Why a hearing administrator learning ASL and deaf culture matters for deaf students
I was scrolling my phone last week, waiting outside my 10-year-old’s after-school pottery class, sipping a coffee that had gone cold an hour earlier, when I saw the post pop up in our district’s public education Facebook group. Michael Salamanca, associate principal at our district’s Madison Middle, just got back from a week-long conference at RIT’s National Technical Institute for the Deaf, along with three other district teachers. I clicked through out of curiosity, and what I saw stopped me.
There were photos: Michael leaning over a conference table, practicing fingerspelling with a deaf instructor, a shot of the group eating lunch on campus, everyone signing back and forth, and a 30-second clip he posted of him introducing the team, signing the whole thing without needing a voiceover or interpreter. His signing was fluent, not the halting, three-word greeting most hearing administrators learn for back-to-school night. As a deaf person who’s spent the last decade advocating for my hard-of-hearing son in our public schools, that moment hit me harder than I expected. It’s rare to see a hearing leader put in this kind of work.
I grew up deaf in this same district, 30 years ago. I was the only deaf kid in my K-12 school, and I still remember spending entire days not understanding what the teacher was saying, because no one on staff knew more than two signs. I got moved into remedial classes not because I couldn’t do the work, but because no one could communicate with me to find out what I knew. That experience is why I’m so used to fighting for every small accommodation for my son now. Most hearing admins I’ve met over the years see deafness as a medical problem to patch over with an interpreter and a checkmark on a compliance form, not a full culture with its own language, norms, and identity. They don’t see the point in learning more than the basics, if they learn any at all.
Two years ago, we had an IEP meeting for my son at his old elementary school, and the principal sat through the whole thing scrolling his laptop, talked over my interpreter constantly, and when I asked if the 4th grade could do a one-hour basic ASL workshop so my son could chat with his friends without me or the interpreter hovering, he said “we just don’t have room in the budget for that, and he talks fine anyway, right?” That’s the kind of interaction I’ve come to expect. So when I saw Michael’s notes scribbled in the margins of his conference handout—“ask deaf families what they need, don’t assume,” “move interpreter to center court for gym,” “add ASL option to all school newsletters”—I didn’t just feel surprised. I felt seen.
I ran into Michael at a school board meeting a week after I saw the post. I was there to speak about the district’s ongoing interpreter shortage, and after I finished, he came over, introduced himself, signed his full name, shook my hand, and asked if he could have five minutes to ask what my top priorities were for our district’s deaf students. I told him the small, daily thing that bugs me most: my son’s gym teacher still positions the interpreter off to the side, where they can’t see the coach’s signals for drills and games, so my son misses half the instructions every week. Michael pulled out his phone right there, typed a note into his to-do list, and said he’d check it the next day. Three days later, I got an email from him saying they’d adjusted the interpreter’s spot, and he’d checked in with my son to confirm it worked. It did. That’s a tiny change, but it’s the first time an administrator has followed through on a small ask I made that fast.
I get messages all the time from teachers and other parents across the state asking me what small, realistic things they can do to be better for the deaf students in their lives. They think they need to get a four-year degree in ASL or spend thousands on training to make a difference, but that’s not true. Michael’s example shows that the biggest changes start with small, intentional choices anyone can make.
For example, learn from deaf people, not just random TikTok videos or a one-size-fits-all online course from a hearing-led company. Michael went to NTID, which is run by and for deaf people, and that’s the right approach. Any educator can access free introductory deaf culture training from the National Association of the Deaf or NTID that takes just a few hours, no big budget required. If you’re an administrator, set aside just $500 a year from your professional development budget to send one staff member to a deaf education conference. That’s less than most schools spend on monthly classroom coffee supplies, and that one person can come back and train the rest of your staff for free.
For classroom teachers, learn your student’s name sign directly from them, not from their interpreter or parent. Use it every morning when you greet them—that takes two seconds, and it makes them feel seen in a way most people never do. Swap the outdated phrase “hearing impaired” for “deaf” or “hard of hearing,” which is what most of us prefer—that’s a one-word change that takes no effort at all. And when you’re talking to a deaf person who has an interpreter with them, remember to look at the deaf person, not the interpreter. It’s a simple habit most people get wrong, but it changes the whole conversation.
It’s still hard. We still only have three full-time ASL interpreters for 17 deaf and hard-of-hearing students across five district schools. We’re still fighting to get a part-time deaf culture specialist on staff. I still get the runaround from most administrators when I ask for small changes. But Michael’s choice to go to that conference, to learn to sign, to show up and ask what we need, that wasn’t just a nice gesture. It’s a reminder that inclusion doesn’t have to be a big, expensive program that takes years to roll out. It’s just one person choosing to do the work. I don’t know what will happen with our district’s plans for deaf education in the next few years, and I still worry about my son growing up feeling like an afterthought, the way I did. But right now, for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m standing alone asking for change. That’s more than I had a month ago, and that’s enough.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Why a hearing administrator learning ASL and deaf culture matters for deaf students