Tales from a Teacher-Mama

Recently a young man who I once taught in middle school was arrested for murder. He was indicted on eight counts of aggravated murder, four counts of kidnapping, two counts each of aggravated burglary and aggravated robbery, and single counts of gross sexual imposition of a child under 13, receiving stolen property, grand theft of a motor vehicle and being a felon in possession of a weapon. The prosecutor is seeking the death penalty.

Even though I only had the young man in my class for a short time, hearing of his crimes has weighed on me. I don’t recall feeling frightened of him; in fact, when I picture him in my mind, I see him with a sweet but goofy grin on his face. One of my teacher friends referred to him as “charming,” and I’d have to agree that he could be. He was mischievous, but that grin of his could make you forget midsentence what misdeed you were correcting him for.

At the time he was in my class, he was transitioning from a mental health facility into our school. I’ve since forgotten what little I knew of his background, other than that he was in foster care and had serious academic delays. Later, when he was in high school, I witnessed the severity of his rage as he had to be restrained by our crisis team for an outburst of temper. Still, I had no idea how damaged this young man was.

Various newspaper articles have filled in some blanks for me: his mother died of a drug-related heart attack when he was a toddler; in all likelihood, she had used drugs while pregnant with her son. He lived with his abusive father in homeless shelters until going into foster care. He was diagnosed with a hearing loss as well as ADHD at age 6 or 7. Also at age 7, he began smoking marijuana; a year later, he began drinking alcohol. By the time he was 10, he had been identified as mildy mentally retarded. At age 11 he first attempted suicide. As a juvenile, he had various run-ins with the law. He stole–property, cars. After he stole a pizza-delivery driver’s car, his last foster family kicked him out at age 16. He set fire to a neighbor’s house after burglarizing it. He was in and out of youth correction facilities throughout his teenage years and into his early twenties. It appears that none of the interventions tried with him worked. He was a broken boy.

Still, I was shocked to see him arrested for the murder of a young mother and the kidnapping of her 4-year-old son. Shocked…but not altogether surprised. It’s hard to believe that the young man on the news for such heinous crimes is one I once taught in my classroom.

My head buzzes with unanswerable questions. Was there something more I could have done when he was in my class? Should I have made more of an effort to reach out to him? As a school did we do all we could for him? While no one can say for certain, I feel that there was probably no more I could have done. I’m also fairly confident that our school did its best for this troubled young man. But there are tougher questions: What happened? What was he thinking? I wonder if there might have been anything done to prevent this incident. Earlier intervention? Perhaps he has been misdiagnosed or has a condition as yet undiagnosed.

“What ifs” aside, this horrendous situation has driven home one point in particular for me: criminals are human. What this young man–and many others like him–did is monstrous, but he himself is not a monster. His disturbing past left its mark,  unfortunately not only on him but also on his victims. By no means do I feel that his disabilities or personal problems should excuse him from consequences for his actions; I absolutely believe that the family he victimized deserves justice. But justice is not vengeance. In this case, appropriate consequences may include mental health treatment in addition to incarceration. I do not envy the jurors who will have to hear this case and render a verdict. Sadly, I wonder if this young man, being hot-tempered and having been accused of child molestation, will even survive to trial. All I can offer are my prayers: that this young man will understand what he’s done and truly repent,  that the family of his victims will find healing and peace, and that somehow we will find ways to break the cycle of abused and broken children growing into abusive and destructive adults.

  Let me be upfront and honest about my bias: Myron Uhlberg is one of my favorite authors–and people–in the world. If our ages didn’t differ by 40 years, my husband might need to worry. Based on Myron’s five children’s books and the stories I’d heard him tell in person, I expected a great deal from his adult memoir, Hands of My Father: A Hearing Boy, His Deaf Parents, and the Language of Love (Bantam Books, February 3, 2009). I was not disappointed.

I got my hands on an advanced reading copy and could hardly put it down until I finished it in the course of a day. To say I loved it barely begins to cover it. I felt not as if I were reading a book, but rather as if Myron had stopped by for a chat over coffee.

In Hands of My Father, Myron recounts experiences from his childhood growing up in Brooklyn with deaf parents.  From a tender age, Myron became the family interpreter. If not for the great affection between Myron of his parents, his resentment of this role might have turned toxic. Switching from child to adult, from beloved son to utilitarian hands and voice, often had Myron’s young head spinning. As if the task were not heavy enough for a six-year-old, Myron had to tell his father when hearing people called him a “dummy” and otherwise insulted him for being deaf. The discrimination against the deaf in the ’30s and ’40s is almost unbelievable compared to today’s accessible world, thanks to the Americans with Disabilities Act.

But despite his repeated encounters with ignorant and cruel hearing adults, despite his embarrassment and resentment of his deaf father, Myron does not dwell on negatives. These comprise only one aspect of his childhood. His parents adored him, and he them. He shared many happy and even proud moments with his father. Not all of his stories revolve around his parents’ deafness, either; he describes experiences that were fairly typical for a boy in post-Depression New York–though perhaps an exceptionally mischievous and creative boy.

I find Myron’s writing eloquent and yet comfortable and engaging. His description of signs is so clear and beautiful that I believe even a non-signer could envision the hands in motion. Myron’s anecdotes strike chords that are sure to resonate with readers of all different backgrounds.

I hope when February 3 rolls around, you’ll get yourself a copy of Hands of My Father, grab a cup of coffee, and sit down with my friend Myron. And I hope you’ll enjoy getting to know him as much as I have.

Part Two: Myron’s visit to the Ohio School for the Deaf    

The spring of 2006 finally brought Myron back to Ohio.  On the afternoon of May 16, I picked Myron up at the airport and brought him to his hotel. The next two days would be busy ones.

Day One of Myron’s visit was filled with presentations to OSD’s students. There were three groups: elementary, middle school, and high school. Myron entertained all of the students equally with magic tricks, slides of old photos, and stories of his childhood with his deaf parents. The students also laughed when Myron showed them his name sign and explained its origin: his initials “MU” sounding like “moo” inspired his mother to give him the sign for “cow.” Throughout the rest of his visit, students who passed Myron greeted him with his name sign, the sign for “cow,” with some of them uttering, “Mooooo.” Although Myron took advantage of the sign language interpreter for most of his presentation, he did open by signing for himself. Students as well as deaf staff really seemed to appreciate and enjoy the level of direct communication with an author who could sign–not to mention Myron’s open, friendly manner.

Possibly the most engaging part of Myron’s presentation was his demonstration of making a newspaper printer’s hat. He built suspense as he stopped at various points to show his progress. As he worked, he recounted how he, as a boy, had watched and waited eagerly for his father’s hands to fold the newspaper this way and that until they finally placed on Myron’s head a perfectly-creased printer’s hat.

Myron later commented that seeing the students interacting with each other gave him insight into what it might have been like for his parents attending deaf residential schools decades ago.
Myron spent the morning of Day Two visiting classes in the Alice Cogswell Center, OSD’s preschool. With the older students in ACC, Myron read his book “The Printer” to the class. The children were fascinated, and having the author himself read the story in their native American Sign Language was surely a treat. Afterwards, Myron made newspaper hats for each of the children. With the younger students, Myron performed his magic tricks, which the children loved! Myron was enchanted by the tiny, signing hands.

Myron spent the rest of Day Two with my co-teacher Mary Ellen Cox, student teacher Shana Baker, and our middle school language arts classes. The morning group of sixth and seventh graders learned to fold printer’s hats of their own. They loved their special time to interact with the Printer’s Son, as did their teachers!

  The afternoon class of seventh and eighth graders also enjoyed learning to make printer’s hats. They were treated to a reading of “The Printer” in sign language by Myron as well. The memories of their visit with the Printer’s Son surely will last a lifetime.

After making hats and finishing the story, two students took Myron aside for a videotaped interview. They asked about Myron’s childhood in Brooklyn and his second career as a writer. One student in particular found inspiration in meeting and interviewing Myron, who has become a mentor to the young, aspiring author.

Although the elementary students did not get class visits with Myron, they did enjoy making their own printer’s hats. Having met Myron in person made the story of “The Printer” come alive for them.

  At the end of Day Two, Myron spent time chatting with students and staff in OSD’s library. He also autographed copies of his books for many people. Myron’s stories based on his experiences growing up with deaf parents touch OSD’s deaf students and staff in a way not many books can. Having the author himself visit and share the story behind the stories enriches the reading and re-reading of Myron’s books.

One ACC student  watched as Myron made him his very own newspaper printer’s hat after autographing his copy of The Printer.  The young man’s deaf parents would read to him again and again while he would look at the pages of the story and sign, “Fire! Fire!” Middle school students also brought books for Myron to sign. They will treasure their copies of stories by their friend “Moo.”

Myron met many staff members during his book signing in the library. Some were deaf themselves; others were CODAs (Children of Deaf Adults) like Myron. They shared their personal stories, which were similar and different at the same time.

Myron also met OSD’s printer, printing teacher Ray. Ray took Myron on a brief tour of OSD’s print shop, showing him both the modern and the antiquated machinery there. The two regaled the “old days” of black ink and linotype machines. Ray presented Myron with a gift of a composing stick with metal type pieces spelling out “Myron Uhlberg.”

Myron spent a few spare moments perusing the historical items on display in OSD’s administration building lobby. He particularly loved the plaster sculpture of the manual alphabet. There were also antique TTYs, outdated hearing aids, black-and-white photos of former students, and long-retired sports uniforms. The nostalgic displays again stirred Myron’s memories of his beloved parents.

During his stay, Myron also had a chance to become a part of OSD’s documented history: the school’s annual “family” photo was taken on the afternoon of May 17. The framed photos from each year hang on the walls of the school cafeteria. It seems official that Myron is a part of the OSD family now!

On Myron’s last evening in Columbus, Ohio, Mary Ellen and Ron Cox hosted a small dinner party to honor the visiting author. Several staff members from OSD–hearing and deaf–came to the Cox home, some with their spouses and children. Mary Ellen had promised and delivered the best Italian meatballs Myron had ever tasted. Amidst the plentiful food and drink, stories abounded. Myron chatted with individuals, alternating listening intently with talking or signing enthusiastically. Soon folks gathered around the table with Myron appropriately serving as the center of attention. Laughter erupted as he told the story of a parent-teacher conference at which he, as a young and mischievous boy, interpreted–or rather, “misinterpreted” until his father ordered him to “tell it straight.” Tears welled up for many as Myron recounted the disrespect and discrimination his deaf parents faced in the community, such as sales clerks who  ignorantly referred to his father as “the dummy.”

That evening and throughout his entire visit, Myron touched the hearts of all he met. He connected with the youngest to the oldest by the power of stories, whether shared in English or American Sign Language. His time at the Ohio School to the Deaf was precious and long to be remembered fondly.

I first met Myron Uhlberg in March 2005 at the Ohio Council of Teachers of English Language Arts (OCTELA) spring conference.

The conference theme that year related to disabilities. I saw in the program line-up an author named Myron Uhlberg. Never heard of him. But from the blurb about him, I learned that he was the child of deaf parents, and his children’s book The Printer was based on his own deaf father who was a printer. I decided I wanted to hear this guy speak, and it would be worth half off the conference fee to present a workshop session. So I submitted a proposal for a workshop on something I knew fairly well, deafness and literature (fiction and non-fiction about or related to deafness) and sign language. I got my discounted fee plus two days off school, so I was looking forward to this conference. I thought this Myron guy might be interesting too.

After I checked into the conference on the first morning, I wandered past the booths of vendors, primarily booksellers. I stopped at the Peachtree Publishing table where they displayed Uhlberg’s books, including a new one I had not seen yet. I told the woman working the booth that I had loved The Printer, as had my deaf students and colleagues, and how exciting it was to see Dad, Jackie, and Me was also centered around a deaf father and hearing son. The woman seemed to remember something and asked if I was Nancy Boone. Of course I was surprised but answered yes. Then she really floored me: she said Myron was looking for me! He had seen my workshop session in the program booklet and was keen to meet someone who knew sign and worked with the deaf. I was flattered and told her I would keep an eye out for him to introduce myself, then headed off to a session.

Later in the morning, I saw a thin man with graying hair holding a newspaper and a small briefcase walking toward me down the corridor. I was pretty sure it was Myron, since I’d seen his picture in the conference program, so I waved a greeting and approached. For a moment he looked at me blankly, then quickly glanced down at my name tag. As soon as he saw my name he exclaimed, “Oh, Nancy!” then switched to sign language to say, “Nice to meet you!” And instead of a formal handshake for our first meeting, he wrapped me in a warm hug. That was it; we were friends.

In long and short moments stolen between sessions, Myron and I shared our respective stories and experiences in the deaf/Deaf world. I was fascinated to learn about his deaf parents’ lives in New York–how both his mother and father went to residential schools for the deaf where sign language was strictly banned, so students taught one another and conversed in sign in secret. He spoke with such love for his parents, and with special admiration for his father the printer. He autographed my books and made me a four-cornered newspaper printer’s hat.

Myron gave his keynote speech on Saturday morning at an 8 a.m. session. I was disappointed at the turnout due to the early hour, as I felt a bit like the conference attendees had snubbed my friend. However, Myron’s speech washed away those feelings of disappointment. I was entranced by his stories…stories about growing up with his deaf parents, stories about how he came to write his books. I found myself laughing at many scenarios he described, then quickly welling up with tears at others. My heart absolutely broke as he told of being a young boy, called upon to interpret for his deaf father in the hearing world again and again, and having insensitive and ignorant hearing people begin their message with, “Tell the dummy…” It was evident in Myron’s tone of voice and body language that, even now in his 70s, Myron still felt the pain of those words aimed like poison darts at the father he adored. But, masterful storyteller that he is, Myron would not leave us on a sad note. He finished his presentation by calling up a helper (one of the conference planners) to read aloud his book The Printer so that he could translate it into sign. Again, my eyes welled with tears (as they always do) near the end of the story, but now they were tears of pride as the deaf character’s co-workers surrounded him to sign “thank you” for saving them from a fire in the newspaper printing room.

I knew Myron had to visit my school. We exchanged contact information, and I expressed my hope that we could arrange his visit for the coming fall. We corresponded through e-mail, sparsely at first. Finally I had arrangements in place on my end and began to work out the details with Myron. By the time the new year had come and gone, Myron had thought plans might have fallen through but was glad they were in fact going forward. We set up a two-day visit in May of 2006…and that will be Part Two of my story.