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Clerc Scar 8.318 August 2009
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All done by a deaf artist/cartoonist--Matt Daigle
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[The following is an excerpt of "Poetry Exploding from the Heart," which appeared in the anthology Clayton: A Tribute to Clayton Valli. Raymond Luczak videotaped Valli and interviewed him and then translated the footage.] When I was small, I was big on storytelling. I can't seem to do it anymore--it's gone. I don't know why--it's sad, really. But my brother and my cousin really enjoyed watching me telling stories--for example, I'd embellish stories about Tarzan, adding details like his chest bellowing out, an old fat woman limping along, silly things like that. In those days, when people saw me signing ASL, they thought I was stupid. I accepted that. I didn't see any reason to argue. Back then if you signed like English, it meant you were smart and destined for success. Using ASL didn't mean that you were smart; it meant you were going to end up with an ordinary life. Teachers treated us accordingly. I believed in those labels back then because I didn't see any reason to argue. I was contented with myself. But honestly, I never--never dreamed that I'd go to college because expectations of me were so low. I accepted them. No one in my family went to college. The first shock about myself happened when I went to the National Technical Institute for the Deaf (NTID) in 1971. I was twenty at the time. There, I wanted to study general art, but after being evaluated about my abilities as an artist, the school told me that the field best suited for me was photography. They wanted me to learn how to develop photographs with these huge machines; the skills would prepare me for a job in the real world. I struggled with the school over this because I somehow knew I deserved better, but finally, I was told: "Either you leave, or you stay." I knew if I left, I had no choices. So I stayed on. When I graduated, I got a job with the Polaroid Corporation near Boston. I stood in the dark, developing pictures all day long--every day. = While I was working at Polaroid, a friend I'd met at NTID found a job teaching chimps sign language in Reno, Nevada. He knew I wasn't happy at Polaroid so when he heard of an opening for someone who knew sign language and photography, he thought of me. Teaching and taking pictures sounded like a perfect opportunity. I applied and got the job. The chimp's name was Nojo; he was the one after Washoe, who came after Koko, the first chimp to learn sign language. I worked for the Gunners, a husband-and-wife team of linguistics researchers. Their signing abilities were okay, but they had good awareness of ASL. It was part of their project to teach chimps sign language. I was very puzzled by their discussion of ASL. "It's a language? No," I said. The more we discussed, the more they opened my eyes. I still disagreed with them. The more I learned that they were comparing Nojo's signing abilities to that of a Deaf child, the more I disagreed--the chimp did not sign ASL in the same way that a Deaf child did. The fact that a chimp was being compared to a Deaf child at all stopped me and made me think. The more I questioned them and their ideas, the more I realized and learned about ASL and the Deaf community and culture. The more I disagreed with the Gunners and discussed why I did, the more I looked into myself and realized, "I'm not stupid!" This was back in 1975. I was 24 years old. I had begun to realize how other people had used my language to look down on me. = For nine years, no one knew that I was a closeted ASL poet. My first attempt at ASL poetry began in secret, in 1971 at NTID. I felt something inside me aching to be articulated, but I couldn't express it, get it out right. I tried writing it down in English, as a poem, but the problem was, English was my second language. I also knew that poetry depended on sound, and I didn't really know anything about sound. I started playing with signs--I had the idea somehow in the air, but I kept it to myself. The idea was about my old summer house. Every year my family held this huge celebration on July 4th, and I loved that house. The spring of 1971, just when I was about to graduate from Austine, the summer house caught fire and burned down to the ground. I felt so bad because it meant the end of that family tradition. Not only that, I was going to NTID the same summer of 1971. I felt funny--no more family gatherings. And NTID was a very big place compared to the small Austine School for the Deaf. No wonder I didn't feel like myself. So I started trying to articulate myself in a new way with signs, but it was behind closed doors. I had ideas but I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't share them with anyone. I didn't have any ASL pride; I wasn't even ready to fight for ASL. But back in Reno, in 1975, the more I studied ASL and took workshops about it, the more I began to feel, "Why not?" I was so motivated to learn, but I was all by myself. In terms of the national consciousness of the American Deaf community, Reno seems like nothing. So when I went out to San Francisco and took a workshop on ASL structure taught by Ella Mae Lentz, my mind exploded with new ideas. "You mean all that was in my language while I was growing up?" I felt so inspired. Then Ella said, "I'm an ASL poet." "Poet?" I looked about myself, and I wanted to say, "Me, too!" I felt like a skittish puppy with its tail wagging beyond happiness. I went up to Ella and introduced myself right in her face. She thought I was very strange as I explained myself--my name, my interest, and so on. Later in the workshop, she announced the purpose of a new conference in Knoxville, Tennessee. She explained that the attendees were already chosen from a national pool of candidates. The National Consortium of Programs for the Training of Sign Language Instructors (NCPTSLI) Summer School would run for one month or so, and was sponsored by the National Association of the Deaf (NAD), with grant monies matched from other sources. The purpose was to train these candidates how to teach ASL as a second language. I knew that with all my being, I really wanted to go, even though I wasn't picked. In those days I was stubborn, aggressive. I called NAD. "If you want to come, you have to pay," they said. "I don't mind." They added up the costs and said, "This is the amount." I said, "Fine," and sent them the money. I flew out to Knoxville, and it really changed my life. This was the summer of 1979. There were approximately 20 people, and very few of them were hearing children of Deaf adults (CODA). Some of these people were big names, such as Ella, Dennis Cokely, John Smith, and others. Out there, no one knew who I was. They looked at me, a new face. I was young and eager to learn; being around them taught me so much, just soaking in their thoughts and observations about ASL. It really affirmed my identity as a Deaf person. Finally, Ella and I finally sat down together alone. I confessed to her that I was doing ASL poetry. She looked at me and went, "Hm." I didn't know that later on, Ella would talk about me with Carol Padden and Marie Philip. A short time later, Marie Philip herself came in and asked me, "You don't mind showing me one of your ASL poems?" I hesitated. I didn't want to come out to her, but I knew she was a very staunch supporter of ASL. I tried my best and did a poem. She said, "Thank you," and left. I felt funny, queasy, mixed. I didn't know what to think. A short time later, Carol Padden came up to me and asked me if I wouldn't mind doing one of my poems. I felt truly scared because she was really famous. I did my poem, and she left. I felt even worse--sick to my stomach. I felt so negative about myself that I probably didn't even notice whether they liked my work or not. A few days later, Carol Padden came up to me and said, "I'd like you to come to Boston and attend the National Symposium on Sign Language Research and Teaching (NSSLRT). They have one night of ASL storytelling, poetry, and theater, which will be called 'Evening of ASL.' We'd like you to perform that night." My legs were shaking. I said, "I'll think about it." The more I thought about it, I felt obligated to go ahead with it. I'd decided to go mainly because these three big names--Lentz, Philip, Padden--believed in me and chose me. I felt it was time for me to take one step forward. If these three believed in me, I have to believe in them. As the night of my performance approached that October 1980, I became more and more nervous. I thought of calling and canceling my appearance many times. I was still living in Reno at the time. I kept pushing myself toward that day, that flight, that place so much that when I finally arrived, I felt completely dazed. So many people milled about and said, "Hi!" I scarcely noticed them. I was still obsessed with that night of my performance; I just nodded and waved. I felt so awful. That night arrived at last. Before I walked onstage, I watched Padden introduce me in this way: "Tonight we have a new face, a new name." She held her palms out to me. I was so scared. I never, never liked the stage. I hated it. I didn't feel like myself. But a strange thing happened: When Padden turned to me to come onstage, a new energy came into me. I felt an inner glow--alive. I simply strode onstage--it was showtime! As I went through my six poems in twenty minutes in front of a crowd of over 500 people, I thought in my head: "Me doing this? No." I was both surprised and shocked. When I finished, they all stood up and cheered. I couldn't believe it. It was all so new to me. When I went offstage, my knees gave out. I just collapsed to my knees. Padden saw the paleness of my face, and I kept looking around. There was a new electricity among the people backstage, as if they'd never seen anything so new. The audience kept signing, "More, more, more!" Padden turned to me and said, "They want more." Somehow I got back my energy and felt completely rejuvenated. I strode back onstage and did "What ASL?" as my encore. I didn't want to show it; I was saving it for a special occasion, as it was such a powerful statement about ASL. The rest is history. That night really made my name. I don't know where or what I'd be doing if I hadn't been aggressive in getting a place at that conference way back in Knoxville in the first place. Maybe I would still be a nobody.
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Raymond Luczak's own poetry also appears in Deaf American Poetry. His collection of translations of ASL narratives by various notable Deaf people is seeking a publisher. His Web site is http://www.raymondluczak.com
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