Reflective
Journal 25th April 2016
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| Yeah, I don't want to be this dude |
Part of my formula for
going about my research for my dissertation was a commitment to not repeat the
mistakes of the past. This wasn’t only in relation to my own Masters
dissertation, which was poorly researched, rushed, and hampered by my lack of
experience at the time, but also in relation to the baggage I inevitably bring
with me to the table as a hearing, non-CODA interpreter. The chief component of
that is the legacy of hearing research on Deaf communities. That legacy has
often been marked by a scepticism about the linguistic and cultural status of
signed languages; a following of an agenda unconcerned with the contemporary
political needs of the researched community; lack of fluency in signed
languages, or failure to present to either Deaf or hearing communities in
signed languages; lack of feedback to the community about the results of the
research; the gaining of academic plaudits and indeed, financial gain, while
apparently giving back no credit or benefit to the community of the researched
– all this could be described at best as a lack of respect on the part of
researchers for those being researched, and at worst as a form of colonialism.
This legacy is by no
means irrelevant when it comes to doing Deaf history, in terms of the scope and
the subjects of its inquiry. Deaf people should, in the first instance, be the
chief subjects of the Deaf historian, not hearing people; Owen Wrigley has
railed against the focus on hearing benefactors in what he termed ‘Hearing Deaf
Histories’, saying “Painting
psychohistories of great men struggling to attain a place in the history of
hearing civilizations has little or nothing to do with portraying the
historical circumstances of Deaf people living on the margins of those hearing
societies.” Indeed,
Gunther List implies that hearing people have a kind of duty to do Deaf history of the kind that lays bare structural
inequalities and oppression of Deaf people in the past. He states that Deaf
historians should not be expected to shoulder the “burden of presenting,
entirely from their own resources, historical record of negative interaction
between majority and minority… minority historians should not have to provide the
necessary revision of the history of the majority”. List conceptualises his
interest as an outsider to Deaf culture as a “focus on deaf people’s historical
conflicts with that group to which I myself belong”.
It’s a worthwhile
exercise to do what List feels it essential to do, and ask ‘what exactly is it I am doing – and why?’ It’s
something I have tried to do many times in my approach to this thesis. By
studying the lives of the twice-marginalised – Deaf people who were criminals,
paupers, mentally ill – and others whose lives touched the working of the great
Victorian Irish institutions, I hope to reveal more about Irish hearing
society’s treatment of and view of Deaf people in general, as well as revealing
details about how these people, and ideas around poverty, crime, and mental
illness, were viewed by other Deaf people. One of the strands to this is to
help prove, if I can, the existence of a literate Deaf community in Ireland who
were educated almost entirely by signed language. This is a pretty overtly
political goal, one that aligns with current goals of Ireland’s Deaf community
in the field of education for Deaf children. It is my hope that whatever I find
can be of use to, and utilised by, Deaf campaigners to help in today’s
struggles, as well as providing more rich detail and analysis to further show
the Deaf community is one with a history in this country.
One of my earliest
decisions on this was a determination to be open with my sources. I wanted the
information I uncovered (where possible) to be as accessible to other Deaf
researchers as it could be; I was not going to have accusations of hoarding
historical treasure thrown at me. And so I organised open online databases
where my transcriptions, scans, and Irish Newspaper Archive articles could be
put up for all to see; I met Deaf organisations, pledging to cooperate in terms
of sources more apt for, say, Deaf female historians to be aware of. I
presented in ISL at every turn. And above all, I used social media, time after
time, to alert the Deaf community of new findings; a curious article from a
newspaper, or a book featuring Deaf Irish characters, or a vlog in ISL talking
about a particular character from the past I had come across. My rationale was
simply this: If everyone knows what I am doing, then my research is not hidden,
as with those maligned hearing researchers of the past. How could I be accused
of stealing, when I was only placing publicly available material online every
couple of days?
I’ve learned in the
last six or so months that things aren’t that easy. I think two issues that
arise are privilege and visibility, especially in relation to social media. We
tend to think of the Internet as an infinite space; if I don’t like this
e-group or website, I can go find another one, or I can set up my own. But if
one person occupies the online-or-IRL ‘space’ of a group to the exclusion of
others within that group, then you can be perceived as stealing something; the
limelight – the microphone – the momentum built up for decades by others before
you.
I’ll make an admission
here that I think I need to be honest about, which is that discussion of the
term ‘privilege’ can make me deeply irritable. But it is not that I disregard
the concept. I profoundly agree with the fact that my status as a hearing
person gives me life advantages that Deaf people do not have, for the most
part, and I have seen enough in my years as an interpreter to know that those
imbalances are deep and heavily consequential. I know that this is not just a
case of me being ‘lucky’, and that there are things I can do – as an
interpreter, as a researcher – to help balance those power disparities, even in
small ways. As my supervisor reminded me recently, it’s no bad thing to have
privilege – as long as we use it to assist those who do not have it, and be an
ally.
It would be foolhardy
of me to deny my privileges as a white, male, hearing interpreter researching the
Deaf community’s history (and that point – specifically that I am an interpreter – is a very important one,
leading to a set of privileges as a researcher
that I’m not aware have been dealt with by Deaf studies writers yet). Let’s
look at some of my privileges as a historian: I have fluent English as my first
language, and also am familiar with and comfortable with the kinds of older
vocabulary and expression used in nineteenth-century documents; I have studied Irish history since I was a
small child, through Leaving Cert and Degree level, in environments that were
not in any way restrictive in relation to language access; I am extremely
computer literate and social media savvy, and have been since I was a kid; I
have access as a registered PhD student to vast arrays of databases of
newspaper articles, scholarly journals, and more; I have the financial
wherewithal to support the purchasing of other documents or resources (it is
certainly untrue that interpreters have a well-paid job, but nonetheless, I get
by relatively comfortably). I am a hearing person; I don’t even think I need to
elaborate on the myriad ways in which this privileges me. I also have a very
confident level of ISL skills and metalinguistic knowledge, which gains me a
certain amount of privilege too – I am probably far more able to discuss the
linguistic properties and categories of ISL than the average Deaf ISL user. But
more specifically, I am an interpreter,
so I have had eleven years of access to the most private and personal moments in
the lives of Deaf individuals and families. The incidental learning in these
situations about Deaf culture and history is immense. Would a non-signing hearing researcher have been a
fraction as immersed in this culture as I am now?
That’s an impressive list.
And it is worth asking the question – do Deaf historians, or Deaf people
wanting to become historians, share all these advantages? I have been filled
with wonder at the work done by Deaf Irish historians; I am aware that so many
of them pioneered the field in the days before the Internet made it easier for
anyone to become a historian of sorts. I have been deeply impressed by the
standard of their work. Much of the basis for my own work – conceptual,
factual, methodological – is derived from the work of Irish Deaf historians.
Truly I stand on the shoulders of giants. And it is often the case that despite
the list of privileges I enjoy, any absence of these has not necessarily
hindered the production of wonderful pieces of Deaf history which form the canon
I now lean on. Indeed, some Deaf historians may be indignant at any suggestion
they labour under a disadvantage. It is more the relative advantage I enjoy
that I’m querying.
Particularly relevant
are my internet research and social media skills. Friends have commented to me
more than once that I’m all over Facebook. I have one Facebook group devoted to
Irish Deaf history, I run another for an interpreter association, and keep a
close eye on what’s going on from posts of friends, news items and bulletins on
culture and politics. (But I don’t do Twitter, and vow that I never will.) The
Irish Deaf History Archives egroup isn’t ‘mine’, in the sense that hundreds of
others are members and can post. But I am the major contributor. Every week at
least, I’ll post something up there. Generally giving a short description and
source, offering no interpretation for the most part.
So, I Post on Facebook
about Irish Deaf history; I vlog about Irish Deaf history; I present often on
Deaf history. I’ve gone to at least half the counties of Ireland presenting to
local Deaf clubs in ISL about Deaf people and prisons, as well as other related
topics. Not only that but I am often requested to interpret for events that are
related to history.
So I scoop up dozens
of articles and locate hundreds of online sources using all my privileges and
skills to do so; and it’s not a bad thing to do so, given my aim of being an
ally through my work and its findings. But there may be a danger that in my own
relentless use of social media to broadcast
my own work, and the time I have to travel the country signing about it, that I
am putting the ongoing work of Deaf historians who don’t use these methods of dissemination, in the shade. The
constant advertising of my ongoing work results in a kind of noise pollution. In
the Deaf community, the association with me is very much: the history guy. But
how can even dare to claim this title when Deaf
people themselves, the chroniclers of their own history and culture, are
still working on their books, projects, classes, dramas, and online
discussions?
It may be that as yet
I have not found the balance needed to assist Deaf historians in their vocation
in the best way I can. And so maybe for now, I need to keep it down, just in
case I am not giving others the chance to breathe. My lack of patience with
discussion of privilege may come from the times I have seen it as a basis for ad hominem attacks on someone’s point of
view; to me, the call to ‘check your privilege’ often resembles telling someone
to shut up. And no one likes to be told to shut up. It’s not conducive to
positive interaction. That said, maybe, in some ways, I need to shut the hell
UP. It’s far nicer to come to the realisation yourself than to be told in anger.
And maybe I should also be more explicit in acknowledging the debt I owe to
such Deaf Irish historians, archivists and researchers past and present such as
Liam Breen, David Breslin, John Bosco Conama, Anne Coogan, Fergus Dunne, Stan and Christy Foran,
Alvean Jones, Teresa Lynch, Patrick A Matthews, Noel O’Connell, Josephine
O’Leary, Graham O’Shea, Rachel and Henry Pollard, and James Woulfe.
