Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Deaf soup and Surdo salad, anyone?

May 28, 2010

Upon reading Mike McConnell’s recent blog, “Very Special People Hate Crime”, deafherbalist’s comment under the article caught my eye:

“Next week they will come with a new name for a salad. I would not be surprised if they come up with “Surdo Salad.” I am not sure about the week after but they will come up with something. :-)”

Interesting observation, one that many deaf people have noted time and again on DR or DVTV and elsewhere on the deaf v/blogosphere.

I’m tempted to call this tendency to put a multitude of labels on D/deaf oppression or opposing views as “surdo salad”.

We’ve seen concepts such as deficit thinking, audism, linguicism, deaf eugenics, and now special “deaf” hate crime all hatched to describe what is considered discrimination or oppression against the D/deaf.  There’s been so many labels, I’m sure I left out a few.

So much academic hairsplitting, it’s ridiculous. Notice how these labels imply victimization.   When the labeling gets repeated ad nauseum, it’s like a neon sign flashing “kid glove treatment”.

Some of this labeling has arisen out of deafhood, when you look back on the deaf v/blogosphere over the last  three years. There’s this pattern of someone acting as deafhood’s mouthpiece, and the whole v/blogosphere suddenly takes up the label without question.  It’s getting to seem like a cult of the faithful who ardently believe deafhood will save Deaf culture and ASL.

Speaking of ardent belief, when I viewed Bunjer’s vlog, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a joke or a serious earnestness about  Paddy Ladd.  Bunjer signs what was a nickname that children came up for Paddy Ladd as he told them stories about deaf culture, the sign-name of “Jesus”.  We all know that Jesus told parables, as the Christian bible relates.  Now, I dunno about you, but I‘m taking that vlog with a grain of salt.  After all, it was Jesus who warned about anti-Christs, the imposters who will come after him, lol.

This Deaf soup called American deafhood ain’t a religion.  It’s a philosophy that was written by an English deaf academician and I can respect it as such.  Many deaf people relate to the journey of understanding their deafness and are relieved to realize that there is nothing wrong with being D/deaf.

However, deafhood leaders here in this country have cherry-picked concepts out of Ladd’s book to suit their goals for Deaf culture and have politicized what was a philosophy for understanding one’s own deaf journey into a cult-like ideology.

It is mindful to remember that Hitler took advantage of the German people when he called on their patriotic feelings for the “Fatherland” by harking to a previous golden age and calling for a pure Aryan race, which was his plan to rid the Jews and anyone else whom he didn’t consider “Aryan enough”.

American deafhood is taking advantage of D/deaf people when it calls on their feelings for Deaf culture by harking to a previous golden age of Deaf culture and calling for a pure Deaf culture which “weeds” out anybody who isn’t “Deaf enough”.

We D/deaf are no more special than anyone else.  Herein lies the problem of American deafhood.

Specialness spells elitism.  Just look at that bland Deaf soup.

Kid glove treatment spells victimhood.  Just look at that Surdo salad of labels.

Strange dichotomy, that Deaf soup and Surdo salad.

Not a wonder I don’t have an appetite.

Please note:  Any comments containing personal attacks, smear campaigns, name-calling on anyone will be deleted.


Life With Whodunit

May 7, 2009

Start to sigh and yawn, and my ears get nibbled, ugh.

Pull the bedsheets over my head.

Repeat of same nosing under my hands, ugh.

Can’t even get a 10-minute snooze.  I don’t even need an alarm clock.

Start pulling on the clothes, the bra strap gets snapped before I can hook it closed and my underpants gets pulled ’round before I can pull ’em up.

Fight with the damn socks, then the shoes.  The shoes are a real wrassle, especially those with shoelaces.

Make the bed and I no more than turn around, and the bed’s undone…again.

The kleenex from the wastebasket in shreds on the rugs, a chewed tube of hand lotion oozing from several holes on the blankets, more shredded kleenex from a nightstand on the blankets…like some kind of white nest or something.

Put on my hearing aid, and hear loud thumping on the wood floor.

My 2-pound weights for weight-lifting exercises are being thrown around.

Hubby hollers from downstairs, The elephant stomping around up there?!  Me??? yeah, right.

In the time I go to pee and wash my face awake, the earpieces of my new glasses are chewed off and the frame is bent out to the point of no return.

OUTSIDE, you, yeah, YOU!!! *slam of back door*  Boil hot water for my morning tea and hubby’s filtered coffee.  Whew.

*loud tear of howling noise from outside, waking up the neighborhood*  SHADDUP, you!  NO, NO, and what part of NO do you not understand?

More noise, drat.

Open the back door to see the potted plants dug up, dirt churned up in every direction on the back patio.   The back yard already an obstacle course of holes deeper than putt-putt holes.

The rocket is inside before you can say jackrabbit…

…and already there in my favorite chair before I seat my ‘arse.

And on my lap before I get the chance to put the coffeecup down and scald myself instead.

And after wiping myself down with shredded kleenex and before I can even sip my tea,  my face gets slobbered and slicked down.  DOWN, you, yeah, YOU!!!

NO, you do not pull up the (8 x 10′) rug and chew on the damn fringe.  Puts a heavy chair on each corner of the rug.

NO, you do not chew on the remote control.  Bags the remote inside the lounger chair’s pocket.

NO, you do not chew on the sofa pillows.  Throws out the shredded tassels and puts the pillows up high on the piano.

Here now, play with your toys.  Gazillion squeak toys all over and  I trip on them throughout the day.

Hubby kisses me goodbye and goes out the door to work.

Yiiii-ii-i, shot out like a rocket again and down the street before you can say…well, you know by now.

Hubby clenches his teeth and lets out an expletive-loaded tirade as he goes down the street in search.  Neighbors walking their dogs go “tsk, tsk”.

Back in the doghouse (outside).

Couple of hours go by and I prepare lunch.  Open the back door and the rocket is inside before I can even whistle.

While fixing a sandwich I hear furious wanking of some paper, uh-oh.  *spinning my head around, first in one direction, then the other*

Two telephone directories shredded all over the office floor.

The gas meter guy enters the back yard gate to check the meter, and the rocket is ricocheting off furniture and window sills, furiously sounding off for a good thirty minutes.  SHADDUP, you, yeah, YOU!!!

I turn to my freelance job on the computer, and realize a couple of hours gone by and it’s TOO quiet.  Which means trouble.

I go upstairs and find the laundry basket of dirty clothes turned over and the clothes strewn all over the hall floor.

A photo album is shredded.

Go back downstairs.  The morning mail is yesterday’s mail on the doormat.

After another potty outing, the rocket shoots inside with something in her mouth, and I’m thinking, Is that a stick?  Aaaagh, a  steak knife? Where the hell did she find that?

The Artful Dodger game starts, she with the knife handle in her mouth and trying to avoid a muzzle wrassle, and me with a chewbone and trying to avoid getting sliced.  Back and forth and ’round a coffee table several times first, then under the dining room table amongst the chair legs, then ’round the living room furniture and counter-clockwise several times over.

Finally corner the rocket under the coffee table and gingerly remove the knife and do a fast switcheroo with the chewbone before she nips at the knife.

Think I’ve gotten enough exercise…a walk? forget it, girl.

The rocket hasn’t taken a nap yet since she arrived in the house.

I’m thinking,  How much more trash before the day is over?

Dump all the chewing fodder into the kitchen trashbag, draw up the strings, start for the back door without realizing the rocket is just underfoot.

I get to the trashcan just in time to see out of the corner of my eye the rocket speeding down the street…again.

This time I just stand in the front yard and wait.

The rocket shoots off in all directions here and there.

Finally she slunkers to my feet.

Looks at her with folded arms and says, If you don’t behave, you’re going in the trash can yourself.

At which point, she stood stock-still and looked at me with those brown eyes with black Cleopatra eyeliner and a worried frown of black eyebrows.  Then she cocked her head.  Like, Really? You’d do that?


We walk back to the house together.  I sit down in my favorite chair and she WAITS for me to sit first.

And then I pat my lap, and she hops up onto my lap into my arms.  I lever the lounger chair so that the footrest comes up and the seat back goes backward.

I rock the chair gently, and the rocket puts her head on my chest like a baby.

In the evening she greets Poppy at the front door with a tail that waggles her whole body and she jumps up and down on his legs.  Hubby protects his jewels *roll of eyes, ahem*, but he grins at the transformation.

I eyeball with a no-nonsense glare at him and mutter, You’re the one who’s gonna take her out for her walk.

Yup, him and Whodunit.  People walking their dogs oooh-and-aaah over how cute she is.

Cute, my ass.


The dog had been dumped twice at the same dog shelter before we adopted her.

At least she’s housebroken…whew.