Argentine Journal — The Constant Educator

Have you ever been disappointed that no one knows about cueing, about Cued Speech’s design as an ideal tool in overcoming deaf illiteracy?

I was at a friend’s son’s Bar Mitzvah last weekend (I have just loved saying that phrase; such joy to use a double possessive). In a quieter moment, it was revealed through our conversation about Ben being deaf, and my friend’s relatives proceeded to ask questions. Can he hear? Is he mainstreamed? Does he sign? Wears what aids?

The Cued Speech conversation: “System designed to help deaf children learn to read and write, by conveying the spoken language in a visual form, and that visual form providing the ‘phonics’ of the spoken language, called ‘phonemes’ … The hybrid, using a manual system (like signing) but conveying the oral language (so really an oral approach). The genius of Dr. Cornet’s system — whatever looks alike on the mouth is cued differently; whatever is cued the same looks different. No ambiguity.” The Constant Educator.

And we haven’t even talked about the implant!

I truly welcome the questions, and love to talk about Ben; cueing; cochlear implants; the differences between oral, sign, and cueing; social adjustments; reactions of Maddie as a hearing sibling.

I have no expectations that people would know of cueing. What people know of deafness is usually mixed up with signing. So something other than signing, especially a system that uses the hands, is pure puzzlement to most people.

So while I sometimes have a tinge of disappointment that cueing is so under the radar, it provides a great opportunity for awareness and teaching.

Deafness is Ben’s story, his identity. The story of his parents and sister, his extended family. Cueing is part of Ben’s deafness. The cochlear implant is part of his deafness. Because cueing is our history, the now and future is literacy, Ben’s ability to read and write, to learn independently.

– Never heard of Cued Speech?
– Well, do a have a few minutes?
– Excellent, because I have a great story to tell.
– It is about a young boy — a human story full of drama and inspiration.
– My connection to the story?
– The Constant Educator, of course.

Argentine Journal (Fragments)

Refracted thoughts on Argentina, communication, empathy for Ben and his deafness:

(1) Can you ever really blend in when you are an outsider? Should you?

In the first day or two of our journey to Argentina, my daughter Maddie seemed oddly out of sorts when I cued to my son Ben, especially in restaurants or stores. She wanted us only to speak in Spanish, but that was impossible for Ben (and probably me too). I spoke with her in Spanish and cued English to Ben. But even when out of earshot of locals, Maddie seemed annoyed with my cueing to Ben. I soon realized that Maddie wanted to blend into the scene, and the cues were attracting attention and identfying us as “outsiders.”

I argued for using travel “judo,” and turning the situation around. Not being embarassed or awkward, but acknowledging your status and all it entails, and approaching situations with curiousity and goodwill. After all, although we were tourists, we were clearly curious and bold enough to visit, we knew the language and customs, and, on an economic level, we were spending money. Looked at this way, shouldn’t we be proud of our status? Weren’t we the intriguing tourists, Americans hearing and deaf, able to speak English and Spanish?

While the cues identified us as “not-from-here,” the cues enhanced our uniqueness as indomitable travellers. Why blend, when our difference is a source of pride?

(2) The butterfly effect?

Before heading to Buenos Aires, I had looked up the Spanish version of cued speech, called “La Palabra Complementada” and downloaded a Spanish language description from the web site of the University of Malaga, Spain, www.uma.es/moc (you can also find the web site via links at the National Cued Speech Association web site, www.cuedspeech.org). At the celebration of the 40th anniversary of cued speech in 2006, I had met the Spanish professors who have instituted cued speech in Spain, so knew something was out there. I read through the description so I could give it a whirl if it came up in conversation, and printed out the description just in case.

Arriving from the airport, we met the rental company representative and the actual owner of the apartment. I explained as best I could that we were not using a sign language but were instead using a communication system based on spoken language (I couldn’t lay my hands on the paper). Both listened politely, but the owner clearly did not grasp it.

On our last day, the owner came to check us out of the apartment (and return our deposit). She said that her daughter’s day care used some signs as part of its approach, and asked again about cued speech. I again described the concept of cueing and had, by then, found the printout describing cued speech in Spanish, the system of cues and its relation to the spoken language. She asked if she could keep the description; por supuesto, I replied.

One person in Buenos Aires, who might read the article and might bring it to her daughter’s preschool, and might discuss it with a teacher or administrator. Or maybe she only reads the article, and infrequently recalls our visit, and our cueing. Could her reading, her discussion, her memory of Ben, cause some educational butterfly effect? Could the beatings of our cueing wings, so to speak, cause a tornado of deaf communication in Argentina?

Not at all likely, I know. But sometimes I like to dream. And in the dream I see the butterfly effect of our cueing visit, and I cue to my courageous deaf son, “Can you believe it?”

Argentine Journal (Listening)

Argentine Journal (Field Notes)

The effort of listening.  How travel to a foreign country, with a foreign language, generates empathy for Ben, my deaf son.

During our time in Buenos Aires we stayed in an apartment.  This provided us a perfect base of operations to unpack our gear, a kitchen for supplies and meal preparation, beds and baths for sleeping and washing.  And, I realized upon reflection, a respite from listening to and speaking in Spanish. 

Most late afternoons, after a long sortie out of the apartment for breakfast and lunch, exploring neighborhoods, walking and roaming the city, we would return exhausted.  I attributed the fatigue to our active agenda, and allowed time for us to take it easy, before moving to our evening plans.  Ben played his hand-held games, Maddie watched television, I consulted maps and guide books. 

As the days moved along, I saw that the active touring was not the only reason for our fatigue.  Thinking and listening and hearing and speaking and reading — all in Castellano (Argentine Spanish) — was exhausting!  The effort required to stay “in tune” to this different world, the concentration required, took so much out of us. 

I see parallels to deafness.  The inability to hear creates a barrier to understanding the spoken language.  Cueing, by providing a clear phoneme stream, lessens that barrier significantly.  But the deaf person still has to use so much energy and effort to stay in tune with the spoken language.  Likewise, in Argentina, Castellano was our communication barrier, and we were putting lots of energy and effort in trying to stay in tune with the spoken language. 

On the streets of Buenos Aires, through the prism of another language, my sensitivities to Ben and his deafness were fine tuned.