Most of you have probably seen the phrase, but what do you know about the “Deaf President Now” movement? Despite being the first Deaf university in the world, Gallaudet had never had a Deaf president before, and in March 1988 that was finally about to change. The Board of Trustees was slated to choose the next president from a list of three finalist candidates, two Deaf, one hearing.
In the lead-up to the board meeting, students and faculty had been campaigning and rallying in support of a Deaf president.
THE CANDIDATES
DR. ELIZABETH ZINSER, hearing, Vice-Chancellor of Academic Affairs at University of North Carolina
DR. HARVEY CORSON, Deaf, Superintendent of the Louisiana School for the Deaf
DR. I. KING JORDAN, Deaf, Dean of College of Arts and Sciences at Gallaudet
On March 6th, the board selected Zinser. No announcement was made. Students found out only after visiting the school’s PR office to extract the information.
Students marched to the Mayflower hotel to confront the Board. Chair Jane Spilman defended the selection to the crowd, reportedly saying, “deaf people can’t function in the hearing world.”
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?
MARCH 7TH: Students hot-wire buses to barricade campus gates, only allowing certain people on campus. Students meet with Board, no concessions made. Protesters march to the Capitol.
MARCH 8TH: Students burn effigies, form a 16-member council of students, faculty, and staff to organize the movement.
THE FOUR DEMANDS:
Zinser’s resignation and the selection of a Deaf president
Resignation of Jane Spilman
A 51% Deaf majority on the Board of Trustees
No reprisals against protesters
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?
MARCH 9TH: Movement grows, gains widespread national support. Protest is featured on ABC’s Nightline.
MARCH 10TH: Jordan, who’d previously conceded to Zinser’s appointment, joins the protests, saying “the four demands are justified.” Protests receive endorsements from national unions and politicians.
DEAF PRESIDENT NOW!
MARCH 10TH: Zinser resigns.
MARCH 11TH: 2,500 march on Capitol Hill, bearing a banner that says “We still have a dream.”
MARCH 13: Spilman resigns, Jordan is announced president. Protesters receive no punishments, DPN is hailed as a success and one of the precursors to the passing of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).
charlie spent a few days at home recuperating after she was released from the hospital, her teachers emailing her well wishes and assignments so she wouldn’t fall behind. Headmistress even set up a special video chat to walk her through the latest lesson, about the protests at Gallaudet. Charlie marveled at the students’ ability to organize so quickly and managed to pull out of Headmistress Waters a lengthy explanation of a thing called “hot-wiring.” She bet this was something Slash knew how to do, but it hadn’t occurred to her that there could be Deaf Slashes.
She missed being on campus, but mostly she was glad about the arrangement; she had a bald chunk of head complete with Frankenstein stitches that she wasn’t in a hurry to show off. And she was so tired all the time. Simple things like helping load the dishwasher or finishing a math worksheet had her crawling back to the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin. It could take days for the effects of the anesthesia to wear off, the doctor had cautioned her. Then there was the body’s own healing to attend to.
After a week, though, she felt more herself, even had the presence of mind to try for civility with her mother on the drive to Colson Children’s. The doctor checked her wound, said it was healing nicely, made an asinine joke about how it was very chic to shave a piece of one’s head these days. It seemed as if they might all escape the outing unscathed. But as the doctor was wrapping up his additional guidance on aftercare—prescribing more ointment to use until the stitches were removed—Charlie noticed her mother turning vaguely purple in her periphery, as if she was holding her breath.
Mom? You o-k? Charlie said, interrupting the doctor.
Just had a question, said interpreter-as-mom.
The doctor nodded for her to go ahead, but Charlie’s stomach pitted; she knew what it was already. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, hoping that either she was wrong or the interpreter might press on without her having to look, but when she returned to the conversation the doctor was saying,
—too much tissue damage to reimplant. But we can certainly explore candidacy on the right side.
Are you fucking kidding me? Charlie said, and left.
* * *
—
She arrived on Slash’s doorstep without quite knowing how she found it—she had never sought it out in daylight (not to mention sober), but the house had somehow burrowed a place in her memory and she slid her hand beneath the plywood and knocked on the door.
Someone opened it a sliver so that only a single, shifty eye was visible, but soon the person was fiddling with the chain, and Lem, as it turned out to be, pulled open the door and sighed.
Jailbait, hey. You scared the shit outta me.
She pulled Charlie inside by the elbow, locked the door. Behind her the house smelled faintly of burnt plastic. Charlie could feel Lem’s eyes run over the bald part of her head, revving up for some commentary, then catch on the stitches and leave it alone.
Everyone’s downstairs, she said.
Charlie followed her to the cellar door, where Lem yelled down into a fluorescent haze. Charlie watched for any sign that Slash had responded, but Lem was stolid.
You can go down if you want, she said.
Lem returned to the living room, peered out through a small hole drilled in one of the window boards, then dropped down on the couch, eyes still trained on the door. Charlie felt uneasy. She could tell something weird was going on. She knew, too, that even her mother would have managed to find her way back to the car by now, and would panic in the hyperbolic manner of Proper Southern Ladies upon not finding Charlie there. In the end, though, her curiosity got the better of her and she descended the stairs.
The cellar was dim with low ceilings, and smelled of mold and cat litter. Charlie could feel the thrum of loud music running through the concrete floor. In the back corner, she saw movement and started toward it, but Slash materialized from the shadows and intercepted her.
C, hey! What are you doing here?
Charlie watched him try to shove a tattered book into his back pocket, but it was too big and eventually he gave up.
What’s that? she said.
He looked down at it with an almost hangdog expression but handed it to her.
Recipes? Charlie repeated as she read the cover.
Of sorts.
More fireworks?
Something like that. Vintage copy, though. The new editions are useless. All “community organizing” or some shit.
Charlie could see the light returning to his eyes.
I mean, this shit’s all over the internet. The trick is being able to look it up without getting tracked. We used to have an in for burner library cards, but our guy is…well, anyway…
Slash trailed off and Charlie peered over his shoulder to the far side of the basement, where Greg and Sid were bent over something she couldn’t see. Beside them, flattened pressure cooker boxes were neatly piled and tied together with twine. Greg wore a pair of glasses with big, built-in magnifiers, like Charlie’s orthodontist used. Sid was tinkering with a run of wire inside the base of what, Charlie realized now, was one of the pots.
I better go, she said. My mom’s in town. I just wanted to say hi.
Yeah, said Slash. We’re kind of in the thick of it. Hey, what happened to your head?
I got electrocuted.
Slash cracked a grin, but stopped short, leaving his chapped lip caught crooked on his bicuspid.
Jesus, he said.
You’re serious.
Charlie nodded.
I’m fine now.
Electrocuted how? By what?
Big Pharma, Charlie said.