The Heart of CODA
When I watched the movie, CODA, currently up for an Academy Award, I recognized the truth of the story. Annie came into the classroom with a smile almost bigger than she was, but in whole-class activities, she watched her classmates and really listened to them before she spoke. She had done well in elementary school, and when she came into my class, she continued to work with honed diligence uncommon to students her age. Annie had a wonderful sense of humor and skill in dramatic activities, but sometimes she looked so serious, it seemed to reveal a hidden almost adult layer of perspective to her. Annie didn’t volunteer often in full class discussions, but I’d heard her talking in smaller groups, and laughing; she had a wonderful laugh, almost as musical as the timbre of her voice.
The music teacher was not the only person who recognized Annie’s voice went beyond good to great. She said she hoped Annie would be able to build that talent. That was the only time a note of discouragement appeared in the music teacher’s usually very positive voice.
“Why wouldn’t she be able to grow in her musical skills?” I asked, but our lunch break was over. We had to rush back to classrooms, and I didn’t hear an answer. Only the expression on the music teacher’s face let me know that something more lurked like a heavy shadow over Annie’s possibilities. What?
Time for parent-teacher conferences arrived; the schedule gave teachers 15 minutes with the parents, grandparents, or any guardian who had signed up for the conference. Usually, the guardian came alone to the conference, but not always. Sometimes parents had no one to watch their children so they brought them along. Sometimes expecting either very positive or very negative reports on the child’s work or behavior would cause the guardians to bring the student with them to the conference. Annie’s mom came to the conference and brought Annie with her. We sat on three chairs I had set up so that no big desk separated us. With the triangular arrangement we could all see one another and feel equal.
That’s when I saw the answer to the question I had asked the music teacher. Annie’s mother was deaf. She could lipread well, but sometimes she would look at Annie for clarification or extra information in American Sign Language (ASL). Annie’s mom, with her daughter as interpreter, told me that her husband and son were also deaf. Annie paid close attention to the conversation and seemed more like a little adult than she even had in class.
During this conference, as in many others, I wished someone had told me before conferences that Annie was a Child of Deaf Adults (CODA).
No wonder the music teacher wondered if Annie’s musical talents would grow. How could a child who had such an affinity for music bloom in a home where no one else heard it or her? Did Annie feel odd each day or had she accepted this big difference between how she communicated with her parents compared to how her classmates communicated with theirs? Did she enjoy the freedom of playing music blaring loudly at home without bothering anyone? Would she face having to defend her family against ignorant comments or rude dismissive actions from other people? Had she already had to be a protector and defender as well as an interpreter?
Annie’s signing seemed smooth and efficient. I’d never conversed with anyone deaf before, and I realized how ignorant I felt about this fascinating mode of communication. I certainly had plenty of exposure through my Italian family, immigrants and some USA-born, to people who used lots of gestures when they spoke, but their actions were like splashes. ASL looked like a deep pool fed by a fast-moving stream.
Seeing Annie and her mom communicate showed people at ease with one another, acceptance, and love. I wondered about the percentage of CODAs that could be this mature in attitude and actions as interpreters. From Annie, and since that time through others, I have seen CODAs will have stresses other students may never see or understand; they also have special strengths. The unusual serious focus I’d seen in Annie compared to her young classmates connected to the life experience she had. Every day, Annie navigated between two worlds and she had mastered fluency in two languages. Because ASL is not a word-for-word translatable language, an interpreter or speaker needs quick thinking, vibrant expressions, the ability to make pictures out of ideas, and to have every motion contribute to meaning.
Annie continued in the same school system where I had met her in elementary years, and I tried to keep learning about her progress. I still wish someone who knew the family had told me about Annie being a hearing child in a deaf family. The value of knowing something practical and unique about a student’s family can help a teacher build rapport and individualize lesson options. Teachers can also realize how much more they need to learn when confronted by students who know a whole field the teacher has not ever studied. I signed up for the local community courses in ASL after learning about Annie’s family. Learning ASL has enriched my teaching and communication skills and opened the way for some students who struggled with linear languages to find freedom and enjoyment in using ASL.
And Annie? She continued to do well in school and especially in music, singing, and playing the piano. She represented her county in a state beauty pageant, had a spot with the finalists, and the talent she shared came out in song. Today Annie does YouTube videos, some with singing, some with signing. The sweet sparkles of her childhood personality still appear in her beauty, singing, and communication skills. Though Annie has had some rough patches and grief in her life as an adult, she has come through them with a heart for loving others and God. The heart signs of this CODA beat strong.
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