Refracted thoughts on Argentina, communication, empathy for Ben and his deafness:

(1) Can you ever really blend in when you are an outsider? Should you?

In the first day or two of our journey to Argentina, my daughter Maddie seemed oddly out of sorts when I cued to my son Ben, especially in restaurants or stores. She wanted us only to speak in Spanish, but that was impossible for Ben (and probably me too). I spoke with her in Spanish and cued English to Ben. But even when out of earshot of locals, Maddie seemed annoyed with my cueing to Ben. I soon realized that Maddie wanted to blend into the scene, and the cues were attracting attention and identfying us as “outsiders.”

I argued for using travel “judo,” and turning the situation around. Not being embarassed or awkward, but acknowledging your status and all it entails, and approaching situations with curiousity and goodwill. After all, although we were tourists, we were clearly curious and bold enough to visit, we knew the language and customs, and, on an economic level, we were spending money. Looked at this way, shouldn’t we be proud of our status? Weren’t we the intriguing tourists, Americans hearing and deaf, able to speak English and Spanish?

While the cues identified us as “not-from-here,” the cues enhanced our uniqueness as indomitable travellers. Why blend, when our difference is a source of pride?

(2) The butterfly effect?

Before heading to Buenos Aires, I had looked up the Spanish version of cued speech, called “La Palabra Complementada” and downloaded a Spanish language description from the web site of the University of Malaga, Spain, www.uma.es/moc (you can also find the web site via links at the National Cued Speech Association web site, www.cuedspeech.org). At the celebration of the 40th anniversary of cued speech in 2006, I had met the Spanish professors who have instituted cued speech in Spain, so knew something was out there. I read through the description so I could give it a whirl if it came up in conversation, and printed out the description just in case.

Arriving from the airport, we met the rental company representative and the actual owner of the apartment. I explained as best I could that we were not using a sign language but were instead using a communication system based on spoken language (I couldn’t lay my hands on the paper). Both listened politely, but the owner clearly did not grasp it.

On our last day, the owner came to check us out of the apartment (and return our deposit). She said that her daughter’s day care used some signs as part of its approach, and asked again about cued speech. I again described the concept of cueing and had, by then, found the printout describing cued speech in Spanish, the system of cues and its relation to the spoken language. She asked if she could keep the description; por supuesto, I replied.

One person in Buenos Aires, who might read the article and might bring it to her daughter’s preschool, and might discuss it with a teacher or administrator. Or maybe she only reads the article, and infrequently recalls our visit, and our cueing. Could her reading, her discussion, her memory of Ben, cause some educational butterfly effect? Could the beatings of our cueing wings, so to speak, cause a tornado of deaf communication in Argentina?

Not at all likely, I know. But sometimes I like to dream. And in the dream I see the butterfly effect of our cueing visit, and I cue to my courageous deaf son, “Can you believe it?”