Deaf People

Laughter. The sound rings clear through the silence at Camp Tom Tom. The atmosphere here is typical of most summer day camps - activities, kidding around and lots of laughter. But there's something atypical about this group. Most of these campers speak without sound. Camp Tom Tom, which is operated out of Scenic Hills Elementary School in Springfield, is a four-week camp for deaf children - primarily ages 4 to 10 - and their hearing relatives. Here, besides socializing, the deaf learn how to communicate with one another and with the hearing, and the hearing learn how to communicate with them.

Brian Morrison is explaining why Abba's music is difficult to translate for the deaf. His hands blur, flying fast and close to his face, even when there is no one around to interpret. "So you think of a phrase like 'Mamma Mia.' . . . Literally you're thinking Mamma, which is this sign," he said, resting his thumb against his chin, fingers and palm in a high five position. "But the phrase doesn't really have to do with mamma, it's more like an 'Oh no!' kind of thing, particularly in the context of the play.

Celine Dreher cannot hear you, but sometimes she can hear Sarah, a creation of her malfunctioning brain who "speaks" to her from inside her head. This medical double whammy - deafness and schizophrenia - has left Dreher, 44, feeling doubly isolated for much of her life. She was the only deaf person in her group home, the only deaf person at the psychiatric hospital. "I felt like there was no communication," she said through a sign-language interpreter. She sometimes had to write notes to fellow patients and staff.

Scott Stoffel, who is majoring in electrical and computer engineering at Temple University, had no trouble coming up with a topic for his required senior design project. He was studying engineering because he wanted to learn how to develop a small electronic communication device to help blind and deaf people who have trouble deciphering the tiny raised dots of Braille with their fingers. People like him. So Stoffel, 32, who is legally blind and deaf, invented what he calls a computer-automated palm Braille system to expand the communication options for the estimated 100,000 people in the United States who are deaf and blind.

The CIA job ad features a picture of Franklin Roosevelt and the suggestion: "Imagine not hiring someone because he's disabled or deaf. " Published in Ability, a new magazine geared to disabled people, both the ad and magazine speak to opportunities available under the Americans with Disabilities Act. But why distinguish between the disabled and the deaf? Though deafness traditionally has been viewed as a disability, to many, particularly those in the deaf community, those are separate categories.

Years ago, said Iraida Guadalupe, her fingers flying and forceful, deaf children at some schools had to hide in secret places if they wanted to speak in sign language. Inside the classrooms of these "oral schools," teachers discouraged all signing, often slapping students' hands with rulers, she said. The idea brought an angry scowl to Guadalupe's face. It was an infringement of their freedom, their freedom to communicate, she said. "Deaf people want freedom to choose their way of communication," she signed, while Bonnie Leister interpreted.

In the world of the deaf, Robin Wood speaks with a loud voice. As a state rehabilitation counselor, she's worked to better the lives of deaf people across Montgomery and Bucks counties. She's taught at the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf in Philadelphia, and teaches American Sign Language at Montgomery County Community College. At times she's interpreted for Gov. Casey and Mayor Goode. Now the Abington woman has turned her attention to AIDS and its implications for the deaf community.

Starting this weekend, the Budco Olde City Theater is screening a daily "captioned" matinee of Children of a Lesser God for the hearing-impaired. Based on the acclaimed Mark Medoff play, Children stars William Hurt as a speech teacher and Marlee Matlin as a deaf student who refuses to learn to speak. A captioned movie is one subtitled in English. "This is terrific," said Gail Bober, coordinator of public affairs at the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf. "Up until now the movie has not been entirely accessible to the deaf, because only parts of the movie are in American Sign Language.

Ever since she lost her hearing decades ago, a courtroom, like the rest of the world, has been a silent place for Marcia Finisdore. But it is no longer foreign territory. When Finisdore learned earlier this year that Delaware County automatically disqualified deaf people from serving on juries, she decided with characteristic determination to raise a ruckus. "To be rejected because you are deaf, before you even stand a chance to be questioned, is totally wrong," she said recently.

Last week's plea from Pennsylvanians for competent sign-language interpreters pointed to one part of a growing problem. "I have seen documentary videotapes of deaf people being incorrectly interpreted," Steve Florio, president of the Pennsylvania Society for the Advancement of the Deaf, said in calling for certification of all interpreters. But for deaf people, the problem goes deeper - to an unforeseen and paradoxical consequence of the landmark Americans with Disabilities Act. Ten years ago last month, the law heralded for deaf people and those who are hard of hearing a new era of access to public places.

Indicates wheelchair-accessible. Events are free unless otherwise indicated. Symposiums & seminars Election 2012: Tax Reform with Bruce Bartlett and Rosanne Altshuler. National Constitution Center, 525 Arch St; reservations are required, 215-409-6700 or www.constitutioncenter.org . $10 for nonmembers, $7 for members, students, teachers. 6:30 p.m. Tue. Lectures & literature African American Read In Chain , members of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority will share their favorite readings.

* SWITCHED AT BIRTH. 8 tonight, ABC Family. PASADENA, CALIF. - You might not guess it from watching him as the teen rebel Emmett on ABC Family's "Switched at Birth," but Sean Berdy is a bit of a chatterbox. Like his character, Berdy's been deaf from birth. But Emmett, who's managed to draw the romantic focus of both switched-at-birth teens, Daphne (Katie LeClerc) and Bay ("Gilmore Girls' " Vanessa Marano), sometimes says as much with his moody silences as he does with his hands.

Twenty-six people in nine states, including a Philadelphia man and the mother of a former Miss Deaf New Jersey, were charged with defrauding a federal program for the deaf of $50 million, the government says. The video-relay program helps people who are deaf or hard of hearing talk on the phone. The Federal Communications Commission regulates the program, which is funded by surcharges of 7 cents to 20 cents a month on consumer phone bills. The scheme racked up millions of phony reimbursable minutes to the program between 2006 and this year, according to the Justice Department.

When performing on stage, local actor Robert DeMayo makes quick, fluttery hand gestures. He furrows his brow and grits his teeth, exaggerating his facial expressions. But he never utters a word. DeMayo is totally deaf. With more than 20 years of stage experience under his belt, he has worked with organizations such as the National Theatre of the Deaf and New York Deaf Theatre. His act, a one-man comedy show called Me Hear NONE, is a series of silent skits. "Deaf people are still in Pandora's box," DeMayo said, using American Sign Language translated during a recent interview.

Ryan Lewis was the rare student who would breeze into the office at West Deptford High School and ask, "Do you ladies need anything?" Joanne Keegan, one of the secretaries, recalled how he frequently volunteered to help them and the guidance counselors whenever he had spare time. That's why Keegan wasn't too surprised yesterday to learn that Lewis, 17, who graduated in June, had jumped into the swift-moving Delaware River on Wednesday night to help three friends whose boat was stuck on an island off National Park.

My last column was about four words I believed could make the world a better place. If a person could simply say to another, "Tell me your story," and then listen quietly, both people would change. Within days, I received hundreds of letters requesting "Tell Me Your Story" bumper stickers I'd promised free, and almost as many e-mails - all from people wanting to join a movement that could change the planet through the listening to others' stories. A woman in Montgomery County said she wanted to open a coffeehouse where people would come just to listen to one another's stories.

Celine Dreher cannot hear you, but sometimes she can hear Sarah, a creation of her malfunctioning brain who "speaks" to her from inside her head. This medical double whammy - deafness and schizophrenia - has left Dreher, 44, feeling doubly isolated for much of her life. She was the only deaf person in her group home, the only deaf person at the psychiatric hospital. "I felt like there was no communication," she said through a sign-language interpreter. She sometimes had to write notes to fellow patients and staff.

Thyson Halley worked the room during the American Sign Language Festival last weekend at Camden County College's Blackwood campus. He seemed to know everyone, from tiny tots to the elderly who attended the first such festival sponsored by the college. He greeted scores of people with hugs and cheerful salutations. Wearing a red crown trimmed in white fur and sprinkled with rhinestones, Mr. Deaf New Jersey moved among the many vendors' tables, explaining the purpose of the festival and greeting friends and strangers.

Brian Morrison is explaining why Abba's music is difficult to translate for the deaf. His hands blur, flying fast and close to his face, even when there is no one around to interpret. "So you think of a phrase like 'Mamma Mia.' . . . Literally you're thinking Mamma, which is this sign," he said, resting his thumb against his chin, fingers and palm in a high five position. "But the phrase doesn't really have to do with mamma, it's more like an 'Oh no!' kind of thing, particularly in the context of the play.

Three years ago, Erin Wingenroth went to Camden County College to use its employment services for the deaf to help her find a better job. Counselors there persuaded her to enroll in classes full time, and she took them up on the offer. Today, the single mother of four will graduate with honors when she receives an associate's degree in mathematics. She has already landed a job at the college as a program specialist in SEED - the South Jersey Evaluation and Employment Services for the Deaf, which helps deaf applicants find jobs.