Body Talk Page 17

  The White Rabbit

  by John McGinty

  I, as a Deaf person, went to London with my family on vacation when I was ten or eleven years old. My grandmother decided to take me to see the musical The Phantom of the Opera. The moment I sat down, I realized there was no interpreter, nor were there any captions to help me understand what was happening. But as soon as the curtain went up and the story started to unfold, it was so visual that my original concern vanished.

  This was my lightbulb moment. I realized that this was exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to act, to be part of that world.

  I was actually born hearing, and my whole family is hearing. I was quite ill when I was an infant. I took a medication that was supposed to improve my health, and it did, but as a side effect, I lost my hearing.

  From pre-K through kindergarten, my parents sent me to a school in Cleveland, Ohio, that used sign language only. American Sign Language (ASL) was the first language I acquired. From first through fourth grade, I went to a school with an oral program that focused more on hearing and speech (a.k.a. listening and speaking). Sign language was not part of its teaching method. During that time, both of my siblings went to a private school, and I wanted to attend it, too, because I wanted to do the same thing as them. However, when I arrived at that school, I had to take fourth grade over again. I was the only Deaf person, and there were no support services: no interpreters, no notetakers, no FM systems (wireless assistive hearing devices that enhance the use of hearing aids). Nothing. Just me alone in a classroom. I stayed for fourth and fifth grade. I fell behind because I could not understand what the teacher was saying, I was not able to interact with my peers, and I was not involved in the school. I even air-played my clarinet in my music class. My parents noticed.

  Things changed in the sixth grade. My parents sent me to a Deaf residential school called Clarke School for the Deaf in Northampton, Massachusetts. Like the school I attended from first through fourth grade, this one focused more on speech and hearing. It was at this school that I rediscovered my passion for acting. As much as theater inspired me at a young age, at first I did not have the self-confidence to get involved. I was involved in a lot of activities at my school, like playing soccer and taking science classes. But even though I had two teachers ask me separately if I was planning to audition for the school play, I laughed and said it was not going to happen. They were doing a production of Alice in Wonderland, and I had no confidence at that point. I wondered why someone with incredibly low self-esteem would want to perform in front of a live audience. Who would want to watch me stand on stage with my legs shaking and my teeth chattering?

  But those teachers were persistent, and they wore me down. I showed up at auditions and thought mine was probably the worst audition in the history of theater. But I was cast as the White Rabbit. That was the moment my passion for theater was reignited. I realized I could do this.

  At that time I considered theater a hobby. It was a fun thing to do, to collaborate with different people, to work on a production. I loved my time on stage in front of the audience, and my self-confidence started to grow. I began to learn who I was and to establish more of an identity. From that time on, I was involved in different school plays and productions.

  The Clarke School went up to only the ninth grade, though. That meant that after I graduated, I had to go back to Cleveland to finish high school. I ended up going to a public school, again as the only Deaf person. However, this time, I had an oral interpreter, which is different from a sign language interpreter. An oral interpreter sits and listens to what is said and reproduces it on their lips. This meant I was focused on lip-reading someone for eight hours a day. (A funny story: One time, in an honors chemistry class, my teacher explained how a “bond” works in H2O. My interpreter misunderstood my teacher and thought he said, “bomb.” Can you imagine thinking you would explode by drinking water?)

  But even though I had assistance from an oral interpreter in my classes, my high school career was even more challenging than all my previous years in the education system. It was not just that I was the only Deaf person. I had also missed out on socializing at the start of ninth grade, when my classmates had all started their high school careers. My peers had already made their friends and formed their cliques. Coming in as a tenth grader made finding my place difficult. At the start of my time at the public high school, there were few Deaf people living in Cleveland, at least that I was aware of, so I was not really out there aggressively trying to find people like myself to make a connection with.

  And there was another thing I was worried about: At the Deaf school, I could get big acting roles, but at a hearing high school, would I still have the same opportunities?

  It turned out that hearing casting directors and teachers did not really comprehend how much work I had put into being an actor as a Deaf person. And more, I did not do a good job of self-advocating. I just took what was offered. My teachers had never dealt with a Deaf actor before, and I had never worked with someone who had never dealt with a Deaf actor before. I had to start building those bridges. I had to get us all to the other end. I had to teach them about what I needed.

  It was difficult for me to ask for what I needed, namely getting an ASL interpreter for equal access to the discussions. I was not confident enough. At high school theater rehearsals, I would feel way behind and completely lost because I did not know where I was supposed to go or what was going on with the whole show. So even though I had previously been able to build up my self- esteem with acting, it was becoming another source of self-doubt and frustration.

  As challenging as it was to face this experience over and over again, it led to another lightbulb moment: I realized that anything was possible. That anyone, whether they were Deaf or hearing or had any other abilities, could be involved. This was monumental for me. Up until this point, I had only been in shows with all-Deaf casts. I was grateful to my high school drama teacher for giving me small chances, which would make bigger and better things possible.

  And then in my senior year of high school, I was offered a spot in a production of Robin Hood with the Cleveland SignStage after seeing a casting notice from them and auditioning. My high school allowed me to go on tour with the show if I kept up with my coursework remotely. I did not set foot in school for an entire semester, but I was still able to graduate on time.

  That was an amazing time in my life, and it was the experience I needed in order to realize that I could be a professional actor. I also knew I needed to be practical and have a backup plan. So I went to college and majored in finance. Just in case theater did not work out. Before college, Deaf culture was not something I self-identified with. I was a Deaf person, but I was not culturally Deaf until college. Up to that point I was still on a journey, trying to figure out who I was in the education system and what language suited me. When I arrived at Northeastern University, my identity as a Deaf person was very clear, in part because there was a greater population of Deaf people who used sign language. But even though I had learned sign language at my first school, I had stopped signing because my environments had shifted to focus instead on speech and hearing. At first, it was tough for me to communicate with my Deaf peers who used American Sign Language as their primary language. It was quite remarkable how welcome and patient people were while I was picking it back up. That was when I realized ASL was the language that best suited me. I had come full circle.

  My first big acting break came during my junior year of college, when I got a role in a Deaf West musical production of Pippin in Los Angeles. Since then, my work on- and offstage has been about collaboration and continuing education. I was a late bloomer as a Deaf person, but I figured out who I was along the way. And I continue to use my experiences in my theater career to support the Deaf community, to meet a wide array of people, and to work toward becoming a better person within the Deaf community.

  After the Deaf West pro
duction of Pippin, I saw a call for auditions for an upcoming production of The Hunchback of Notre Dame in California. The director was someone I had met in a workshop, and I thought, You know what? I can do this show. I went ahead and emailed the director, asking, “Have you ever thought about having a Deaf actor play that role?” After all, the main character, Quasimodo, in Victor Hugo’s original work is Deaf, though he is not often portrayed that way. I threw a bunch of ideas out there to show how it could work. Being solution oriented is important—if you see a problem, offer solutions. You can really open people’s minds.

  The director responded, “Well, come audition. Why not? Let’s see.”

  I went in. I got a callback. I got the role.

  I was the first Deaf actor to play Quasimodo in a musical. Since then, two or three other Deaf people have played that role in regional productions. That is a huge win, and I am proud that my work helped pave the way for other Deaf actors to pursue the roles they want.

  In my Broadway debut, a revival of Children of a Lesser God, I struggled to find a way to speak up and be an advocate. I played Orin Dennis, who is a loud and proud Deaf advocate, but me? I was the opposite. The role of Orin pushed me to better understand the importance of speaking up, following my instincts, and not worrying about other people’s hurt feelings when pushing to do what is right. Sometimes it is necessary to step on a toe in order to break down barriers and overcome obstacles. And the next year, I joined another Broadway revival, King Lear.

  I have also become deeply involved in the Actors’ Equity Association, because I wanted to improve and expand the world of diversity and inclusion. I am the first and only Deaf person to win a seat on the council. There is so much opportunity to be had for Deaf actors, and I am looking forward to continuing to find places where I can offer collaborative solutions to make roles more accessible and available. I am also eager to continue breaking down the unnecessary barriers between the hearing world and the Deaf world, including educating casting directors about the costs associated with accessibility. It is an additional burden to bring in interpreters. But I offer understanding, coupled with a new perspective: “If you decide that you want to put on a musical, you hire a pianist for rehearsals. How is this any different? What is the difference between an interpreter and a pianist?” See a problem, offer a solution.

  I am really excited about this next generation of people who are doing inclusive and diverse theater. I am trying to be a pioneer for them too, because we cannot sit back and wait. We have to do something now.

  For those who are Deaf or who have other abilities, here’s some advice: just find joy. Find what it is that you love, whether that is acting, writing, directing, producing, whatever, and get involved. When you decide that you are going to audition for something, be yourself and make the role your own.

  Do not wait. Life is going to pass you by, so just do the things you love. It is easy to talk about things rather than do them, but if you take the plunge and go for it, things are going to work out. It may not be how you originally envisioned it, but things will fall into place.

  Collaboration is important. If you are offering ideas and your peers do not quite follow your train of thought, just keep your mind and your heart open. You will find yourself in a better position to work on other projects in the future.

  And last but not least, it is important to own yourself. You can make the world a better place if you just show people who you are. And they need you to do that. We are listening to your story. Find your voice in whatever language fits you. Make them listen.

  If you need help, I am here and waiting for you.

  Roars and Whispers by Kelly Bastow

  Five Ass-ential Tyra Tips for Better Body Image

  by Tyra Banks

  1. Make a list of what you love about your body. Add something new every month.

  Sit down and take the time to do this. Get a pen and paper, and set a timer for five minutes. Write down as many things as you can think of that you like about yourself, and it is OK if it is just one, then post that list someplace you’ll see it every day (like on the bathroom mirror). Once a month, revisit the list and add something new.

  2. Self-care, boo!

  Get your nails did, get your hair did, take a bubble bath, take a long nap, eat a cupcake, binge a season of Big Little Lies (or Top Model, just sayin’), read an entire book in one sitting, spend some time alone. Whatever it is that makes you feel good and rested, carve out the time to do it.

  3. Fake it till you make it.

  Pretend you’re confident and love your body. Next time you’re at the pool, stroll around without a cover-up instead of hiding behind a towel. Do all the things you think a body-confident woman would do, and you might start believing yourself.

  4. Stop talking ish about other women.

  If you find yourself wanting to criticize the way someone else looks, just stop. Change the subject. Or even better, say something nice.

  5. Ditch the triggers.

  Try to cut out the things and people that make you feel bad. If you have a 105-pound friend who’s always talking about how she could lose a few, take a break. Maybe she’s not your best going-out-to-dinner buddy. If Instagram makes you feel sad, stop the scroll.

  This piece was previously published in Perfect Is Boring by Tyra Banks and Carolyn London.

  Looking “Straight”

  by Jourdain Searles

  I’ve always hated the way I look in pictures. With optic nerve atrophy, blindness, and nystagmus in one eye and nearsightedness in the other, getting my eyes to point in the same direction for photographs has always been a struggle.

  Before smartphones, I would take all my photographs with a tiny purple Kodak camera. When taking my own picture, I enjoyed orchestrating the composition of my own image. I could never trust the photographers on picture day, and the feeling was mutual. They would beg me to make my eyes “straight,” and I never knew how to tell them that it was impossible to do that unless I was taking the photo myself. I created tricks to force my eyes to look one way, straining them in the process, all in the effort to appear normal.

  When early social media platform Myspace was created, I would take pictures over and over again, not stopping until I looked some semblance of “normal” as I understood it. Now taking a hundred selfies until you find the right angle is common, and I can’t help but feel like a trendsetter. It’s a bitter victory, but I’ll take it.

  Normal was never something I could attain, but I yearned for it. Relatives and friends alike would call me “cockeyed” and make jokes that were meant to be playful. I would never fake a laugh, but I would smile, hiding my anger behind my teeth. I had to develop a thick, rubbery skin—nothing could get through, and everything bounced off into the distance. I hated my eyes, my body, but I forced myself to wear an armor of confidence. I had to. I wasn’t just a disabled girl; I was a black girl, a fat girl, a girl with short kinky hair that looked lifeless with a relaxer. I had big feet, a wide nose, and a wide heart-shaped face.

  For the longest time, I thought my appearance was some kind of cosmic joke, a punishing imperfection that could be remedied only by perfect grades and a denial of all pleasures. I became an angry overachiever, always sensitive, always feeling judged about what my eyes could and couldn’t do.

  I do wonder what it would be like if we just let ourselves look as weird as we feel. We don’t look perfect—none of us do. So why do pictures have to be? A picture can’t convey how adorable I often am. I’m short with a loud voice and a brightness that not even the best photographer can capture, even when my eyes are “straight.”

  The upside to being half-blind is that no one knows you are at first glance. The downside to being half-blind is . . . no one knows you are at first glance. It was a constant point of conflict. I wanted to be normal. I also wanted to be noticed — but only for my best qualities. I never wanted to be noticed i
n the “bad” way. I never wanted to see that look of pity on anyone’s face. Or worse, confused anger when my eyes didn’t move the way someone thought they should.

  But regardless of what I wanted, it kept happening anyway. During school assemblies, plays, and movie screenings, teachers would walk me to the front. I sat in the front row in every class. My classmates were often angry at me for what they perceived as special treatment. Meanwhile, I saw it as an embarrassing burden that stopped boys from liking me. It felt like everyone hated me for my apparent deception. They didn’t believe I was blind. I didn’t have a cane. I didn’t read in braille. I wrote stories all the time — surely I could see the words I was writing! I could feel them wondering, So what’s the problem?

  Being a black girl exacerbated everything. We are already thought of as vessels of attitude and anger. We are treated as if our pain doesn’t matter or that we have the supernatural ability to withstand pain more easily than others do. Our bodies are always a topic of conversation, our curves treated as dangerous. I wasn’t just a disabled girl. I was a disabled curvy black girl—the kind often stereotyped with finger snapping and neck rolling, especially in the primarily white environments where I lived. And I had no road map to addressing my intersections. Instead of feeling whole, I saw my identities as separate, and I struggled with the contradiction of needing help while being seen as someone who could take care of herself. It was difficult, feeling so judged and vulnerable. To deal with it, I turned to writing. I would imagine myself as a girl with a support system, friends who saw how complicated I was and loved me for it. Writing can be a safe haven that way. It doesn’t matter if you’re good with words or not. Self-expression doesn’t have to be perfect.

  In primary school, I was assigned a disability specialist by the public school system. My family never had much money, but part of the reason my mother insisted we live in our particular zip code was so I could access the best counseling and low-vision devices for my eyesight at no cost to us. I had three vision specialists throughout my time in primary school, and I loved all of them. They were, in a sense, my first therapists. I told them about my fears, dreams, and confusions. Their kindness and patience kept me going.