“What is Engineering” in the inaugural issue of Murmurations


Murmurations, an open access scholarly journal on emergence, equity, and education, launched today. It works towards “systemic social equity in education by giving visibility to the views that are normally hidden,” and I’m honored to be part of the inaugural issue — and to finally have a more formally published version of my “What is Engineering” comic from 2011. The PDF version that link points to has full image descriptions inline*.

This comic (or “graphic essay,” if you want to sound fancier… but really, comic) is one of the more accidentally popular things I’ve made since the long blog post in which it first appears. As of 2018, it’s been viewed 7.8k times, assigned as homework to students in classrooms I’ve never seen, made surprise appearances in South Africa (when my advisor Robin Adams met another researcher who asked if I was her student, then pulled a copy of the comic from their bag), and… wow.

You can view the full inaugural issue now — Murmurations itself is an experiment as to what journals, the review process, and many other things might be. For instance, what if authors stated their positionality at the beginning of each piece? I’d never previously seen someone outwardly declare they were cisgender in a piece that wasn’t centered around gender identity; it’s refreshing to declare things typically taken for granted (I’m still waiting for my colleagues to “out” themselves as hearing and abled, whereas I’m often expected to walk around proclaiming that I’m Deaf).

What if “reviewer” (we call them “reflectors”) comments and dialogues on earlier revisions of a piece could be viewed along with the published version? What if the piece could continue to evolve after publication? This is what I’m hoping for mine; it was done by a much younger and less trained version of myself, and I would love to do a substantial revision and re-drawing based on the feedback and reflections of others, so please chime in!

Side comment: it is a strange feeling to look at page proofs of my writing every time it happens; the words look so much more polished, formal, and final than they ever felt during the writing process. Layout is powerful.


ASLCore: affordance theory, or “thing-inform”


Okay. In my last post, I danced around happily exclaiming about how cool the ASLCore project is for engineering and computing (and all the other fields it covers — philosophy, art, biology, literature, physics, etc.). In that post, I used the stress/strain curve (and its related group of concepts and their respective signs in ASL and words in English) to explain a bit of our process.

In this post, I want to discuss one of my favorite parts of working on ASLCore, which is that it leads to great conversations about what these words are, what these terms mean. These conversations happen both within the ASLCore team and outside it.

For instance, Mitch Cieminski (hearing, non-signing friend and colleague) and I were talking this week about affordance theory in the context of some of their work. During our conversation, I showed Mitch our new sign for “affordance.” (Crucial note: our intent is not to be prescriptive or say that our sign is the “correct”one — it is to offer it to the ASL community as an option, and let people choose whether and how to take it up and play with it, because this is how language works: organically, communally.)

Now, unlike some other technical terms, there’s no universalized set meaning for what, precisely, “affordances” are in English (or any other language, as far as I’m aware). If you’re new to the concept, check out the Wikipedia page, and you’ll rapidly find that the jury is still out on precisely what it means for something to “afford” something else; are we using Gibson’s definition? Norman’s? Someone else’s? (Can any of these definitions really be viewed as formal definitions?) The design fields have been debating this for a while, and I don’t think we’ll resolve that debate of anytime soon. One reason I am really proud of our signs for “affordance” and “afford” is that they feel (to me) as if they capture the shared essence of the concept represented in that discourse… without attempting to come down on one side or another of the definition debate.

The sign for “afford” (which is a verb) comes from an ASL sign that is often translated into English as “to inform.” It is directional, which means that it can be signed in ways that indicate who is informing whom. If I signed it starting from me and towards you, it can be translated “I am informing you.” If I signed it towards myself, that might be translated as “inform me,” or “let me know.” You can use it in many ways, but it’s typically set up as going between two beings/persons – person X is informing person Y.

Our sign for “afford” takes that same sign’s motion and handshape — but instead has it come from a thing (here, represented by an invisible object held in the signer’s other hand).  It’s what the object tells us. It’s what the object lets us know — about itself, about how we might use it, and so forth. For an object to afford something is for it to be informing us via how it exists as an object (as opposed to, say, having separate documentation telling us how we ought to use it).

The noun form — what an object affords — is an “affordance.” The sign adds the possessive marker (how we would indicate concepts like yours, mine, ours, etc.), which assigns the affordances as belonging to the object, and also changes it from verb to noun. Again, roughly speaking — the concept is that of the things that the object tells us about itself. (“See that object? See how it tells us things about itself? Those things it tells us — they are affordances.”)

Mitch caught on immediately as to how we could play with the concept of “affordances” via playing with the sign. Would it, Mitch asked, be signed differently if I talked about what an object affords me, as opposed to what an object affords someone else? Yes, I answered; I’d just change the directionality — the object informs me, or informs you, or informs them, and you can tell which one I mean by which direction I make the sign in. We both grinned, because this is how affordances work — an object’s affordances are relative to whoever might be using it. (An infant car seat affords sitting for my friends’ tiny children — but it does not afford such for me as a full-grown adult who wouldn’t fit.)

Thing-inform; what it is that the thing informs us of. Affordance.

Flash back to the ASLCore team discussion several weeks earlier, where I was attempting to explain the (very abstract, philosophical, and ponderously worded) formal definitions I had found to the translation team, using objects around the room as examples. A chair affords sitting. The loop on my water bottle affords my picking it up and dangling it on my finger; as does the handle on this mug, but this smooth-sided glass does not have this affordance. This door handle affords pushing, and also opening the door — but in a different way than that doorknob, or this plate on a swinging door.

We went through several translation options. Was an affordance something that was “possible” to do with a thing? No — it would be possible, albeit awkward and painful, for me to sit on my water bottle, but I would not say my water bottle afforded sitting in the way that, say, a chair does. Did “to afford” mean “to permit” or “to allow”? (This had been my previous closest sign for the concept.) No, that didn’t feel quite right; we needed something stronger. Was it what was “all right” to do with the thing? No, this wasn’t so much about social acceptability; weapons clearly afford harming people, but it’s often explicitly not ”all right” to use them to do so in most situations. 

(We also punned bilingually. Until we settled on the current sign, we occasionally used the phonetic equivalent of “Afford-Dance” as a placeholder — the signs that you’d use to mean “afford” as in “afford the cost,” and “dance” as in “dance to the music.” The room was full of winks and grimaces, snark and linguistic play.)

Was an affordance like a feature? asked the translation team. Did something need to be a product in order to afford things, did it need to be a final product, or could a design or prototype or an object that was not designed by humans also have affordances? (Yes; a chair affords sitting, but so does a fallen tree stump in the woods.) How was the notion of affordance related to our earlier discussion of the functions of a product? (Later, we would discuss how a software function in the context of computer programming was both related to and distinct from this notion of the functions of a product.)

The team pushed my understanding of the topic, of the term, of it usage, of its interconnections. I’ve written papers using affordance theory, and I had never thought so hard about what it means for an object to afford something, or what an affordance was, or was not — I could no longer take the term for granted. Creating language is hard, folks! Creating language is hard, and it’s one of the most wonderful kinds of hard I’ve ever experienced.

Anyway. We went off on this for a while, and then at some point, someone signed so, it’s what the thing tells you about itself? and I swiveled around, electric: that, THAT! Yes! It’s what the thing tells you about — how you can use it, what it’s for… 

And so they tweaked it, and then – thing-inform. Afford, the verb form. And then the noun form… what it is that the thing informs you of – affordance(s).

We had a sign. I was so happy that I think I actually jumped for joy. I definitely fist-pumped, and a bunch of (hearing) friends who knew affordance theory got all-caps, multiple-exclamation-points text messages during the next break that WE HAD A SIGN FOR AFFFORDANCE!!!! because I was… uh… maybe just a little bit excited. (There’s a reason why my name sign comes from the image of a puppy’s tail enthusiastically wagging.)

So that’s the story of “affordance” and “afford,” as best as I can tell it. I want to write this out for so, so many other signs as well — most of them have a story like this, and a meaning packed in, that is hard for non-signers to understand. I want to share with my non-signing friends some of the complexity and richness of what we are doing, in this world of engineering and computing ASL — because I hope you’ll start to see how Deafness and Deaf culture and signed languages in engineering might be something marvelous to learn from, not something to pity or treat as a mere “accommodation” or “support” to help people “catch up” (which implies that they are “behind” to start with, which is not the way it has to be).

I want you to see this with the sense of play and joy and wonder and intensity we brought to it; I want you to see why it is beautiful — so you will want to see and use this language, too.


ASLCore: stress/strain curve zoom levels


This is partly a follow-up on my post on why I can’t (yet) teach engineering in ASL (short version: lack of technical vocabulary). This month, I’ve had the great pleasure and honor of working with one of the teams tackling that problem – ASLCore. I get to spend three weeks this summer working on engineering and computing vocabulary as one of their content experts; so far I’ve been there for two weeks, with a third week coming later in July. As of this writing, the first few signs have started to appear on the website — most are not there yet (we have several hundred), but Kai, our wonderful film/web guru, is working nonstop to continuously edit and add the new ones.

It’s one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had. My role is to teach engineering and computing (the latter with my friend Ian Smith) to a team of amazing ASL masters — Deaf linguists, actors, translators, and poets — and watch them turn my fumbling non-native signs into vivid, clear, visual renderings of technical ideas. We created both signs and expansion videos of how and in what circumstances to use which sign for what concept — for instance, for signal processing, the sign for “frequency” in the time domain is different for the sign for “frequency” in the frequency domain.

Signs also need to link and flow together in ways that make them usable for visually discussing technical topics. Among other things, this means that two signs that will frequently appear together must be easy and smooth to sign together, both physically (hand shapes should be similar/efficient to transition between) and in the ways we use them to visually represent related concepts. A good example of this would be how we revised the sign we’d been using for “stress” (as in stress-strain curve) when we realized that it depicted the concept at the level you would see with the naked eye, but that all the other signs describing points on the stress-strain curve depicted what happened on the molecular level. We didn’t want to switch to the naked-eye magnification (zoom-in) level for one sign only, but have molecular-level signs for everything else; it would be confusing, similar to the effect of counting “one, two, tres, four” (counting in English and switching to Spanish only for the number “three”). Instead, we revised the sign for “stress” to fit the magnification level of the other signs in that conceptual cluster.

We also came up with naked-eye zoom-level signs for most (but not all) of the same concepts, so signers would have the option of depicting (for example) elastic deformation either at the molecular level or the level we would typically see with our own eyes in the lab or out in the world, with an object bending or stretching past the point where it ceases to spring back to its original form. (Since the molecular-level sign set was complete, but the naked-eye level sign set couldn’t be completed because of how human hands can and can’t move, the molecular-level set became the default conceptual signs, and the naked-eye set became supplementary/explanatory.)

“Stress” is also a good example of a sign that seems to have an English-ASL equivalent already, but which we wanted a technical sign for. There is a sign that’s often used as a translation for the English word “stress,” but that one word in English doesn’t always refer to the same concept — the word “stress” in English often means an emotional state, as in “to be stressed out” or “to be under a lot of pressure.” Engineering stress on a material refers to a totally different thing; the material is not psychologically freaked out by the forces applied to it, as far as I’m aware… or at least that’s not generally what we mean by that phrase in engineering. (I won’t go down the new materialist / posthumanist rabbit holes for this particular discussion.)

The ASL sign that’s often used for the English word “stress” portrays a force pushing down on a surface, so it’s a good conceptual fit for the physics concept of pressure, as in force-over-unit-area. In engineering — primarily in mechanical/materials engineering — we do talk about stress (on a material/object) with the same units as we use to discuss pressure, so our team did discuss just using the one existing sign to mean both concepts. But we ended up deciding we wanted to distinguish them, because we use the two English words (stress vs. pressure) in a different context within engineering, for different purposes — it’s the stress/strain curve, not the pressure/strain curve (the latter phrase is not allowed as a synonym for the former in English).

The translation team asked what the difference was. I had to think about it for a bit, but then explained that we often talk about pressure as being applied to an object, whereas stress in this context is more about the material that the object is made of, and we discuss much of that at the molecular level… so maybe the sign should also be portraying things at the molecular level, and then…

Anyway, you can see how we might have gotten there — and that’s just one example of the kinds of conversations we’d have throughout this process. It is fun.

The idea is that bringing together Deaf expertise in an academic field with Deaf expertise in (American) signed language will lead to — finally — linguistically, culturally, and conceptually accurate ways to express some of these ideas. We also have interpreter consultants who help us see how those signs might be used in spoken-instruction classroom situations, as well as a behind-the-scenes team doing the heavy lifting of logistics, filming, editing, annotating, and keeping the entire team happily stuffed with coffee, cheesecake, and granola bars. I can’t thank them enough for letting me be part of this.

I got a chance to try some of the new signs out with friends at the annual American Society for Engineering Education (ASEE) conference. And… and… they work. I signed an explanation of version control to a group that included non-technical ASL interpreters (who didn’t know what version control was) and technical friends (who knew what version control was, but don’t know ASL). The interpreters translated the everyday signs, and then when we got to one of the new (technical) signs, my friend Todd Fernandez blurted out — and in some cases, explained – precisely the right word to fill in the gaps. Typically, for that level of technical precision when I am signing, I have to fingerspell endlessly (and my fingerspelling is terrible) and otherwise keep on pointing to or borrowing from English. But that night, I didn’t. And it felt amazing.

I want to unpack more of these signs for my non-signing, English-reading friends so you can see a little bit of why I’m so excited by this process. More on this in my next post, where I’ll work on unpacking just a single word.


Why I can’t (yet) teach engineering in ASL


I’m a Deaf engineering professor. I want to teach my engineering college classes in ASL. This is a goal I have for the next couple decades of my engineering faculty career — to teach my way through all the core undergraduate engineering courses, plus the required undergraduate ones in my field of electrical/computer engineering (ECE) — in ASL.

Right now, this is not possible.

This might seem strange, because — I’m Deaf! I sign! I’ve taught engineering at the college level for years! But nope: being an expert at teaching a topic and being fluent in a language… does not mean you’re automatically able to teach that topic in that language. You need to be fluent in that topic, in that language.

And for that to be possible, vocabulary needs to exist. You need ways to efficiently express disciplinary concepts in the target language (in this case, ASL). Vocabulary is a key part of language; language has to be there for communication to happen; communication must happen for teaching to occur. And right now, I don’t have (good) signs for basic concepts such as “voltage,” which is an idea so fundamental that I can’t teach elementary school electronics without it, let alone college-level classes.

Now, I can (and do) teach engineering voice-off, signing, but I’m not using ASL when I do so; I’m using a signed form of English (which some people would call PSE or contact sign). I’m basically transliterating, with the occasional insertion of ASL grammar and a couple of classifiers. I’m not voicing, but you could read an entire English engineering lecture off my lips. In other words, I’m teaching in “English, with hands.”

ASL is not “English, with hands.”

We need vocabulary. We need ways to express these ideas within Deaf language and Deaf culture — ways that are efficient, that don’t require tons of expansion every time. In English, we say “voltage,” not “the electric potential difference between two points.” The latter is a definition, not a term. Similarly, I can explain voltage in ASL (perhaps as “electric pressure point point compare”), but I need a sign for the concept, and other concepts like that. If I can’t, I don’t have a professional vocabulary. It is akin to restricting technical communication to Basic English or Up Goer Five. If someone used the phrase “funny voice air” instead of “helium,” we’d figure they didn’t know what they were talking about, because there’s a word for that.

We also need ways to express these ideas within this language, not just ways to refer to the concepts as expressed in another language, as with fingerspelling. Yes, short fingerspelled words can turn into lexicalized signs, like “bank” and “OK,” and in this case perhaps “amps,” but what do we do for “semiconductor” or “bypass capacitor” — abbreviate? “SC” is already “South Carolina,” and “BC” is birth control, and I’d like to use my brain for things other than figuring out sentences like “You’ll need a BC in P to smooth the MC input V.” Or if we break the English word into components and then sign those, we get things like “tiny administrative person” for “microcontroller” (micro-controll-er). And then I flinch again, hard.

At that point, we’re just pointing to the English. If I wanted English, I would use it. I want ASL.

Every other Deaf engineer I know does this exact same thing. The moment we begin discussing technical topics, our signing shifts — hard — towards English. Perhaps we flinch a little and apologize to each other for using mouthing (and only mouthing/lipreading) to distinguish between “electric,” “battery,” and “circuit.” Perhaps we comment that, yes, signing “tolerate” (as in “to put up with, to bear”) is a poor sign for “tolerance” (permissible variation in a measured value). But we do not have other ways to do this. Not yet.

Fascinatingly enough, this has happened before — in engineering and computing and other college-level STEM fields, even — with spoken languages. There are plenty of examples of decolonizing the language of (collegiate/professional) instruction — I recently learned that Japan is doing this, for instance — but my favorite example is Hebrew and the War of the Languages. When the first Jewish (later Israeli) universities were being established, they knew that Jewish culture was amazing, and that Hebrew was a rich and beautiful language with a deep, deep history and multiple ways of expressing the concept of “God” — but no way to express the concept of “computer.”

And guess where a lot of their professors had trained? Germany. Austria. All their notes, all their books, all their training on… say, computers — they were obviously not in Hebrew, because there was no Hebrew word for “computer.” But yeah, it was a little problematic to be teaching programming… at a Jewish university… in German. And so, rather than capitulate to “eh, I guess we have to teach in German,” they built up the Hebrew language so that they could have technical discussions within it. They enriched their language and their culture instead of switching to another. This took a tremendous amount of work — many people, over many years, working to create a world where it was possible to teach computing in Hebrew. And now they have it.

That’s what I want for ASL and engineering (and computing, and technology). It’s going to take a long time. Probably the rest of my career. (“Congratulations, you’ve found a lifetime side project.”) It’s going to take a lot of collaboration with a lot of people and a lot of work and it’s never going to be done, because languages are never done. It’s going to be a lot of awkwardness and stumbling experimentation and a lot of new engineers brave enough to go out into the world not just with technical skills, but with language (ASL) to communicate those skills, and we’ll have a lot of short-term inefficiencies compared to “but why don’t you just teach it in English or signed English?” — but look: we’re going to make a world.

It does not yet exist. That’s why we need to make it.


Parents have visited, semester winding down


Freewrite/braindump/linksave.

My parents came to visit me in Rochester this weekend, which was nice – and not only because I got to eat out more than I usually do. I like how my relationship with my parents has been slowly evolving into one between adults, one of whom happens to be the child of the other two.

They came to Imagine RIT, which is a huge student (and non-student) project display festival. It’s massive. Massive. And it’s also the largest-scale interpreting setup I’ve ever seen to date — interpreters everywhere, stationed across campus, ready to walk over to whatever exhibitions needed them. Seeing DHH folks in a mix of both presenter and visitor roles was also quite nice.

I’m still navigating how to interact with groups of people when some of them know me as “a person who speaks” and the others know me as “a person who signs” — which language do I use when? — but it was also nice to watch my parents interacting (fairly smoothly!) with signing DHH people. Mostly I stood back and watched them chat with each other, but a few times I dropped in (signed) comments and it felt pretty smooth. (But generally, it would feel weird to sign to my parents through an interpreter… about as odd as if they spoke Chinese through a translator to me. The presence of other people is what allows us to use those combinations of modalities and moderations with each other.)

The semester is winding down, and I’m staring at the research projects that remain. I am quietly excited about some of them, eager to be challenged by others, and (honestly) hoping to find ways to redirect yet others towards other people as quickly as possible before I’m locked into something I don’t actually want to commit to – the work of how to say no and frame that no in ways that actually work for others. (It seems silly when I write this, but… the intellectual and emotional labor associated with that last part are tremendous sinks for me right now. Tremendous.)

I’m still trying to… maybe not “rediscover” my scholarly soul, but to keep a scrawny, struggling flame alive. I want to read things. I want to just sink into ideas and learn and think, and sometimes it feels like there’s so much friction around all of it I want to give up on it all. Still working on this.

And then random links I don’t want to lose. I found an old newsletter from Erik Kennedy about Magic Ink, which is a lovely longform piece on interface design that would probably make for a nice inflight reading at some point. And then there are the things I want to read and do, like the Chinese chicken soup recipe my mom just sent me (yep, we ate this as kids).

Okay. Back to… things. I feel like these posts are me surfacing for air and gasping; this space (online, text, long-form) is still where I can most easily breathe. And I need air, and company, in spaces where I can breathe… well.


Presenting at RIT’s Interdisciplinary STEM Ed Research Forum


I was one of the presenters yesterday at RIT’s Interdisciplinary STEM Ed Research Forum, so I’m posting my talk abstract here mostly for posterity, and because I’m too worn out at this point in the semester to say anything clever about it.

Title: Technology, Engineering, Computing, and Hacker/Maker Curricular Cultures: Alternative Universe Edition

Abstract: What is engineering? Who is a maker? What does it mean to be a technology professor? Questions like these point at the underlying ontologies of a group’s curricular culture, or their shared basic assumptions regarding teaching and learning, including how one should act, think, and feel in educational situations. My work engages with curricular cultures in postsecondary TECH (Technology, Engineering, Computing, and Hacker/Maker) education, a.k.a. “the making of people who make things.”

One aspect of this work is, quite literally, world-building and alternative universe creation. By bricolaging technical work with narrative interviews, ethnographic observations, science fiction, and the visual and performing arts, I create… not science fiction stories, but engineering (tech, computing, and hacking/making) education fiction — or rather, things that start as engineering fiction, as well as tools for making them into engineering nonfiction.

In this talk, I’ll discuss the prototyping of alternate TECH education universes and cultures with two case studies: (1) what if computer science college courses were modeled after hacker/maker community praxis? and (2) what if engineering education had been historically led by Deaf people, and hearing engineers were a minority? As with most cross-cultural encounters, seeing other possibilities for TECH cultures helps make us aware of the assumptions we’ve embedded in the discipline thus far, so we can decide what worlds we want to build going forward.


ASL lector notes for the Easter Vigil Mass – 1st reading (Genesis 1-2, Creation)


It is Holy Week, one of my favorite weeks of the year. I have the privilege of signing the 1st reading for the Saturday Vigil Mass this year in Rochester, and I’ve posted my translation and performance notes in case it might be useful to someone who wonders about the translation process (which I’ve written about elsewhere: part 1 and part 2).

The first reading (long version) is most of Genesis 1-2, or the (Yahwist) Creation story. I inadvertently wrote my notes so that they will (hopefully) make sense to both signers and non-signers — I hope this will be useful to my non-signing friends as an explanation of what it’s like (for me) to think in ASL. Basically, the left column is the English translation, and then the middle column is me trying to describe the images that come to mind when I read it.

This isn’t analysis of any sort, it’s not translation, it’s… what is the movie in my mind, right now, when I read through these words? The short version is that God is a lot like a really excited 5-year-old, because… I’m the one signing this, and I’m a lot like a really excited 5-year-old.

After the imagery description in the middle column, another round through the reading follows on the right, with the gloss (as best as I can capture it) for what I sign during the Vigil Mass. I wrote most of this post while I was preparing to lector for the Boston Deaf Catholic Vigil Mass last year (2017). At the time, I still felt really awkward, shy, and hesitant while signing; my expressive usage of the language was very new and limited, and I’d never worked or lived among other Deaf people or otherwise had much of a cultural/linguistic immersion. Vigil Mass 2017 was a linguistic/spiritual/identity landmark for me; it was the first time I felt like I was expressing exactly what I was trying to express in ASL. Which… was a huge deal for me, as a hesitant new signer (thanks, growing up oral).

Thanks to Deacon Patrick Graybill for last-minute feedback on Holy Thursday 2017, and to God for… well, basically… everything, right? That’s what this reading is all about.


Mass Lector prep notes, part 2


This is taken from a series of emails from February 2017; see part 1 here or the eventual translation notes (which include the original readings).

Next installment of lector prep notes: reading in the car (or train, or bus, or waiting for a meeting to start, or… I do not schedule in extra time for this, this is all stolen moments)

I’ve had the handwritten (and thus pseudo-chunked) of the readings in my purse for the past few days now. This stage is a long one for me — it’s reading and absorbing the Scriptures. It usually ends up with me memorizing them… sort of. Not memorizing the words, but memorizing the meanings.

I’ve read enough cognitive science research to know that we remember things better when we try to remember them (and then check and correct) than when we simply look at them and try to remember, so I always start *without* the paper, by trying to remember what… the readings… were about. (Actual first attempts, here — with absolutely no shame, because this is what it looks like when anyone without an eidetic memory starts.)

Reading 1: From Sirach. Something about following God’s law; that’s the big theme and it’s important. Also that God does not make exceptions on that; he doesn’t tell some people “yeah, you can sin.”

Psalm: …yay following God’s law, it makes me happy? Probably “blessed” and “delighted” are words in there… the Psalms use those words a lot.

Reading 2: Paul telling people about God’s… he doesn’t use the word “law,” I don’t think. But it’s something like “I know this stuff, you know this stuff, this is God’s stuff, the folks in charge are clueless and so they killed Jesus.” Also he quotes Isaiah on “eye has not seen, ear has not heard” but I don’t know why.

So yeah! You can see that my first attempt understanding of these is not terribly mature — I don’t understand these readings very well; I don’t remember what they mean, I don’t know what they link to, I only have vague blobs of ideas that “following God’s commandments is important” and “you should learn these things and not be clueless about them.”

But notice that I actually have some knowledge of what I’m missing (“why did Paul quote Isaiah?”) and now have targeted stuff to check and look up. And also notice that by starting with the meanings (and not the words), I focus on the themes that link across the readings! And that I’m not stuck in the English — that I’m going for conceptual understanding first, and pondering that! I deliberately try to paraphrase when I write these notes — even if I can remember the exact English words, I’ll say or write out paraphrases in parallel, to make sure my understanding is deep and not just parroting.

So now, after I work from memory as much as possible… I now go back and look at the readings and fill in a more detailed understanding of what I missed (for instance, the first reading has the theme that you can individually choose to follow God’s law under any circumstances; it’s your choice — that’s a HUGE idea in there that I didn’t touch in my first rendering). And I talk with God about what things might mean, and flag stuff that I’m not sure about, or that flags my attention (in the second reading, it says that God did these things for our glory — wait, not his glory, or… general glory, but our glory, for us? Oh my gosh, *our* glory! )

My notes/thoughts/attempts become progressively more detailed as time goes by, and as my understanding of the readings deepens and they soak not just into my brain, but into all of me. It’s really a lot like very small continuous background-process Lectio, for me. This process, the reading-understanding-praying process… I spend the most time on this one.

I did not write up the third part, which is the “actual translation part” (i.e. going from whatever mix of languages I use as source texts… into ASL) — but that’s the part most people fixate on, and I’m trying to specifically write about the stuff around it. For a glimpse at my process, you can see the eventual translation notes (which include the English versions alongside the ASL gloss/notes) and look for how this process has informed it.


Mass Lector prep notes, part 1


This is taken from a series of emails from February 2017, the last of which was never written because… grad school happened. Hopefully it gives you a look into my process, and gives me (or someone else) a place to start a better writeup for a broader audience someday. Also see part 2 and my eventual translation notes.

I found out this morning that I’ll be the Mass lector for Sunday, Feb 12 (6th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Lectionary 76), so I thought I’d take notes on my prep process so you can see what I do.

Note that this is what works for me — everyone is going to be different! I’m a native English reader who grew up mainstreamed oral deaf with a highly visual imagination, a grad student used to analyzing texts, and still a very new Catholic. I’m a young woman, I’m an engineer, I like cheese and love living in Boston, and ASL is my 4th language… all these things affect how I experience Scripture, and thus how I sign it. The Word reflects through me when I’m a lector, so *I* have to be in the Word, and it has to be in me, or… I really can’t do anything. (Seriously. I don’t actually know ASL. I’m painfully conscious of this.)

The first thing I do is read the readings, just to see what they are. Then I panic, usually because Paul is being densely theological again. Or because the Psalm is so gorgeous that I won’t be able to do it justice. Or something. I totally have that moment of WHY DID I VOLUNTEER FOR THIS?!?!? every single time (actually, I volunteer as lector because I’m terrified of signing in public, so… really, I asked for it).

This is awesome, because it immediately reminds me that I need to pray. And it makes it completely obvious that anything I do is just going to be God’s grace, not mine. And it’s good practice in not hyperventilating too much. Which I still do. #notasaintyet

Pretty much the first thing I do is make hard copies of the readings so I can start carrying them around with me all the time. Sometimes I’m lazy and I use a printer. Tonight I had some time, so I copied them out longhand.

As I copy them, I read them out loud to myself, sentence fragment by sentence fragment. I play with and enjoy the sounds and feelings of the words in my mouth, because it’s *fun.* (Thanks, speech therapists!) I mean… try saying Psalm 119 and *not* having fun! Or… do your best Paul voice on 1st Corinthians. Seriously. It’s fun. Make God laugh. He absolutely has a sense of humor.

I guess I’m starting to do chunking already as I write them down. I never thought about that consciously before tonight, but it does help to imagine things piece by piece — each of my lines is sort of like… a breath of images, the sort of little fragment you might pull out in Lectio Divina. In a way, this feels a bit to me like doing the first half of Lectio; I’m reading very slowly and letting it sink in, and the chunks fall out very naturally from the tiny Lectio-sized bits I need to take as input if it’s going to sink in.

I really can’t process more than a couple words of Scripture at a time, and I’m a strong, strong reader (written English is my native language; I learned speech later, so text feels like home, and I outread most of my professors). But Scripture is different. I have to take it slow, because I’m not so much reading it as I am letting it read me.

I’ve attached a photo of my writing so you can see the proto-chunking. (You’ll see I’m not doing the Gospel, since our Mass is signed and our priest does that one.) If I eventually give notes to the voice interpreters (which I don’t always do, because sometimes I don’t have time to prep that well, because I’m human), it’s basically this sheet, because it has my proto-chunking.

Also, as I copy them, I’m noticing words and references I don’t know, so I have them in mind for later in the week when I go look them up. Or sometimes I become impatient (because I’m impulsive and impatient — again, this is the process that works for *me*) and do a first-pass look-up on my phone with Google. For instance, tonight, I wasn’t sure where Paul was pulling his quotation from. 2 minutes of Google later — ah, Isaiah 64. That’s good enough for now; I know there’s a findable answer that I can investigate more deeply later, and I’ll get to that. (Well, probably. Maybe I’ll forget or run out of time. Again, I’m human.)

I also sort of can’t help but imagine visual things while reading anything, so my brain has already started to generate images… but they’re not signs. They’re not even super clear images yet; they’re just teaser trailers. I’m going to work more with those as I learn the readings; I’m not worried about those now. Right now, my goal is having hard copies to carry with me, and making the hard copies is an opportunity to think the Scriptures through, and whatever my brain does visually, it does. I’m not even thinking about signing right now. I’m just getting into the readings and letting them get into me.

That’s all I did today. I just made paper copies of the readings. Lest you think I spend a ton of time on this… I don’t. I have a full time job, and I’m a PhD student on top of that, and volunteer a couple places, and hang out with my friends (and probably should see my family more). This prep, when I’m doing it, effectively replaces almost all my daily prayer routine — I set aside the other reading, praying, etc. I’m doing and just basically make my God-time into Sunday Mass and this. (I mean, I’d love to get to daily Mass and be consistent with Morning and Evening prayer, and all sorts of stuff, but that’s just not how my life works right now, so — this is me.)

Next: driving (yes, I do mean in my car). Stay tuned. ;-)

I probably won’t be this detailed in all my descriptions, but… it happened tonight. Feel free to share this with whoever you like, and to comment and ask questions and whatnot. I’ll do my best to keep this up if it is helpful to others; it certainly is helpful to me to think about my process.

See the next post in this series.


The doors we leave open


I’ve been thinking about the doors we leave open, even if they don’t look like they’ll be taken at the time.

One version of this, for me, is that I grew up deaf and oral in the mainstream (local public school with hearing kids). I grew up with speaking and listening as doors that were flung wide open with flashing neon signs and adults hurrying me towards them — but the doors of ASL and Deaf culture were also there, in ways that were important to how I engage with them now, as an adult trying to learn.

There was the itinerant Teacher of the Deaf who visited my elementary school and (briefly) showed 7-year-old Mel a few signs before her parents put a stop to it. I don’t have clear memories of this, but discovering that IEP note as a graduate student was a jolt: my younger self had shown promise for learning how to sign at a remarkable rate, and seemed to enjoy it? Signing was a thing that I had… and maybe could… enjoy, not only fear? These were doors it took me twenty years to walk through.

Even if my parents stopped me from learning ASL (or whatever variant of contact sign people were going to use with me), they did bring me to watch the local children’s theatre, which had Deaf performers. As a slightly older child, I wanted nothing to do with ASL or the Deaf community; it was foreign to me, and everyone kept telling me I was so smart precisely because I could act so much like a hearing kid. I loved music (“like a hearing kid,” I thought, not knowing that Deaf people could also love music). I loved musicals. So my parents brought me to Oliver, and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and there was signing on the stage… which I couldn’t understand. But later, I could look back and think: there was art there, dancing, theatre, music… and there was ASL there, blended in with them. Exploring this strange new Deaf world wouldn’t mean giving up these things I loved; it might even expand what I could imagine in those spaces. These were doors that took me fifteen years to walk through.

There were the educational interpreters who were assigned to me for a few years, after my parents stopped the ToD from teaching me to sign. (Yeah, I’m not sure what the logic behind this was either.) I had already learned how to learn everything from books, and didn’t know this strange new language they were using with me, so I resented and mostly tried to ignore their presence as much as a lonely child could. As soon as I was able to formulate the argument that I didn’t “need” interpreting, I did — and breathed a sigh of middle-school relief that these people wouldn’t follow me through all my teenage years. But a few years ago, when I started thinking about (willingly) learning ASL and (willingly) seeing what this whole “interpreted access” thing was about, I had two people to reach out to. And they responded! (Thanks, Jamie and Christine… and further back, though I couldn’t find her, Francesca.) These were doors that took me thirteen years to walk through.

There were the folks who were (ex-)interpreters, or captioners, or signers, and kept being those things while we were friends and colleagues in the spaces I already worked in and wanted to be in (which is to say, tech spaces – not Deaf spaces). Who kept being adjacent to both worlds, who kept reminding me that trying these things out might be easier than I thought. Who reminded me that trying it wasn’t a permanent commitment; who walked me through how I could ask for things and set them up, when it was time. (Thank you, Steve and Patti and Mirabai.) Took me… seven years to walk through some of those doors. Or five. But I walked through them all, eventually.

So yeah, those doors. Important things. We don’t know when people will take them, but… even if it’s “not now,” even if it might well be “never,” we… just never know. Open the doors and keep them open, even when it seems completely useless. Wait, and wait, and wait. It’s important that these doors be open, because we never know who’ll come through them, at the most surprising times.