PRINTSound of silence
After losing her hearing, Stephanie Logan has devoted her life to serving the deaf
Suzy Lafferty
Stephanie Logan addresses one of her four American Sign Language classes in MU’s Townsend Hall. Stephanie says that ASL is predominantly about body language and facial expressions, not just hand signals.
October 18, 2007 | 12:00 a.m. CST
Stephanie Logan’s white minivan approaches her two-story brick home on Bright Star Drive. Two of her children and three neighborhood friends run from the home and jump in. Despite the car’s seven-minute-fast clock, the car pool is late to swim team practice. The car zooms, a momentum paralleled by Stephanie’s whipped-back ponytail and “mother on the go” T-shirt and tennis shoes. Stephanie approaches an intersection with a never-ending stream of cars in the opposing direction. She sighs while glancing in both directions, then looks at her rearview mirror.
Her daughter Maggie is speaking. Maggie’s lips are the focus of the downward-angled mirror. The set-up is a communication system between the kids and Stephanie, who has been deaf for almost 17 years.
“It’s a constant, look at kids, look at road, look at kids, look at road,” Stephanie says. “I may get two words of what they’re saying, but I can tell by their body language and be able to say, ‘You need to leave your brother alone.’”
Stephanie can’t hear “I’m hungry” or “Are we there yet?” But she can see it. She’s adapted to a soundless world. As a mother of five, an executive director, a teacher and a student, she doesn’t have time for her disability to slow her down, so she doesn’t let it. And whether she’s seeing her children laugh or watching an episode of American Idol, Stephanie finds joy in the sight of sound.
A silent awakening
When Stephanie was 23, she contracted bacterial meningitis, an infection that attacks the membranes and cerebrospinal fluid surrounding the brain and spinal cord. If it’s not fatal, the disease can lead to learning disabilities, behavior problems, brain damage, blindness, speech loss or hearing loss. Doctors believe Stephanie might have contracted the disease from an infected carrier who visited a Howard Johnson hotel in Athens, Ga., where she was an accountant and auditor; Stephanie directly handled the hotel’s money.
Stephanie’s body fought the infection for one month until high fevers caused her to lose consciousness. One week later, she awoke in an empty hospital room. It was silent — not the faint buzz of a heater or the swooshing sound of a fan.
Silent.
As her family moved and talked, she saw a slow-motion world. It was like Chariots of Fire, she says, when the actors run on a beach in half time. The details of her hospital experience are blurred. She’s let herself forget.
“It’s so difficult to think about that day,” she says. “There’s something, I think, in our brains, as far as our own mental health, that switches off and says, ‘This isn’t anything we need to worry about,’ as a safety mechanism.”
Stephanie went through counseling and speech training for three years and learned to lip read. The process was a foreign concept for a woman who had never known a deaf person, who as a child was not allowed to play outside when the neighbor girl with Down Syndrome was near. Stephanie had to see people, the world and life differently now.
She returned to her job at the Howard Johnson hotel three months after leaving the hospital and hired an assistant, Don Logan. Within a month, the two started communicating through notes and dating. Their love quickly developed, and they started living together. Six months later, they got hitched.
After 15 years of marriage, Stephanie has a more complete understanding of her wedding day. The couple watches the wedding videotape every anniversary, and Stephanie gradually discovers pieces of the day, such as what people were saying while toasting the newlyweds.
Don has always been supportive and makes sure Stephanie is aware of her surroundings with simple acts such as sending her a text message when it thunders. He tried to learn sign language but never got the hang of it and knows only 20 to 25 signs. Communication problems happen daily despite the fact that Stephanie can now lip read. Arguments are especially awkward for Don, who is forced to directly face Stephanie while verbally arguing. Stephanie jokes that she can always have the last word because she can just walk away and the conversation comes to an immediate halt.
Stephanie converses with American Sign Language student Joe Albin as he finishes telling the class ...
Building a new path
Georgia and Missouri have similar boxy shapes. This is all Stephanie and Don knew about Missouri when moving to Columbia 12 years ago. Stephanie had received an e-mail from a deaf community list-serv about a director position opening in deaf advocacy. She applied, even though she didn’t think she had a chance, and was hired.
The primary role of the director was to use grants from the Department of Mental Health to create statewide services for the deaf population. Stephanie’s vision and planning evolved into the L.E.A.D. Institute, which stands for Leadership through Education and Advocacy for the Deaf. Today, the agency offers mental health services to deaf victims of crime, a 24-hour crisis line to deaf and hearing individuals who are friends or relatives of deaf people, advocacy for deaf individuals and a summer camp for deaf teenagers in Clarence.
The agency now has nine employees. Stephanie is one of two who are deaf.
A board of directors, composed of professionals associated with deafness, meets in the conference room one Sunday morning. Four members, two of whom are deaf, focus on Stephanie but not on her cupid’s bow lips, gently curved nose or eyes the color of a sage green caterpillar. They watch her hands, which communicate American Sign Language.
Everyone present is fluent in ASL. Because English and ASL have different sentence structures, it is nearly impossible to sign in ASL and speak in English simultaneously. So Stephanie conducts the meeting without voice — just lips moving, hands brushing and tongue clacking, with an occasional whisper of “You know?” and “Well ...” The meeting makes a hearing person feel deaf.
Anecdotes and jokes are frequent during the meeting. Lisa Besant, an interpreter from Springfield, jokes about the moment Stephanie and she first met.
“(Stephanie) walked in signing,” Lisa says, “and I refuse to sign with hearing people, so I stopped. ‘I’m deaf,’ said Stephanie, and I replied, ‘Bullshit. You’re not deaf.’”
The group laughs, and Stephanie comments how she runs into that type of situation a lot. She doesn’t have speech difficulties because she was not born deaf; her voice is strong yet unimposing, an embracing and excited tone always hinting at a smile, even though Stephanie doesn’t remember the sound of her own voice.
Admiring the visual crescendo
When Saw IV comes to theaters Oct. 26, Stephanie will not be present. She said goodbye to horror films after watching Saw I and Saw II with her brother.
“Scary movies use music or sounds to lead up to a frightening scene, so you have some emotional preparation,” Stephanie says. “So what’s very hard for me is because you don’t have that sound, it makes it less scary and intense in the moment, but like, all of a sudden, someone’s lost their head.”
A jump-out-of-your-seat thriller doesn’t play well on mute. Instead of slasher films, Stephanie chooses romantic comedies such as In & Out or You’ve Got Mail. Her favorite television show is American Idol.
Stephanie sits in her L.E.A.D. office on a Wednesday morning and takes a break from work to watch a taped episode of the show. She flips on the television to an elaborate display of twisting graphics.
“My heart is like racing right now because I love this so much!” she says. Between Paula Abdul’s glitzy outfits and Simon Cowell’s expressions, the show is like fireworks, a visual sensation in itself. There are six contestants left on season six. Contestant Phil Stacey takes the stage. His appearance and movements are too forced, Stephanie says. Stacey walks through the crowd and pats an audience member’s arm.
“He slapped the guy on the arm — cheesy!” she exclaims. Stacey continues to interact with the crowd. “Then he does it again! Stop it!”
Jordin Sparks, who Stephanie says isn’t her favorite performer but must have an amazing voice, takes the stage. Stephanie’s co-workers make sure she is in tune with the whole picture by describing the contestants’ voices; each week, they take heated votes on which singer should be voted off.
Voices never heard
Two years ago, Stephanie’s cocker spaniel, Bess, died. Bess was one of the last pieces of Stephanie’s hearing life. Stephanie bought Bess during college, six months before she lost her hearing. She still remembers Bess’ sound but doesn’t feel the need to imagine a woof or a growl. Creating sounds doesn’t serve a purpose for Stephanie as she has accepted silence and doesn’t cling to the past.
Although it saddens her to have never known Don’s voice or the sound of her five children, Maggie, 13; Mollie, 12; Bettie, 6; Austin, 5; and Wyatt, 4, Stephanie truly knows her family by their unique expressions and mannerisms. Through body language, her family’s attitudes and personalities emerge, and Stephanie gets a clear picture.
From dancing to acting to singing, the Logan kids are heavily involved in extracurricular activities. Stephanie recognizes the value of performing arts. She grew up playing the flute, alto saxophone, oboe and clarinet. She’s encouraged her kids to play instruments, but piano lessons quickly turned into hair pulling. They’re more interested in acting, and Stephanie always memorizes her kids’ lines while they rehearse. Mollie once played Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker and didn’t have any lines. Physical roles like this, including Mollie’s part as a flying Peter Pan, evoke proud moments for Stephanie.
“So I’m watching my child who is 15 or 20 feet above the ground, singing,” Stephanie says about Mollie in Peter Pan. “And I don’t know how well she sings, but it takes a lot to sing and fly at the same time.”
Wise eyes
It’s Sunday morning, and rock music vibrates the auditorium while Stephanie, Bettie, Austin and Wyatt sit in Christian Fellowship Church in Columbia. Wyatt sits on Stephanie’s lap and covers his ears.
The music is too loud.
He jumps off Stephanie’s knee, and Bettie and Austin jump on. Then Bettie hops off, and again comes Wyatt. Despite the constant movement, Stephanie focuses on two ASL interpreters, even though musical lyrics appear on a screen at the front of the auditorium. One of the signers is learning ASL, so Stephanie guides her with correct hand movements.
The kids return to their seats and pretend to sign. They haven’t learned it from their mom; only Maggie and Mollie know sign language and used it until Stephanie’s ability to lip read increased. In fact, Austin doesn’t understand his mother’s deafness yet; he’s going through a frustrated phase and asking “Why can’t you hear me?”
The kids’ sign language game turns into playful poking and hitting. About two minutes later, Stephanie realizes they’re misbehaving.
The Logan children are usually well-behaved, but like any kids, they know how to be rascals. Sometimes they’ll cover their mouths with their hands while talking. And although Stephanie has never seen them say cuss words, she’s watched their friends do it. Now when the friends are in Stephanie’s car, they’ll sit in the very back seat and slump so Stephanie can’t see them in the rearview mirror.
Stephanie monitors her children, even if it means researching the lyrics of top-40 pop songs online.
“It’s called ‘My hump’ or something like that,” Stephanie says about “My Humps” by Fergie. “‘Mix your milk with my cocoa puffs,’ I mean, try to explain that to a 10- or 11-year-old. Sometimes I don’t go into deep descriptions of it — just that it’s not appropriate to sing at school.”
Trying a Hand at Teaching
In 2002, Stephanie organized an ASL course at MU to fulfill a doctoral requirement. She is earning her doctorate with the intention of becoming the first deaf psychologist in Missouri. She began her studies in search of ways to better provide services to deaf clients so she would not have to depend so much on other hearing clinic professionals.
Aside from teachers speaking while writing on the chalkboard, Stephanie encounters little to no communication problems as a student in class because she has an ASL interrupter with her at all times.
Stephanie has watched her fledgling class grow into a yearly academic staple, and due to a surge in the course’s popularity, she now teaches four levels. This semester, Stephanie is teaching three sections and supervising one.
Stephanie stands at the front of a classroom in Townsend Hall on the MU campus. Today her ASL 3 students take an exam, and for 50 minutes the room is quiet. Stephanie’s eyebrows and forehead dance, and her hands sometimes move as quickly as fluttering hummingbirds. She signs sentences and questions, and the students write them down. The test requires constant attention to keep up.
In Stephanie’s upper-level sections, class is always silent as she instructs and teaches without voice. She has created exercises, such as putting a small piece of tape on each student’s mouth while they sign to one another so that the students realize their innate tendency to depend on lip speaking. Whether Stephanie is teaching or speaking to students after class, she’s highly perceptive and constantly making sure she is on top of everything.
“She’s very good in communication skills,” says Lisa Flores, a faculty member of the Educational, School and Counseling Psychology Department and co-advisor of MU’s American Sign Language program. “Very professional. Very articulate. Very bright. Very good verbal skills.”
Seeing is believing
When Stephanie was 8 or 9 years old, a tornado tore a path through her backyard. She’s been terrified of storms ever since and especially now that she can’t hear.
“One of the things I was taught was to time the storm,” Stephanie says. “From the time you hear thunder in comparison to lighting, you can tell how close the storm is. Now I have no way of gauging that. I see lightning, and I think it’s on top of me.”
KOMU’s Web site is bookmarked on Stephanie’s Sidekick, a PDA, and she can instantly access the site’s radar information. Crisis counseling is the focus of her Ph.D studies, and she researches ways that weather and police stations can alert the deaf community during natural disasters.
In the police training room in Mexico, Mo., Stephanie tells officers that they can alert deaf individuals during storms by posting messages on Web sites and using Internet pop-ups and by sending faxes or text messages.
Her lecture’s focus moves toward domestic disputes, and Stephanie explains why deaf people should always be handcuffed in front of their bodies.
“If you took away your voice, put duct tape on your mouth, you’d be in a very violating, scary, awful situation to suddenly have your communication cut off,” Stephanie says. “The way you use your voice is the way deaf people use their hands.”
Despite the serious discussion, Stephanie makes the atmosphere feel light. She’s a thoughtful presenter. She doesn’t experience awkward silences, but she’s aware that hearing people do. She’s always armed with a joke and has spent 12 years perfecting her timing.
The room resonates with chuckles as the officers try and fail to come up with the sign for license. Stephanie laughs and steps in with the correct sign, both hands in an “L” shape, thumbs touching.
If she had to choose a different career, Stephanie would be a comedian. She’s hooked on Saturday Night Live. Her Leno-to-Letterman viewing ratio is two to three. She loves Jerry Seinfeld, Robin Williams and Dane Cook.
It’s not really about the comedian’s jokes. There’s a philosophy behind it. Stephanie says you need laughter to live a healthy life.
“I love the sight of laughter,” she says. “I’ve always enjoyed laughing. I garner just as much pleasure from seeing someone smile or laugh than I ever did when hearing them.”
Just wanted to say how much I enjoyed this article. It was extremely poignant and touching. I work at a local restaurant frequented by Ms. Logan and had no idea she was deaf or anything else about her. I feel fortunate to have learned more about her and her amazing story.
Posted by garrett haas on Oct 23, 2007 at 2:53 p.m. (Report Comment)
Thanks so much for your comment, Garrett!
Posted by jennifer hueting on Feb 12, 2008 at 7:24 p.m. (Report Comment)