This is where the old Deaf school used to be.
The school was located on the campus of Southern University.
It was founded in 1938 and closed in 1978,
when it was incorporated into the
new campus of Louisiana School for the Deaf.
My mama, papa, and brother said, “What?”
“Oh papa, papa! I want to go to school.”
I leapt with joy.
And then the superintendent spanked me.
I cried out, “I want to go home!”
And the days went on.
It got better.
It was fine.
It was great.
My memories of the school are that
it was comfortable to be there,
to be among other Deaf students.
In the hearing world, I was very aware
of the separations between white and Black people.
Did we sign in class?
No, it was forbidden.
We had to fingerspell everything in the classroom.
Remember how we signed differently than white people?
Instead of signing “school” like white people,
this is how we signed “school.”
Ah, yes. I remember that!
Here’s another sign. "Copy."
Instead of this, this is how we signed it.
And here’s the sign for “None of your business.”
That’s the sign for “told.”
“Told you!” Oh!
Dang it, you’re too smart.
Time for you to go pray.
The sign we know as “church” was our sign for “pray.”
The old superintendent would whip us.
He was mean, that superintendent.
I hated it.
If you asked him something for the first time,
he would say he didn’t know.
He was a funny man.
He was the boss.
At school, we slept in beds in rows.
We would get up early,
and he made us get up all at once.
And we lined up to go to the cafeteria.
Why did we have to line up?
We couldn’t ask questions or we’d get in trouble.
Then we’d get ready to eat.
They served us oats.
It tasted funny.
We’d make these faces as we ate it.
It was different from how my mama and papa served it.
You see, all of the teachers were Black.
On Sundays, a nun and a priest would come to campus.
They were the only white people we ever saw on campus,
and they could sign. We would watch them.
So that’s how we learned how to sign, through Catholic liturgy.
Through prayers like Hail Mary and Thou Art.
Up until that point, we had only fingerspelled.
They made us work here. It was free labor.
They’d make us clean every day when I was younger.
And outside of here, it feels different.
My children just don’t have the same work ethic.
I used to work harder.
The younger generation is so different.
There is a history here at SSD.
It’s history that I want my children to know about.
I want them to remember what it was like here.
It’s a history worth cherishing, the history of SSD.
