My Deaf Tween and Our Search for a Sense of Belonging

This guest blog post is written by Cassie Franklin, BSW, MS, a fierce momma bear of twin tweens, one hearing and one deaf. She has over 20 years of experience supporting access for deaf people as they navigate barriers in education, one layer at a time. Cassie also loves coffee, cats, and community. 

In January 2022, I wrote a guest blog post about how allies can be partners in dismantling systemic barriers in deaf education, especially for deaf children in mainstreamed, hearing-centered general education environments.

That blog post shared some of my own personal experiences as a deaf person and as a mom of a late-deafened twin tween. I shared examples of how my deaf daughter and our family faced many challenges as we fought for access in IEP meetings and in school as a whole — as we strived to ensure our daughter felt a sense of belonging.

Fast-Forward to May 2022

The school year ended with a text message from my girls’ school administrators, asking that I give them a call. They tried to call me first but, once again, didn’t understand how the Video Relay System (VRS) works. I quickly called back.

“Ms. Franklin, I have your daughters here in my office,” said the assistant principal. “Today is Field Day for students, but Ellie couldn’t understand what was being said. We asked her twin sister to help interpret, but her sister got upset, too. We don’t understand why both girls became upset. They are sitting in my office now, enjoying some chocolate and watching a video.”

I seethed. I immediately started thinking of all the options and scenarios that could have been put into place to avoid this situation. Where were Ellie’s accommodations? If they decided not to provide real-time captioning, why didn’t the teacher let Ellie know what the plans were? Why didn’t they have written instructions printed out? Why did they once again pull her twin sister out of her own friend group to interpret?

I took a deep breath and was grateful in that moment that VRS doesn’t allow the caller to see the look on my face as I replied, “Do the girls want to return to Field Day activities? If so, I can give you some tips on how to make it accessible for Ellie.”

Tears and Chocolate 

I was furious, and not just because both of my daughters were upset. I also had to spend my time troubleshooting for the school, using up the time and energy I needed for my own work to solve problems that the school staff is responsible for. 

Ellie’s teacher was now on the phone. 

“Ellie is upset and crying and does not want to return. Arie wants to return to Field Day, but she is also extremely worried about her sister. We’ll just keep them here until lunch and give them more chocolate,” she said. 

The VRS interpreter conveyed that the teacher was trying to joke about it, as if it was no big deal. As if chocolate could solve all the problems in the world. Unfortunately, chocolate isn’t an accommodation and was a fake bandaid on a failed Field Day for both of my kids. 

An Intolerable Toll

That situation was the final straw for Jason and me as parents, as deaf individuals raising a deaf teen and a hearing teen in a post-COVID landscape.

It may not have seemed like it was a big deal to some, but it was to us. That situation was the culmination of too many hard moments and microaggressions for a deaf child in a hearing-centric environment.

The toll on my kids was intolerable. We had a teen who was crying herself to sleep at night and dreaded going to school every morning. We had another teen without room to grow at school because she was constantly checking on her sister, or being asked to check on her. She also felt she had to be Ellie’s (and the deaf community’s) advocate at school at all times.

Our Hard Decisions

My husband and I discussed options. Middle school is difficult to navigate on its own, especially for this COVID cohort of teens who didn’t get to experience being leaders in their elementary school after being quarantined most of 5th grade. 

We saw our daughters were equally suffering from their own individual identity crises. As parents who have been through different oppressive educational systems, we wanted to give our girls the opportunity to navigate middle school without additional barriers or carrying so much weight in their invisible backpacks.

Ellie desperately needed a place where she could grow into her identity as a deaf person, and be in a safe space where she could learn more than just academics. She needed to learn she was not alone in the world and to find a place where she could belong. 

Arie needed to experience being a child in a school where she could grow into her own identity, without having to be known as the deaf kid’s twin sister or the girl with deaf parents (a child of deaf adults or CODA). She needed to focus on figuring out who she was without having to constantly advocate for others.

We made the difficult decision to split up the girls into different schools. We placed Ellie in the Ohio School for the Deaf (OSD) in the fall of 2022. Two different schedules, teachers, districts, rules, and systems.

From Ableism to Access

Both my husband and I work at OSD, providing us with a front-row seat on Ellie’s transition into her new school. I won’t lie, it was not easy in the beginning. It was a culture shock for all of us. And the questions from people regarding our decision. Isn’t a deaf school a special school? Wouldn’t they pull down her test scores? Is she going because she couldn’t keep up in a hearing school? Will learning ASL impact her above-grade-level English scores?

I can give you the answers now: No, no, no, and no. 

The first step to transitioning her to OSD was to continue to advocate for support for Ellie. We asked for flexibility in the classroom and modified group seating to best fit combined hearing and vision loss. And we asked for real-time captioning (and would fit the needs of other students with neurodivergent disorders), to ease the transition from a hearing environment to an all-signing environment. Gratefully, OSD and the school district agreed.

It was refreshing to have a conversation where people were willing to think outside the box to meet the needs of the child. Staying in the box and providing a cookie-cutter approach to access is ableism.

What we experienced was a mixed bag. Still more tears and more adjustments in the beginning. Ellie had to learn to navigate a school that was much smaller and learn a new language along with educational content. But, this school didn’t solve their problems by just giving her chocolate. The principal wrote letters to her, reminding her she was a valued member of the school. Her teachers worked hard to ensure her needs were being met, including ASL tutoring. Her peers encouraged her to become involved in activities.

By the end of the school year, we were able to phase out her captioning, and she was able to access information directly through ASL, creating an environment that was fully accessible to her. No worries if the captioning equipment broke down, her hearing aid battery died, or so forth.

Jason, Arie, and I watched Ellie walk across the stage to get an end-of-the-year award. She had a huge smile on her face and was confident. She was sitting chatting with friends. Her teacher looked at her proudly, not just as a deaf student who needed accommodations, but as if she was looking at Ellie as who she was.

We still talk about that picture of her with the biggest smile holding her award. Her twin sister was relieved to see Ellie smiling and knowing she was where she belonged. Arie missed her dearly, but she knows Ellie is in the right place for now.  

Our Hopes for Ellie and Arie

I want more for both my daughters, knowing that society will not treat Ellie as a deaf person who needs to be “fixed.” They will not use Arie as her interpreter. Hearing aid batteries die. CIs break. Ellie and Arie need resources and strategies that are with them always, with or without an amplification device or the need to advocate. 

Ellie needs people who see her for her strengths and weaknesses as a person, not just as a deaf child trying to fit in a hearing world. This is what she is getting now. She is finally learning to navigate social teen situations. She is finally learning who she is as “Ellie,” not as the “poor girl with a hearing loss.” I want her to experience deaf culture, deaf peers, and deaf leaders who are fully themselves.

In my last post, I explained how the trauma my daughter experienced this past year involving brain surgery had created an aversion to wearing any type of device on her head, including her cochlear implant (CI) or hearing aid. No matter how a deaf person chooses to communicate and navigate the world, they deserve for us to connect to them other than just auditorily. 

Arie spent the year learning to build her own identity at school, figuring out what she likes and dislikes, and forming her own group of friends. She was able to learn this without experiencing secondhand trauma. Her teachers can now focus on Arie as an 8th grader, helping her catch up with math, and encouraging her interests. Arie admitted to me one night that she is enjoying the time she has had being “Arie” in school.

In the end, both girls are able to experience a true sense of belonging — one that fits who they are and that provides what they need.