Two months before I turned 30, I got my first full-time job: working with Deaf kids in a K–8 school in Seattle. Until then, I’d oscillated between freelance writing and teaching contracts where I’d been the only Deaf person. ASL interpreters in classrooms and Zoom meetings signed to only me, and I wanted to feel less out of place. This new job was the first time I could use my native language and connect with other Deaf people around a common goal.
When my parents suggested I visit them for midwinter break, impatience tickled my stomach. They lived in Sherman, Texas, a small town an hour north of Dallas, and it was routine that my sister and I spent holidays there. But I wanted to do things I hadn’t done before.
I compromised. I would go to Austin for a few days, and then I would get on a train and meet my folks in Dallas.
I’d long wanted to see Austin’s vast Deaf scene in person, partly because I had been struggling with community myself. I worked with Deaf kids but didn’t socialize with Deaf adults. Friends had moved away. When I showed up at Deaf events, I saw few faces that I knew. I had lost connections to the Deaf community, and without those connections, I didn’t know what was left. I didn’t know how to place myself in what was there now.
I also knew someone in Austin: My friend Adam is a fourth-grade math and science teacher at the Texas School for the Deaf (TSD). Visiting him would get me out of the same old routine while letting me dip my toes into a network that was fully realized—and brand-new to me.
I’d long wanted to see Austin’s vast Deaf scene in person, partly because I had been struggling with community myself.
I booked a hotel in the East Cesar Chavez neighborhood, in the heart of the city, a decision Adam approved of. “There’s a lot of good coffee in the area, and the breakfast tacos are delicious,” he said. “If you want to explore the city, you made the right choice.”
When Adam picked me up at the airport, I immediately felt myself relax. The weather was sunny—a far cry from Seattle’s continuous winter drizzle. As we merged on Highway 71, I swung my gaze between the windshield and Adam’s hands. I wanted to see what was before me, but I also wanted to get all the information about it.
Adam had lived in Austin for 12 years, and it was the Deaf community that kept him here. Deaf people remain in Austin because of TSD, which was founded in 1857 and is the oldest continuously operating public school in the state: When TSD students graduate, the city’s Deaf adults welcome them. It was the kind of upbringing I dreamed of. In third grade, I’d gone from a Deaf day school north of Seattle to local middle and high schools where I was the only Deaf person. I hadn’t found my Deaf identity until my mid-twenties.
The Texas School for the Deaf is the oldest continually operating public school in Texas, opened on this site in 1857.
Courtesy of Texas School for the Deaf
The next morning, I was on my own. I typed the name of a café that Adam had recommended into my phone and then stared at the six-minute walk Google Maps laid out. I was nervous about the accessibility in public places, hearing places. I didn’t know how I, a Deaf person, would be received.
At Cosmic Coffee, the man behind the counter lifted his chin at me, and I hurried forward, showing him my order on my phone. I wanted drip coffee, and he gave me a thumbs-up. The pit of anxiety in me started to dissipate.
I found a table with a good view of the baristas and prepared to lip-read until I saw my order spoken. But my stomach swooped as the barista walked to me instead. In his hand was a cup of drip coffee. “Thank you,” I signed with my hands; he nodded at me.
I excitedly recounted the experience to Adam as we got lunch hours later. I was used to people simply placing the cup on the counter instead of walking over. I was used to being treated like everyone else and, therefore, having to work harder to get the information hearing people got so casually.
“One great thing about Austin,” Adam replied, “is people are so used to the Deaf community here. Service folk, from my experience, know the gist of working with Deaf people.”
On my second day, Adam took me on a tour of the school. As we drove through iron gates and over a winding road, I saw signs that announced boys’ and girls’ dormitories, administrative buildings, and even tennis courts. When we got out of the car, I realized the typical bustle of hearing activity was shut out at those gates. The societal pressure to conform was far away. Adam and I signed, and there was no one to stare at us. There was no feeling of being othered. Our signing happened within grounds where Deaf people and American Sign Language were prioritized. I didn’t feel like an anomaly, something to be considered later. I fit right in.
I didn’t feel like an anomaly, something to be considered later. I fit right in.
Beyond school grounds, the Deaf community in Austin thrives. There’s a bustling entertainment sector, with Deaf actors Lauren Ridloff (Eternals) and Russell Harvard (Fargo) at the forefront. In 2016, Harvard established the Deaf Austin Theatre, which has put on productions of The Laramie Project, Cinderella, and Next to Normal that use ASL. Beyond entertainment, the Deaf community also finds fellowship through nonprofits and watering holes like Greater Austin Foundation for the Deaf and the Austin Deaf Club.
Barton Springs is a three-acre pool fed by a cold spring in Austin’s Zilker Park.
Photo by Tomek Baginski/Unsplash
That feeling I’d found at TSD stayed with me over the following days. I went to the same coffee shop for the next two mornings. Often, Adam texted with suggestions. He knew I had a ritual of visiting bookstores while traveling, so we went to BookPeople, a locally renowned shop. I felt an exhilarated smile spread across my face as I climbed stairs to the second and third floors and came face to face with the New York Times best-selling novel True Biz by Deaf author Sara Nović. We also spent an afternoon at Barton Springs, a public watering hole where we watched swimmers young and old. After the oasis of TSD, these places were observation points of the hearing world around us.
On my last night, as I had dinner with Adam, his wife, and two daughters, my smile came easily. Before this trip, I’d forgotten what it meant to be welcomed in the world at large.
Austin showed me that community was not only about making space but also about making it inclusive. Even within the hurricane of feelings that Austin evoked in me, the city also offered sanctuary. I asked myself on the flight home how I could keep the door open for those after me without letting in too much wind.
It may never happen. But I’d like to try, and I touched down in Seattle already thinking about how I could build community with students.
