Finding Zoe

by Brandi Rarus

  Tim felt that the interpreters at the interviews did a fine job, but that the search committee members should have been sensitive to these issues, to say the very least. (This insensitivity was reflected in the final vote. Of the eighteen hearing board members only one voted for a deaf candidate, while all three deaf board members voted for a deaf candidate.) After seeing all this and then hearing Spilman’s comment, Tim knew that he had to stand up and fight.

  Chairman Spilman’s justification for selecting Elisabeth Zinser was that she would be successful at financial networking at all levels. Tim knew that although the backbone of any successful university is the ability to acquire funds through fund-raising and Congress, the education of its students is its heart. Only a deaf president could truly understand Gallaudet’s students and their needs. Tim knew with utmost certainty that it was time for Gallaudet to make its students its top priority. He was also certain that a deaf president would be just as effective in financial networking as a hearing president.

  When the students returned from the Capitol, Tim and about thirty other students and supporters, including Gary Olsen, the NAD executive director, and the “ducks” came together informally and started strategizing, quickly deciding to stage a protest and determining how they would structure and represent themselves. The group later became known as the Deaf President Now (DPN) Council. Their first task was to barricade the campus entrances (at first, they used warm bodies), so that on Monday morning, people couldn’t get onto the campus. They zeroed in on their predominate message—“no deaf president, no school”—and made plans on how they’d get it across to the board, the media, and everyone else.

  The DPN Council tossed ideas around and came up with four demands that the board would have to meet in order for the students to reopen the campus: the election of a Deaf President Now; the firing of Jane Spilman; the requirement that 51 percent of the Gallaudet Board be deaf, moving forward; and that there be no reprisals against the students, faculty, and staff involved.

  Tuesday evening, in front of a packed gym, Tim signed passionately about the power behind what they were doing, sharing how much it personally meant to him to fight for what he deeply believed in. He cheered the students on for finally standing up for themselves and demanding a Deaf President Now, the student’s motto during the protest and their cry for freedom. He reinforced the mandate that the students keep the school closed until the board agreed to all four of their demands, and he asked them where else, other than at Gallaudet, the heart of the Deaf community, would change of this magnitude be initiated. The other three leaders, Greg Hlibok, Bridgetta Bourne, and Jerry Covell, also spoke about the Gallaudet community’s commitment to do or die on this issue.

  The press was everywhere, as were the interpreters for them, wearing armbands made of masking tape so that they could be easily recognized. (The media’s inexperience in dealing with the deaf showed, as they had to be directed not to give the microphone to the deaf speaker but to his or her interpreter.) It was a tremendous time for Tim but also incredibly stressful with people needing things from him left and right. Like many others, Tim only slept a few hours that week and stole naps whenever he could. Although stressed and tired, a force much greater than he realized was moving Tim and this movement forward.

  By Wednesday, things began falling into place; Congress threatened to cut off the funding to Gallaudet if there wasn’t a resolution. The issue was no longer gray, but black and white—the election of the hearing candidate was an act of discrimination! People all over the nation—deaf, hearing, black, white, disabled, fully functioning, young, and old—began seeing the situation in commonsense terms. Tim clarified it for all that evening in an interview by Tom Brokaw on the national news (Brokaw was in New York City while Tim was in Georgetown in the District of Columbia). Although he was extremely nervous—after all, he’d be live on television where there was no room for screwups—Tim spoke about the discrimination of the deaf to the entire country.

  To the millions of people watching, he said that the uprising at Gallaudet was like a deaf Selma, Alabama, and he compared Jane Spilman’s horrendous comment to when Rosa Parks in 1955 was asked to go to the back of the bus because she was African American. “Rosa Parks refused to be discriminated against,” he said looking straight into the camera, “. . . and deaf people refuse, too.” During another television interview, he simply turned to the cameras and said, “No deaf president, no university.” He was insisting on an end to this “client mentality,” where deaf people are willing to be clients of their hearing masters when they should be controlling their own destiny, and that deaf people will no longer be passive and accept this kind of treatment from the hearing culture. That week, Tim was interviewed several times by local television stations and newspapers, as were many others.

  Later that same evening, Greg Hlibok was interviewed by Ted Koppel on Nightline, along with Elisabeth Zinser and Marlee Matlin, who said Zinser should resign. At that point, Zinser was still holding a hard line (the board’s original strategy) that the board had chosen her to be the university’s leader and had confidence in her ability. I remember Ted Koppel asking her point blank if she were a puppet of the board.

  But too much momentum had already built up against Zinser for her to remain strong. I. King Jordan, the remaining deaf candidate (the other had withdrawn from the race) who had also originally supported the board’s selection of a hearing president, retracted his support, saying that he stood with the students and with the Deaf community. His retraction reenergized the students, as well as the Deaf community at large. With all the media attention the students’ cause was getting and the outpouring of support for them from every direction, Thursday evening while at a meeting together, Elisabeth Zinser looked at Jane Spilman and simply said, “I resign.” She did this with amazing grace, saying that she couldn’t run the university without support from the faculty and that she didn’t want to stand in the way of “such a monumental event in Deaf Culture.”

  At DPN headquarters that evening, at 11:00, Tim and a few others read the press release announcing Zinser’s resignation. They went wild, hugging, lifting each other up, and giving double high-fives. It was surely a victory; however, much more still needed to be accomplished.

  The following morning, our two NTID buses rolled into Washington, DC. The NTID Student Congress (of which I was a representative at large) had used money from their budget to take students to Gallaudet so that they could join the march to the Capitol. Way before Zinser had resigned, the Gallaudet students had planned Friday’s march to be the big finale; politicians, community leaders, and students were all scheduled to speak out in unison. Eric and I had boarded the bus at midnight the night before, which drove through the night and arrived at Gallaudet that morning around 8:00 AM. Our bus had signs on the windows that read, Honk for a Deaf President, as did the signs on cars and that people were carrying everywhere. Of course, we didn’t hear the honking, but we felt it. It was then that we learned of Zinser’s resignation. The motto that spread through the campus in the aftermath was, “Three and a half more demands to go.”

  It was the perfect day for a march to the Capitol; we could not have been blessed with better weather. The beautiful day matched the energy on the Gallaudet Campus, which I felt the minute I walked through the main entrance gates. People were cooking and selling “Spilmandogs” and “Boardburgers.” At one point, I watched the members of the American Postal Workers Union give a check to the Gallaudet students in support. We hung around, meeting and talking with people, until it was time for the march. Despite being up all night, I was feeling more alive than I can say.

  At the helm, the four student leaders carried a sign that said, “We Still Have A Dream,” the same banner carried by civil rights leaders in their efforts to have Martin Luther King’s birthday declared a national holiday, borrowed from the Crispus Attucks Museum of Washington, DC. As Tim and his cohorts led the way, he started tasting victory. He felt as if he’d be
en in the middle of the jungle for years, pushing, pushing, pushing back the brush until finally he pushed back that last bit and saw what he had been missing all along. His dream of freedom for deaf people, he believed, might finally be coming true.

  ERIC AND ME MARCHING TO THE CAPITOL

  The march was the DPN’s grand opus, which culminated at the Capitol, as Tim and the other three leaders led three thousand of us through neighborhood upon neighborhood, many of which were African American. People were outside their homes just cheering us on. The press was there in droves. Signs were being waved everywhere saying just about anything you can imagine: “Zinserbusters,” “Deaf Prez Now,” “Spilman is not ready for the Deaf World,” to name just a few.

  Finally, we turned down Pennsylvania Avenue, walking together as one. Eric and I could just feel the power. Actually, the energy among us was very exciting yet peaceful, sort of how I’d imagined Woodstock might have been. I felt like the whole country was there. A young woman and her grandmother were walking next to us—they were hearing. An older deaf couple was walking right behind us. There were Caucasians, African Americans, women wheeling their babies in strollers, people in wheelchairs, Asians, Hispanics, and even dog owners and their dogs. People of every possible race, nationality, and lifestyle were there—all marching for us and marching for freedom.

  Finally, we arrived at the Capitol. I was most inspired by seeing so many eloquent, passionate speeches coming from people my own age. We had come so far in such a short amount of time. However, at day’s end, the board still hadn’t met three of the four student demands, and no one knew what the board would decide.

  For Tim, this really was the day when deaf people were finally liberated from the chains placed on them by the hearing world. Standing in front of the Capitol, he looked out on our sea of diversity—three thousand of us there solely to support him and the other leaders in whatever they would say. In the past, whenever Tim had spoken to large groups, he was afraid that he’d feel awkward, but that day he knew that whatever he said, people would hoot and holler in support. As everyone waved their hands wildly as he signed to them, he thought, Is this really happening? Am I dreaming? Have we finally seen the light?

  I had my own epiphany.

  What we had accomplished was a triumph for the Deaf community; walking hand-in-hand, we showed the entire world that deaf people would no longer allow others to set limits on what we can achieve. We were an impressive group, indeed. Many African Americans living in Washington, DC, who had seen the Deaf community as “white” and not as a group that, like them, had been discriminated against, began seeing us in a new light. Equality was in the air. Standing before the Capitol, I knew that no matter how different we were from one another, we were also the same, sharing the same basic human needs and deserving of the same basic human rights. It was an experience beyond my wildest dreams and the pinnacle of my life.

  That afternoon, all of the things that I’d been saying all those years to my family, friends, and to Matt, specifically, were finally validated. Any resentment I’d felt toward them for pushing aside and not comprehending my feelings or for invalidating me by saying, “Oh, Brandi, you’re just like us”—for trying to put a positive spin on an attitude that was incredibly oppressive—was validated. I knew that they loved and cared about me, but their “support” had made me feel like I was somebody I wasn’t.

  I finally had a voice and realized deeper still that I hadn’t been crazy—being deaf was different and had been isolating. All of my trials had been worth it. Father Tom’s wise words had started my journey to Washington, DC, and had led me to that very moment when I finally knew that I hadn’t been wrong all along. When the board announced on Sunday evening the election of I. King Jordan as Gallaudet University’s first deaf president, I was ecstatic and at peace with myself and the world.

  My experiences had changed me, opened me to a new world and culture, and even though I didn’t want being deaf to limit or define me (like my camp counselor Carla had said), it was steadily becoming an integral part of who I was. The Deaf community had become an extension of my own family, giving me a great sense of connectedness and belonging. Even back then, before smartphones, BlackBerrys, and videophones had leveled the playing field—enabling us to communicate with each other and with the rest of the world as easily as hearing people—our networking was unbelievable. All the deaf in America were now in one gated community, founded on a deep need and desire for connection with one another. I saw myself as a unique person within the community and part of a culture that I thought was so unbelievably beautiful.

  TIM AND THE OTHER THREE DPN STUDENT LEADERS—BRIDGETTA BOURNE, (TO TIM’S RIGHT) GREG HLIBOK, AND JERRY COVELL—SPEAKING TO THE CROWD AT THE CAPITOL AFTER THE MARCH

  Chapter Four

  FULL CIRCLE

  IN THE SPRING of 1988, after becoming Miss Deaf Illinois, I went for broke and entered the Miss Deaf America Pageant—again, mostly for the fun of it. However, after the protest happened, it quickly began to dawn on me that the Miss Deaf America Pageant was about a lot more than fun and games. Deaf people had just moved mountains. Although a long time coming, our new world seemed to be created in seven days, or at least its beginnings. Our spirits were high, and we felt super great about ourselves. The coverage of the protest had struck a chord with hearing people, pointing out our discrimination and grabbing their attention. For the first time ever, they were interested in us and our cause. I figured it would be a very good time to represent deaf Americans. Whoever became Miss Deaf America would be representing deaf people to the country and to the world.

  Back then, the pageant was always a highly visible event in the Deaf community and would be even more so with all that had recently happened. The pageant was an expression of our culture and community and, now, our newfound liberation. The winner would tour the country as an ambassador for the NAD, the pageant’s sponsor. I have to say that, as an adult, I’ve always been extremely uncomfortable talking about that part of my life, let alone writing about it in a book. I think it’s partly because pageants today are not what they were two decades ago. Back then, there were very few female role models, so young girls would look to the Miss America Pageant as something they could become. That no longer rings true because now we have women in top positions everywhere—from CEOs to politicians running for president of our country.

  Yet truth be told, besides all the fanfare and fun, my experience thrust me into the very heart of the Deaf community and also brought me gifts beyond compare. The event was not a beauty pageant or popularity contest. There was no swimsuit competition, so it wasn’t about sex appeal, and more than half our score was based on intensive interviews. My experience not only deepened my understanding of what it meant to be deaf and strengthened my Deaf Pride, but it also helped me trust in a higher power or “goodness” that set my life on fire. My experiences as Miss Deaf America led me into a wonderful career in telecommunications, meeting and marrying Tim, having three beautiful sons, and adopting Zoe, who, bless her heart, would be the real beneficiary of all that I had learned. And, it was a wonderful time in my life.

  I never thought in a million years that after competing as Miss Deaf Illinois, I’d go on to become Miss Deaf America. Just being one of the finalists, to me, would have meant that I’d really accomplished something. Well, I did think that I could win—I had a lot of confidence in my presentation; it was just that I was so sure that Angie, who was Miss Deaf Connecticut, would win.

  During the week of the pageant, my chaperone and I roomed together, as did the other contestants and their chaperones, at the Hilton Hotel in Charleston, South Carolina, where the pageant finals would take place on Friday evening. We had all arrived several days earlier to compete in the preliminary competitions. Happily, I started out with a bang by winning the preliminary talent performance, interpreting the poem, “Oh God, I Am Only Seventeen,” which often appeared in the Ann Landers column in newspapers around graduation time, reminding t
eenagers not to drink and drive. The theater teacher at NTID had coached me all year in preparation. During the private interview, which counted for 35 percent of our score, I was asked about the Gallaudet Protest, my most positive experiences as a deaf person, and if I thought that ASL should be taught to all deaf children, to which, of course, I said yes.

  It was an exciting yet incredibly stressful time. The media was creating a big buzz only months after Gallaudet. I was running on adrenaline and hardly any sleep and was so nervous that I could hardly eat. I wanted to do well more than anything and wasn’t sure if I would. Meanwhile, my mother, father, brother, grandmother, aunt, uncle, and Eric would all be there Friday night rooting for me, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

  Finally, Friday evening arrived. Our opening number was a dance, but because I can’t keep a beat to save my life, I just winged it. I thought that I was awful, but I guess it wasn’t being judged. Right after we finished, they announced the ten finalists, and, to my delight, I was one of them. At that point, our scores were wiped clean except for the private interview score from the preliminaries.

  For the on-stage interview question (which was designed to show the judges how well we could think on our feet), we were asked how we might preserve our Deaf Culture. I responded by saying, “We preserve our culture by educating our Deaf children about our culture, and by celebrating who and what we are, just like we did at the Gallaudet Protest.” It amazes me now just to think about how prescient my own words were for what the future had in store for me.

  When the interviews were finally over, it was time to announce the winners. The ten of us stood in a line, each incredibly nervous and excited, facing an audience of about one thousand. After they announced the third, second, and the first runners-up, five of us remained, including Angie, who was next to me. The stillness in the auditorium was palpable. After a maddening pause, the emcee continued, “. . . and the new Miss Deaf America of 1988 is . . . Miss Deaf Illinois.” At first, I just couldn’t believe it. I was stunned, but recovered quickly and then gave Angie a huge hug. Afterward, there was a beautiful reception for all of the contestants and their family members, along with representatives of the NAD and other VIPs.