The burgeoning deaf rights movement presents principal Jeri Banks and her staff at Kinzie with a potent challenge: helping deaf students develop a sense of their cultural identity while retaining the "oneness" that pervades the school. A primary concern is how the deaf should be taught language.
"Oralism," as the word implies, presumes that the deaf should focus their energies upon speech and auditory training, learning how to speak intelligibly and to read lips. The central premise is that the deaf are best served when educated with the standards of the hearing world in mind.
But in the 1970s and '80s, increasing numbers of deaf people began to see oralism as oppressive. The emphasis upon speech assumed, they said, that the deaf were damaged goods who needed to be repaired.
While Kinzie teachers are not about to discard oralism -- most believe it's a necessary lever by which students can be launched into mainstream society -- they are extremely sensitive to the strains oralism puts upon their students.
"In the old days," Kinzie head teacher Maureen Bazel says, "the language program at deaf schools was almost strictly lip-reading. But can you imagine spending all day looking at lips? It's exhausting."
As if this weren't enough, research also began to reveal that oralism was sometimes far from effective: On the average, a deaf child understood only one word in five spoken by a hearing child.
Heightening the reaction against oralism was research demonstrating that American Sign Language (ASL) was a legitimate language with its own syntax and grammar. ASL, it turned out, was not just a visual code for spoken English, but a language as complex as any other -- and as mysteriously acquired.
But just as not all Americans have good English language skills, not all deaf are competent in the nuances of ASL. Some teachers of the deaf say ASL must be taught if deaf children are to achieve real skill in what is, after all, their native language. Many believe that the best way to this is by introducing more ASL into the curriculum while making sure deaf students are as proficient as possible in spoken English.
One who disagrees with this approach is Terry Kohut, the school's only certified teacher who is deaf (there are three deaf teacher's aides). Kohut came to Kinzie in 1990 with a mission: to make students feel at home with ASL. Many of the students in his ASL classes have had difficulties with spoken English; for them, Kohut says, ASL is a kind of salvation.
"I've always believed that ASL should come first," Kohut signs, as his wife, Pam, interprets for him. "A lot of our deaf kids come to school with no language at all, and it's extremely difficult for them to learn spoken English. Now, if the deaf have had language at home, if their parents have taken the time to learn to sign, then it's a different matter. But most haven't."
Kohut himself grew up in an alienating silence. His mother, he says, hoped against hope that he might "act" like a hearing person and denied him training in sign. By the age of 8 he was deeply embittered. Only later in life, when immersed in an ASL environment, did he achieve equanimity.
"Let older students decide if they want to go the route of ASL or English," Kohut says, "but elementary kids are unable to choose; that's why they need ASL. The good thing is that here at Kinzie, teachers accept ASL; other schools are against it."
Another teacher conversant with ASL, Kaila Russick, tells stories to her pre- school class in both ASL and spoken English. A couple of years ago she was prepared to make a total commitment to ASL, but then, having taken a long, hard look at her students, changed her mind.
"One day I got a kid who could hear fairly well, and I realized that not using my voice wouldn't be fair to her. This age is an optimal learning time, so if I hold back and use only ASL, I'll be penalizing some children. Besides, exclusive use of ASL can isolate kids -- depriving them of the English skills they need to get on in the world."