“Welcome to McDonald’s, how can I help you?”
As a child of two deaf adults, this was a phrase that I became accustomed to hearing, peering my head over the backseat window of my parents’ 2005 Toyota Sienna to place an order in the drive-thru, acting as the liaison between my family’s McChickens and whoever was working the window.
Providing a bridge between hearing folks and my parents, who both lost their hearing as a result of the Rubella epidemic of the 1960s, was a fact of life for my sister and I. From doctor’s appointments to parent-teacher meetings, when interpreters weren’t available, we were called into service and thrust into conversations that most kids never experience until they’re well into adulthood. But as my parents aged and the echoes of the mistreatment they endured during their childhood from friends, kids at school, and sometimes family members began to manifest as physical and mental health issues, we also became their advocates.
When I was 17, my mother was hospitalized following a two-year battle with depression, which landed her in a hospital bed, sedated, and unaware of who I was. I sat with my family as doctors discussed treatment options. We could ask for her to be admitted for psychiatric inpatient treatment, where she may not ever have continual access to an interpreter, or we could take a gamble and try to find counseling services, a therapist, and attempt to piece her life back together with medications that we couldn’t pronounce, let alone sign without taking a moment to carefully ensure that we fingerspelled them correctly.
After my mother lost her job when I was 15, she struggled to communicate her skills to employers. She’d worked as a medical assistant for the better part of 15 years for a physician who knew her issues well — my grandfather. But when he retired, she struggled to re-enter the workforce, finding that her bachelor’s degree in communications didn’t lend itself to fruitful employment options.
She struggled to find work, and began to lose confidence in her ability to provide for our family. My father worked as an adjunct lecturer teaching American Sign Language at a local community college, forced into the role after being let go from a graphic design position at Adobe, where his colleagues realized that they’d struggle to communicate with a coworker who couldn’t hear conversations over the walls of a cubicle.
After my mother was discharged from the hospital, she was prescribed antidepressants, and we set out to find a therapist who would take Medicaid and specialized in deaf mental health issues. I saw her bright smile fade. After two years of searching and countless messages saying “sorry, we don’t accept that kind of insurance,” we gave up. I left for college, and she eventually landed a job working at T.J. Maxx.
It took the better part of my freshman year, but things finally began to stabilize, after my sister and I spent our weekends helping her apply for disability, jobs, and social services. We ran into roadblock after roadblock, unsure of where to turn, and confused by the roles we’d been thrust into. As our peers enjoyed high school and college, we dealt with the stressors of our family’s circumstances, worrying about whether Mom and Dad could pay bills, whether they’d keep their jobs.
These experiences aren’t uncommon among children of deaf adults, commonly referred to in the deaf community as CODAs. We’re asked to grow up quickly, to assume responsibilities and jump headfirst into conversations that you’d never ask a child to otherwise. Seriously, who wants to come with their dad to interpret during a colonoscopy?
These experiences are also why providing deaf social services is crucial to ensuring that not only those who are deaf, hard-of-hearing, or deafblind have the support they need to succeed, but also to ensure that children and families of deaf adults are relieved of some of the stressors that accompany caring for a family member with hearing differences. Connecticut prides itself on being a proving ground for innovative services. It was where the American School for the Deaf was founded, and it led the charge for providing services for the deaf when it established the Commission for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing, which has since been dissolved.
Now, as the state legislature weighs the decision to fund House Bill 5241, which would establish a Bureau for the Deaf, Deafblind, and Hard-of-Hearing, it’s time for CODAs and the Deaf/Hard-of-Hearing community to speak up for what we need. Support and equal opportunity shouldn’t only be afforded to those who happen to hear. It should be available to everyone.
James Lawrence is a student at the Yale School of Public Health.