Deaf/hh Infusion
My Many Shoes: Education from the Inside Out
By Dakota Ronco, California H&V
I had always been in classes with at least thirty other students, desks lined up in rows, me in the front, and I was always prepared to simultaneously watch both the interpreter and the teacher. Now, I was going to be in small classes, maybe five to eight students at most, desks arranged in crescents, and I would and learn from the teacher and class directly.
If you asked me whether being mainstreamed with interpreters or attending a residential school for the deaf was better, I would not have an answer. My experiences shaped me into who I am. If I had graduated from a public high school, I would have not grown as much socially, nor would I have had opportunities to be thoroughly involved with my school. On the other hand, if I had grown up in a residential school for the deaf, I would not have learned how to adapt to various situations, how to stand up for myself, and how to ensure that I got what I needed to be successful.
I grew up bilingual with American Sign Language as my primary language. My family learned how to sign upon finding out I was Deaf at 18 months old, and they supported me in my decisions regarding my future, my education, and my desires. I grew up mainstreamed with interpreters from kindergarten to sophomore year in high school. I have fond memories from friendships that endured throughout the years and those that faded over time.
Though I was often bullied at school, it did not change how I feel about being mainstreamed. It is a part of the experience that made me a stronger and certainly more alert and in tune with the body language of others.
More often than not, I was the only Deaf student in all of my classes. The interpreters were the best; they got the information I needed, they offered support, and they made me feel included. I am still in touch with many of my former interpreters. Being mainstreamed means that you build a network wherever you go, because you have to learn how to speak up for yourself, how to get what you need, and how to approach various situations.
I also attended many summer camps for D/hh children. Those summers remain my favorite childhood memories. A week of being able to be myself without lipreading, interpreters, or explaining to anyone about maintaining eye contact with me was pure freedom. I’d meet others like me, brilliant kids being mainstreamed; and I’d meet other brilliant kids who went to residential schools for the deaf. The people I met at those summer camps are now my closest friends; my trusted inner circle. That is the beauty of being involved with the deaf community: you are never alone.
Despite the support I had in school, being mainstreamed had its downfalls. I never quite fit in entirely. I went to the library almost every day in high school to drown myself in books. My education was up-to-date and I was one of the best students all around, but I was not growing emotionally or socially. Friends were few and rare. It was a gradual realization during my sophomore year that spending all of my free time in the library and chatting with the interpreters rather than my peers my own age meant that maybe being mainstreamed did not fit me anymore. Being mainstreamed was a pair of shoes I had outgrown.
I started trying on new shoes, as it were, by taking off my hearing aids. I gained a sense of independence by embracing my Deaf identity. For me, I could hear something with them on, but they did not benefit me much. I still needed to lipread, gesture, write back and forth, or sign to communicate. With hearing aids, I still could not identify all sounds nor could I tell where they were coming from. People also seemed to assume that hearing aids miraculously helped me to understand everything, even though that was the opposite of the truth. It started to seem pointless to wear hearing aids.
Next, I started to look at residential schools for the deaf. My family and friends from all those summer camps were tremendously supportive and encouraged me to seek a fresh start. I toured several schools before settling on one that was closest to home: California School for the Deaf, Riverside.
The summer before my junior year, I was thrilled and nervous. I had no idea what to expect. I had always been in classes with at least thirty other students, desks lined up in rows, me in the front, and I was always prepared to simultaneously watch both the interpreter and the teacher. Now, I was going to be in small classes, maybe five to eight students at most, desks arranged in crescents, and I would and learn from the teacher and class directly. I worried whether I would be able to understand everything. I worried about classes being too easy. I worried about cliques, bullies, and being excluded.
It was nothing like I expected. I took Honors and Advanced Placement classes, and they were equally if not more challenging than before. The classes were small, almost comical to me at first, but I grew used to having relatable peers with entirely different perspectives from mine. My largest class had eleven students, and my smallest had a sole student: me. I had direct communication with the teachers and for the first time, I was utterly and completely independent without anyone by my side. I started to speak up more. I joined clubs, organizations, and sports. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was for an opportunity to be truly involved without constantly working to prove my worth.
My junior and senior years flew by. Memorable times with friends, adventures, all-nighters, and last-minute projects filled my days in the timelessness of the CSDR campus. I graduated in June as valedictorian and earned the biliteracy seal for both ASL and English, and was one of the first four students to ever receive this award. I graduated with satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment, prepared to take on the future at Gallaudet University with a full ride scholarship there, in my next pair of shoes.
I would have not traded my experiences for anything. They made me into the person I am today; Dakota Ronco, over and out. ~
H&V Communicator – Winter 2019