittersweet and cloying.

The woman next to us, next to the three of us (Tom and Jerry were to my right, and I am Bulldog for the night, with a scowl and wink), continued to write on the paper that Steve had kindly provided.

She wrote, A CHANGE IS GONNA (GOING TO) COME, and looks up at us with a expectant look on her face and gestures upwards, to the music.  She starts nodding to the music, moving her body in the subtle ways that indicate she is locked into the music, and the music is in her.  Her eyes become unfocused again and she leaves us.  But before she does, she adds “OTIS REDDING” to my question of “WHO?”

Otis Redding, for those not in the know like us, was an American soul singer-songwriter who lived from nineteen forty one to nineteen sixty seven.  Nineteen forty one was when a decree in Germany outlawed the used of Blackletter Gothic typefaces in favor of Antiqua.  It was also when Hungary and Romania declared war on the United States in World War II.

Otis Redding was born the same year that Cheerios (first named CheeriOats) was introduced.

I was born by a river, oh my

In this little old tent

Oh, just like this river

I’ve been running ever since

It’s been alone

The woman, the dancer continued to dart in and close to us and away, down the bar to her other friends-acquaintances-bar-goers, who were clustered around another woman, with dark hair and a heavy-lidded gaze.

Before we knew it, the other woman was on top of the bar, dancing, slinking towards us (but not before she knocked the light above the bar about a little) and swaying to the music.  She came straight for us with purpose and intent energy, spontaneously dancing to the music and to us.  When she came near us, she leaned down low and steadied herself on my hand.  Then she swooped between Tom and Jerry, and continued on her way back to her side of the bar, spent.

SHE SAW US AND WANTED TO SHOW MUSIC, our non-dancing-yet-a-dancer companion said.  We wrote back to her, prompted by Tom, WHATS YOUR INTERPRETATION OF THE MUSIC?  She laughed and wrote back to us, I HAVE NO DISCIPLINE => AT ALL.  NO CLASSES.  ONLY EXPRESSION AND EXPERIENCE.

We learned that she worked with inner city youth.  Dance, expression, ANGER.

Lord, I’m coming but I know, but I know

A change is gotta come, now

Yes, it is, my oh, my oh, my oh

PEOPLE CANT FEEL SHIT, she added.  We looked at each other, and nodded gravely.  That is the only appropriate response, a grave nod.  At that precise moment we ran out of things to say, or at least I did.  Rule #34 of a bar conversation; philosophy must be intertwined with questions otherwise it devolves in a downward spiral of non sequitur statements about the meaning of life, love, and the pursuit of whatever brought you to the bar today.

I QUIT MY JOB OF 14 1/2 YEARS, Gabrielle said.  Gabrielle was the woman who danced on the bar for us.  I DANCE FOR GOD, she wrote on our crowded paper, 4 MEDITATION – “SWEAT YOUR PRAYERS!”

Gabrielle’s cousin, a man of substance and watches, a suave Costa Rican, founder of a renewable energy outfit, shimmied over to us and mimed carefully, the only way a drunk person can mime carefully, with swaying movements and concentrated motion.  We cleared up the matter of our deafness, and moved on to his cousin Gabrielle’s breast size and birth order in his family. Then he wandered off with his cousin and left the bar.

It’s been too hard livin’, oh my

And I’m afraid to die

I don’t know what’s up there

Beyond the clouds

It’s been alone

I’M THE INHERITOR OF REAL TIFFANY LAMPS, our dancer friend said, after showing us her tattoos on her belly.  Presumably they included some kind of a tiffany lamp pattern, as well as a stylized “NATURE” on her right side, and a “NURTURE” on her left side.

Lord, I’m coming but I know, but I know

A change is gotta come

Oh, yes it is, my oh, my oh, my

I LIVE IN THE HOOD, she scribbled.  MY FACE =/ MY IDENTITY.  We finally thought to exchange names, and she wrote several names for herself, from her Facebook name to her stage name, to other names, identities.  One of her names was JEANIE, though.  They were all different paths to experiencing her, to connecting with her, and I felt like there could be millions more, thousands and hundreds of ways of connecting to each other person, billions of linkages, until who we were drowned in the sea.

There’s a time

I will go to my brother, oh my

I’ve asked my brother

Will you help me please, oh now, oh now

Our encounter with Gabrielle and her cousin, with the dancer named Jeanie, with each others’ discomfort and beer-fueled relaxation ended as we wrapped up and left.

He turned me down

And then I asked my little mother, oh my

I said mother, I said mother

I’m down on my knees

Walking out of the bar, I realized that I’ve walked out of that bar trillions of times, and each time I have, I have left a little richer and poorer, knowing that change is gonna come.

Measuring Tape

All my numbers lie. It doesn’t matter
how long I stretch from there to the couch
or how far I reach from floor to ceiling.
I hide secrets of irregular walls,
the patchy crookedness of hardwood floors,
and the lopsidedness of my body.
A few millimeters off on one end
can multiply into two-by-fours
that are readjusted and sawn
too short until the damned revelation
arrives at the very last possible minute.
The joke is that no one blames me. Ever.
That they still try building houses is sad.
It’s far better and simpler to make do.

I woke up this morning to a lovely conversation about the N-Word. I immediately had this idea about the word. The idea is to terrorize using the N-Word.

Before I delve into terrorizing using the N-Word, I want to share the conversation with you. The conversation began with a thought about the evolution of humans. Basically, we are all born with a clean slate – in everything from what we eat to how we talk.

Then we grow up to learn about the N-Word later in life. How we learn about the N-Word depends on which part of the hemisphere we reside in. I humbly opine that most of those that are using the N-Word are clueless about the origin of the word.

I am not sure where it came from. I was not born at the time when the word originated. Here are some sources to educate everyone (and here, and here, and here). . . . . There are more sources out there. I enjoyed reading these and wanted to share.

As an adult, my slate is no longer clean. I know about the N-Word. I have never used it and cannot relate to why and how some people use it. I often wonder what they think they gain from using the word.

Enter Joel Ward. The black man who scored the final and upsetting goal in the overtime competition between Washington Capitals and the Boston Bruins. All of a sudden Joel is in an uncharted territory and is being terrorized by the N-Word from some Boston fans (more on that here and here).

Time travel back to baseball. The first black man to play baseball was Jackie Robinson. That was back in 1947. I wasn’t born yet but I know that it was a time of segregation. I can only imagine that he suffered his share of N-Word terrorization.

Time travel back to basketball. Earl Llyod paved the way for black basketball players. I suspect that he also endured his share of N-Word terrorization.

Time travel back to football. Charles W. Follis entered an uncharted territory - football. I am sure he braved his share of N-Word terrorization.

The interesting thing is that all of these sports, baseball, basketball, and football are now almost equally played by the different races and ethnicities in America. Equally true is they were once considered uncharted territories. They are not the only territories that the N-Word is used to terrorize.

Enter the sports world. Enter the corporate world. Enter the legal world. Enter Higher Education. Enter fashion. The N-Word will be there to terrorize you, the black man born innocent but born black.

Speaking from experience and as someone who works in higher education, I can tell you that the N-Word folks are not welcome in the rank and files. The black man, who is usually associated with the N-Word, is not expected to be smart and able in higher education administration.

We are not allowed to speak our minds in an environment, higher education, that is purposed for just that. We are not allowed to ask questions in an environment that is supposed to prepare us with socratic balance. We are especially expected to speak, act, and behave white. How to do that continues to escape me.

I continue to witness blacks having to work twice as hard, study twice as hard, and sometimes brown nose twice as hard and still be terrorized by the N-Word, demoted, and treated with social injustice… only to blink our eyes and someone we know with a white skin color is promoted. They didn’t have to work twice as hard, study twice as hard, or brown nose twice as hard. All they had to do was be white.

The funny part is that before the promotion, someone that looks like me, black, had to interview rigorously to get their position! The funny thing is that now as soon as we, black folks, cry Hey that’s unfair! we are immediately reminded that we have a black President. As soon as we point out that it is social injustice, we are reminded to not use Trayvon as an excuse to seek injustice.

The N-word is a word that is now terrorizing Joel Ward. Never mind that Joel Ward works hard. Never mind that he gives 100% like his teammates. Never mind that he was born with a clean slate and later made a choice to love playing hockey. Never mind his dream to make his mark in the sport like his brothers before him.

The only thing that matters now is that Joel Ward is getting bullied and terrorized by the N-Word. Even though he is innocent and undeserving of the hostility behind the word and wasn’t even born at the time when the N-Word was coined. All that matters is that he is a black man who has boldly gone where no black man is welcome – to play hockey and make history by scoring a game winning goal.

Congratulations Joel Ward! Congratulations Washington Capitals! Good luck in the semi. I believe DC fans love you!

Word Lens is a iPhone application that does one thing, and one thing well — it is an augmented reality application that uses the built-in iPhone camera to translate languages on the fly.  It’s really simple to use; launch the application, hold up your iPhone and watch as your iPhone shows you translated text in a live video feed.  The best way for you to understand Word Lens is to see it in action.

Imagine the possibilities.  One of the biggest challenges travelling as a deaf person is understanding the language in one’s environment since communicating directly with hearing natives of various countries can be difficult.  Word Lens makes it possible for you to be self-sufficient in a foreign environment, translating signs, posters, and instructions on the fly!

Empower yourselves to take charge of communication.  For example, while I was in Taipei, Taiwan, I often ordered from the menus of various restaurants (which were in Chinese and no English) by pointing at items from random, or by miming various animals.  If I had Word Lens, I would know the difference between Lamb Testicles (true story) and Lamb Shanks.  I should be able to point to a menu with confidence in any country!

It also translates in the other direction.  If you need to, you can write English clearly on a piece of paper and point your iPhone to the paper and show the translation to the cute guy (or gal) at the beach bar, or the caballero or señorita helping you tour the Alhambra. Currently Word Lens only supports English, Spanish, and French.  So if your future plans include a jaunt to Paris or Madrid (or even sunny Cancún) then pull out Word Lens and translate away.  ¡que bueno!

Technology: Word Lens iPhone App (download from App Store)
Price: $9.99 (English to Spanish) with in-app purchass of additional languages, $9.99 each.
Website: Quest Visual

I am a Black man in my hoodie. I live in Washington, D.C. I am Hard of Hearing (HoH).

I am educated. I am a man, brother, father, uncle, friend, and a human being. No matter what propaganda is put in the media about the Black man to defame, demolish, squash, belittle, or portray me as some angry animal, it will not work. Because I will not subscribe to it.

I have been reading up on the Trayvon Martin incident since it hit the media. The more I read, the more worried and afraid I become. I am worried and afraid not because I am a Black man, but because I am HoH.

I am amazed at some of the comments I have read. I am amazed at how most Americans continue to think that just because we have a Black President, the isms beginning with racism is a non issue. It’s amazing how most humans would rather wait until something terrible happens to begin a dialogue about the core history of America that continues to plague our progress together as a people.

As a Black HoH man I suffer every possible stereotype known to humankind. First I suffer the Black man stereotypes. Next I suffer the disability stereotypes. Yes it’s a double whammy, everyday until I meet my maker.

I get stopped by the cops because I drive a nice car that I worked hard to pay for. I get stopped not because of the car, but because I am a Black man that looks suspicious in a nice car. You can imagine because it looks like I am dealing drugs to get this car.

Then the officer finds out I am HoH. He or she then calls the D.C. HoH unit to the scene. The unit has trained officers that can use American Sign Language to communicate. D.C. should be applauded. This means my wait time to get whatever ticket is longer.

I am followed in every store I enter. Every time I walk past a white woman in public, she cringes and clings to her purse. Every time I use my pictured Bank of America card in stores, I am asked for additional identification.

I often walk home from happy hour because the cabs will not stop for me. When I finally get a cab, it is another Black man behind the wheel. He would smile and apologize because he knows what I had to go through to get him to give me a ride. Only to learn that I am HoH when he tries to have a conversation, and then something else happens.

The conversation dies immediately. That’s okay because I can understand how awkward it is to try to communicate with someone who can’t hear everything unless he is reading your lips. But get this, I can talk fluently like every hearing person can. The only thing is I have to face you to do that.

Rest assured, my close friends and family will tell you that I am not one to sit and complain regardless of my situation. I believe I have accomplished a lot in my life and continue to strive for excellence in everything that I do. But the Trayvon killing has finally hit home and I am not here to complain.

Instead, I am here to ask everyone of you to please, PLEASE, all of us do some serious soul searching and join this campaign to reduce, eliminate and stop these senseless violent acts against us, Black men, women, and those that are not white. I facilitate dialogues where I work. These dialogues are intended to help us come together to stop bullying and the isms. 

You might wonder why I am writing this my first blog about a very controversial issue. The reason is because I am terrified at the injustice toward Black men.

What if I was walking home in my hoodie in my predominantly Black neighborhood where we all look suspicious because of our skin color and someone like Zimmerman called after me to stop because I looked suspicious? I can not hear when someone is calling after me from behind, therefore, as you can guess, I would be dead! This is what I am worried and scared about.

I am not Trayvon who could hear and respond to Zimmerman. But he is dead even though he can hear. I cannot and you cannot tell if I am Deaf or HoH unless I begin to use American Sign Language or talk. Therefore, as a Black Deaf man I feel that my life is in danger.

I am not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. This is not about me. This is about Trayvon Martin. He didn’t have to die. I am asking everyone to put their differences aside and see that justice is done. I am asking that we not sit and wait for something to happen to us, our family members, our friends, our neighborhoods, and close ones before we feel the need to participate in justice for all. Trayvon didn’t have to die.

Thank you.

[Editor's Note: The original version of this article was first posted in kramissah on March 30, 2012.]

Many of the comments under the article on cochlear implants that appeared on National Public Radio’s (NPR) website on April 8th, 2012 claim that it is heavily biased in favor of cochlear implants, and poorly researched. Also of note are two remarks by Dr. John Niparko, an expert in the field, and the lack of critical analysis surrounding those remarks.

He claims: “The implant works for the vast majority of deaf people,” and “all children born deaf and without other disabilities have the chance to be fully integrated into a hearing society.”

Are these accurate but ultimately empty claims?

In the first statement, what does “works” mean? For example, if we take “the vast majority” part of the statement to heart, and assume an implant “works” for 90% of the deaf people who have one (this is merely a hypothetical number used here for the purpose of discussion and is in no way meant to imply Dr. Niparko himself made such a precisely numerical claim–but that in and of itself, the lack of precision, carries implications all of its own), what are we to make of that? And let’s further purposely avoid the issue of socio-economic divide, which is most likely true.

If a cochlear implant “works” for 90% of the deaf people who use one (or two), does it “work” to the same extent for all of them?

The question is not merely one of semantics. Nor is it meant to turn scientific analysis into a political debate. The same question could be asked of any medical/technological device or drug. Does a pacemaker work equally well for all patients who receive one? Does Lipitor work equally well for all people who take this drug? If the answer to these questions is obviously “No,” why does the NPR article emphasize the “miracle” and the success of cochlear implants in favor of a more balanced approach?

Another issue to keep in mind is that “balance” in this issue should not involve contrasting the success of cochlear implants with the struggles of residential schools for the deaf (though this is something NPR, and not Dr. Niparko, is responsible for). That isn’t an issue of readers being misled, it’s an issue of distraction.

Bluntly stated: What is the failure rate of cochlear implants? How does the medical community define failure? What percentage of deaf people in the hypothetical “90%” figure given above (it bears repeating that we’re using this figure because we haven’t been given an actual figure) receive, in effect, very little useable hearing, though the implant does technically “work” for them? How many have approximately only half of their hearing restored? How many have some version of their hearing returned, but not a version of hearing most would consider “normal” (hence the training and rehabilitation that follows an implantation)?

Certainly Dr. Niparko does not mean to claim a cochlear implant works flawlessly or even equally well for “most” of the people who receive one. If this assumption is incorrect, perhaps future media interviewers will invite him to provide clarification upon this issue?

This leads us to another issue that is not merely one of semantics. We repeat here Dr. Niparko’s other statement of interest in NPR’s article: “…all children born deaf and without other disabilities have the chance to be fully integrated into a hearing society.”

The “all” part of the statement has already been covered by the percentage question above. All of them equally well? All of them fully? Without analysis and evidence, we have to assume that by “all” he in fact means that there is a whole range of implant users, with only some of them being able to function in sound-based communication environments without difficulty, and some of them not able to function adequately at all (at least not based on the information they receive from their implants).

This assumption would make the statement contradictory until one considers another part of the staetement: “have the chance to be”. On the surface this resolves the contradiction, because regardless of how well the implant works, everyone has “a chance to be” fully integrated into hearing society (this claim would also logically apply to deaf signers who elect not to get implants).

But let’s examine this more closely. What does he actually mean? Does the phrase accurately measure something, or does it fan the flame of false hopes? For example, a three foot tall human being certainly has the chance to join the NBA in the sense that there’s no law against it (in fact there are laws that prevent the NBA from discriminating against him because of his height). But will this happen? A woman certainly has the chance to join the military, and countless have, but can she do so without being concerned about discrimination or in fact about her physical safety?

What are Dr. Niparko’s views on the “hearing world’s” acceptance of cochlear implants?

This is an important question. The media often implies that it is only members of the signing deaf community that have difficulties accepting implants, while the “hearing world” will greet those who receive cochlear implants with open arms. (The NPR article indirectly does this by bringing up the example of children with multiple handicaps being sent to schools for the deaf and the tensions this causes through the impact on tradition and culture).

The former implication, as a sweeping generalization, is false—though of course there are deaf people who are not open to the idea of implants. It is precisely because of this fact, however, that it is also completely fair and reasonable to assume that there are hearing people who are not open to them as well.

So let’s put the focus there, solely on the “hearing world,” since the media won’t. This is where the focus should logically be if that is the world deaf people who elect to get implants actually want to join (to say nothing of hearing parents who choose to have their children implanted).

Is Dr. Niparko claiming that deaf people who receive cochlear implants will never face discrimination, or social rejection, from hearing people in the “hearing world?” Do we not deserve to know? If we agree not to question the claim there is a “chance” deaf people with cochlear implants can be integrated—and even “integrated” is a term that carries with it the question of extent and degree—should we demand his precise views regarding the extent to which they will not?

It is high time that medical professionals, including those who champion the advance of cochlear implant technology, be held accountable for vague and possibly empty claims as well as claims that are precise, research-based ones.

Do you think it shocking
that when I turned eighteen
I found my vote never existed
no of course not why
because according
to the republic of you
i’m an unfit child
I’m an unfit mother
Do you think we didn’t notice
how ironic it’s a corporatocracy
that ordering at a mcdonald’s
is much more important
than the thousands of miles
traveled to a signing school
because according
to the republic of you
i’m an unfit child
I’m an unfit mother
Do you think that degrees
sitting across the table from me
your signatures thrust in a Nixon v
will give you a victory
no matter what you believe
I’ve grown up
I’m the best mother
because according
to the republic of me
You no longer rule.

I built a rope swing for my son Jack the other day. Not the world’s safest creation… yet. The tree is old and gnarly—it’s possible his weight (increasing hourly) could yank the whole branch down. Or the knot could slip, though I tied it seven times. Or he could fall again as he did on only his second try with the swing.

I made him a little bar out of a thick stick and tied it just above his head… the idea being that he couldn’t get into too much trouble by simply lifting his knees in order to get moving (as opposed to, for example, sitting on a seat and falling backward and cracking his head open on the blacktop).  But that’s exactly what did happen—more or less, minus the “cracking” part—when he called out for me to watch him, and then kicked his legs up as high as they would go without getting a solid grip first.  He landed mostly on his back and bumped his head a bit. Scared himself more than anything. After ten solid minutes of crying himself out he fell asleep in my arms while I rocked him back and forth underneath the tree.

I had planned to rip out some of the rubber padding from the weed-overrun tennis court across the way (abandoned ever since some neighborhood kids started a fire in it a year ago, burning off fully half of said padding—all of which will need to be replaced anyway) and put that under the swing. Something to break his fall. A project for the coming week. Theoretically, of course, I knew he could have fallen as early as his second try, but I didn’t see the need to put padding down as an all-out emergency.

I know, I know. I’m sure that, had this story been posted on Reddit.com or something, there would be all sorts of comments bashing my parenting skills, calling me a child abuser for placing my son in harm’s way like that.

The thing is, though… last week I made a bridge out of a rather narrow log that now spans the two foot deep, grass-filled drainage ditch behind our house. Jack could easily twist an ankle on it. Or possibly break a leg. And the playground down the block? It’s a nightmare of aluminum beams and plastic deathtrap slides. Even the woodchips (another playground a few blocks down in the opposite direction uses those newfangled rubber peanuts) wouldn’t prevent a broken neck. Depending on how he fell.

I find myself thinking about that a lot as a parent. How he falls.

True story: I grew up on a farm. We had a hay barn that was approximately four stories tall at its peak. My brothers and sisters would play in it all the time. One of our favorite games involved making a pit by pulling bales out of the hay mound and then taking turns throwing each other into it (needless to say my older brothers usually won this game). One time my brother lost his footing as he hurled me, and I missed the pit altogether and went sailing over the edge of the hay mound. I plummeted nearly two stories towards the hard wooden floor below, only to have my fall broken because I landed on the one single bale that had been left out for the cows’ nightly feeding. Whatever you believe in—God, Chance—sometimes you fall right.

Sometimes you don’t.

When I think about things in my life that have hurt me in lasting ways—things that I wish my own father had been there to protect me from—I realize the futility of the wish, and I realize just how powerless parents are when you get right down to it. When I lost a girlfriend of mine in college, that hurt. We’re friends now—that pain is gone. But still. I lost another friend years after college, and we’re not friends anymore. That hurt too. It makes me feel like a walking scar.  And what was my own father supposed to have said to that? If that happens to Jack, what am I supposed to say to him?

I would do anything to protect my son. Any loving parent would. But I can’t—we can’t.  I know the junior high school bullies are coming. I know the mean teacher is out there waiting on the other side of a classroom door we haven’t opened yet. I know there are sick people who would hurt him if they could, but what can I do? Not teach him how to ride his bike so he’s never too fast for me, never out of my sight? Maybe I should never have taught him how to play hide and seek, because he keeps hiding in the clothes racks every time we go to Walmart. I can usually find him in under thirty seconds, but hey, thirty seconds is all it takes.

These things weigh on your mind as a parent. You’re constantly looking around, predicting, evaluating. Exhausting to keep your radar up like that 24/7 but you pray it always is. What was it that a friend of mine said to me a few weeks ago on Facebook? “Having children is watching your heart wander around outside your body.”

Yes. That’s true.

Jack had his tonsils out today. He’s fine of course. And of course for a fleeting instant my mind entertained the worst—a severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Some other horrible complication in what should have been routine surgery. Trying to deal with that news.

What of it, though? What alternative is there? Not have his tonsils taken out? Wrap him in plastic bubble wrap? Rejoice over the added protection to his bones and pray he doesn’t suffocate?

Last week we decided my son no longer needed the protective bar on his bed that prevents him from rolling out. It’s about a foot and a half to the floor. Ironically, the night we took it off, I put down my old exercise mat on the floor so there’d be something there if he fell. He got up in the middle of the night and tripped over that. My wife had to go and scoop him up and sit with him until he quieted down enough to go to the bathroom. After that she wouldn’t let me put the exercise mat down anymore.

Still. After his fall from the swing yesterday, I couldn’t resist putting his bean bag next to the bed. Enough for one day, you know? Especially with surgery in the morning.

When I went to bed last night I went in to check on him. Just in case it would be one of my last times. Don’t laugh. Roll the dice wrong, and one day it will be (and might be for you too).

He wasn’t in his bed. I stood there for a moment while my eyes adjusted, trying to think of where he could be. Maybe he had a bad dream and went to his mother.

Then my foot nudged something. I looked down and there he was, asleep on his bean bag.

Later this week I’ll put rubber padding from the tennis court under his rope swing. You would think it would be a bit more of an emergency to me after all that’s happened, and it is, but there’s still that sense of inevitability. I can’t protect him from everything. I have to trust that he’s learned to hold on more tightly now, and to stick close by, and to come to me if he needs me.

But I’ll put it down anyway because this is all you can really do as a father—as a parent. You would throw yourself in front of a truck if you thought for even an instant you could shield his life with your own, but you still have to teach him how to cross the street.

You play that guessing game. And sometimes you don’t sleep much.

You pray he falls right.

Seattle, WA- GET YOUR TICKETS FOR THE SEATTLE DEAF FILM FESTIVAL!

Eleven different, exciting, and inspiring programs, including five feature-length films, will

be shown at the Seattle Deaf Film Festival, beginning Friday, March 30th, and ending

Sunday, April 1st, 2012, at Kane Hall 120 on the University of Washington campus. It is

the first film festival of its kind in the Pacific Northwest. Films are accessible to both deaf

and hearing persons, all subtitled in English.

The festival, presented by Deaf Spotlight, an organization that focuses on Deaf culture,

cinema, performing arts, and visual arts in the Pacific Northwest, promises a full

weekend of films on, about, and for the Deaf community, including feature length and short

films in a variety of categories.

AUDISM UNVEILED opens the Festival at 7 PM, Friday, March 30th and portrays the real

life experiences of Deaf people, from a variety of social, racial, and educational

backgrounds, showing how audism does lasting and harmful damage to the Deaf

community. The film will be followed by a panel discussion on audism.

DINIG SANA KITA (IF I KNEW WHAT YOU SAID), 9 PM Friday, March 30th dramatizes

the story of a deaf dancer meeting a troubled hearing rocker chick in a camp for deaf

and hearing teens. There they find they have more in common with each other than not,

including a love for music. This film will be followed by a reception celebrating the

opening of the festival.

During the ANIMATION shorts, 11 AM, Saturday March 31st, you’ll meet a fascinating

new world created by Deaf animators; a world filled with rich characters from South

Africa to the United States. You will cry at the Moon, laugh with mice, understand the

leaf, and get lost with a lovable alien.

At the COMEDY shorts, 1 PM, Saturday, March 31st, you’ll find the twists and turns of life

in the humor rising out of your heart as you laugh along with these zany characters

created by Deaf minds in these comedy sketches.

THE HAMMER, 3 PM, Saturday, March 31st, is a coming of age drama inspired by the

life of deaf UFC fighter, Matt Hamill, and tells the story of what it takes to be a

champion, on and off the mat. Through sheer determination, he uses his ‘perceived’

disability as an asset, and becomes not only the first deaf wrestler to win a National

Collegiate Championship, but an inspirational force to both hearing and deaf alike.

The struggle of transgendered persons who are Deaf will be screened at PRISM, 5 PM,

Saturday, March 3rd, following the trajectories of two different persons as they seek their

true identities through brave decisions and incredible support from their friends and

families. PRISM will be followed by a panel discussion.

SILENCED, 8 PM, Saturday, March 31st, is a film about the sexual and physical abuse at

a school for the deaf in South Korea. Also known as DOGANI, the film dramatizes a true

story of a teacher of the deaf who uncovers a huge secret that no one will address, and

his attempts to save these children.

Rebel, resist, survive, and come to an understanding in POINTS OF VIEW shorts, 1PM,

Sunday, April 1st, with these extraordinary Deaf persons as they describe themselves as

Deaf persons living in a hearing society.

Feel the wonder and fear in SUSPENSE/DRAMA shorts, 3 PM, Sunday, April 1st as the

intense and witty plots make you think twice about who is safe and where the next

haunt may come from.

Through narratives and flashbacks in SURVIVING THE HOLOCAUST, 5 PM, Sunday,

April 1st, Deaf survivors of the Holocaust share their experiences.

The final film, HEART OF THE HYDROGEN JUKEBOX, 7 PM, Sunday, April 1st, is

followed by a closing night reception. The historical documentary follows the flourishing

of ASL Poetry as a result of a new deaf community in Rochester, NY, and features such

ASL poetry and storytelling luminaries as Ella Lentz, Peter Cook, Pat Graybill, Clayton

Valli, Dot Miles and others.

Sponsors of the Seattle Deaf Film Festival include Seattle Office of Arts and Cultural

Affairs, the University of Washington Department of Linguistics, AccessComputing,

Office of Diversity & Minority Affairs, Association of Disabled Students, and Q Center;

Sprint, ZVRS, ADWAS, Stranger Ticketing, Northwest Network, Reel Grrls and Three

Dollar Bill Cinema.

More information on ticketing, schedule, and details are available at

www.deafspotlight.com/SDFF.