My Dad died this week and I feel really introspective. It's not as if I hadn't been praying for it. It's not as if I wasn't relieved. It's not even the fact that I had been expecting it. He was miserable and suffering. He's gone now and I'm very happy for him. But all the same the gut wrenches and the heart twists in grief. And in all of this my mind returns again and again to thoughts of what Dad must have learned, seen and tried to pass onto his daughters in 84 years worth of life.
   Born a Deaf man in 1923, Dad came into a world where men were only men if they could beat the crap out of anybody who threatened them and talking was merely a prelude to the first punch, an earlier version of  today's "trash talking". In 1930 the attitudes were the same, and Dad entered his first year of school only to find out that kids are not kind, that the teachers expected nothing but obedience, and that any deviation from the rules got your butt whipped fairly soundly. The problem was that Dad didn't know the rules yet because he was never diagnosed with a hearing problem until after the Nuns had had enough. His "rebellion" was due to not hearing, not due to stubbornness. (Although he could certainly be stubborn, oh my yes!)
   So the powers that be saw fit to send him to a residential school for the deaf. The dreaded "institution" of limestone walls and the "dedicated" hearing people there who would force Dad, along with hundreds of other kids, to drill and train and cry and suffer while learning to be "hearing". The hours of learning to pronounce your words so that hearing people could understand your speech. The smacked and tied hands when trying to convey a thought via the use of a signed and visual language. The dark nightmare of all hearing people everywhere; to be deaf and dumb.
   But the Deaf kids who attended the school dealt with the bad because the light outweighed the darkness. At home you got thumbs up and smiles or frowns. At school you got stories of catfish 3 feet long and the struggle to get it to the bank of the river. You heard tales of cities in the north, and farm life and the births and deaths of people you never met. You learned more about your classmates families than you did your own. You learned about the latest football strategies and how to pitch pennies. In other words, childhood happened, even in a residential school in the 1930s. Even when the folks in charge thought you were barely smarter than the moneys at the zoo.
   Being a rebellious sort, Dad was asked to leave around his junior year of high school.  (How quaint. In today's world he would probably have been officially expelled and escorted to the front gate by our local boys in blue.) Luckily for the Deaf, our Nation was gearing up for World War II. Men and boys all over the country donned the uniform of the Army, Navy and Marines. No, there was no Air Force then, it was the Army Air Corp. This meant that all those factory jobs were ready and waiting for the Deaf men and women of America to step in. Jobs were fairly easy to get after the war officially started, but Dad had already managed to get a position and by 1942 was trying to help his Deaf friends get positions too. He worked hard. He spent long hours in a sweat-shop-like environment, exposed to dangers I can't even imagine, working for the hourly pay plus piecemeal. He supported his mother even when she was being a crotchety old witch and even though his entire life she was ashamed that she had given birth to a deaf child.
   My parents met  in the early '50s and married. In 1955 the eldest girl was born. In '59 another girl, in 1962 the last of three females. Mom had several miscarriages in between the live births. I am sure to this day that it must have broken both their hearts to see that happen. Dad always wanted at least one boy, Mom never cared either way. So Dad worked hard, walking to the factory when the car broke down, brought home a paycheck and provided food and clothing and shelter to his family. The American Dream achieved by a man born to a poor family in the '20s, whose own parents were ashamed and lived in denial of the child they had wrought. Dad spent his whole life proving that "Deaf Can". And he did a damned fine job of it. We were never hungry or cold. We did things together as a family. We suffered together through the years of the siblings reaching puberty and beyond. And we mourned together when our mother died at the young age of 56 years.
   The kind of values that I learned through all of this are the values that I know the Republicans and Democrats refer to in their 30 second spots when campaigning. The kinds of values you rarely see today. Truth in all things (whenever possible). Honor to family, friends, and those who treat you with respect. I've learned that sometimes it's worth it to fight, and sometimes you're better off keeping your mouth shut. Actually, I've had a really hard time with the latter lesson, but I keep trying. I learned that when you work as hard at actually accomplishing the task as you do trying to talk your way out of it you derive a satisfaction unequal to the instant gratification of laying around on your butt. I learned that keeping the old skills honed may someday help you out. Skills like learning to build a fire, cooking in a cast iron pan, putting up a tent and baiting a hook may actually save your life someday. I learned that self-sufficiency makes you free. I've learned that cutting other people more slack than you cut yourself often keeps you humble. I learned to apologize. I've learned that the phrase "I'm from the government and I'm here to help you" really is an ominous phrase and not just an old vaudeville joke. I learned that standing up for what you believe in is preferable to lying down for the beliefs of others.
And above all I have learned to love deeply my friends and family. To value the human over the material in all things. And to come out swinging when any of that is threatened. My Dad taught me well. I will miss him.