Course material

1. The essay : Chameleons and Codas, by Patricia Conrad The question...
The essay : Chameleons and Codas, by Patricia Conrad
The question I have been given is to explain the literary device used in the title and how the
author uses it to enhance the main idea of the text. I know a chameleon is a metaphor for
the author's need to change and move between two cultures but is this the correct literary
device? And how does Codas fit in?
Here is the text:
What I know of life and people, I learned as I juggled two worlds and two languages. As a
hearing daughter born to deaf parents in rural Alberta, I lived at the crossroads of two
cultures, a foreigner on the fringes of both. I had the ability to hear, so how could I
understand the deaf experience? Yet I was never truly "hearing" either; a piece of my heart
remained staunchly "deaf." So I became a chameleon, changing my colour as I shifted from
one world to the other.
Sound had little meaning for Mom and Dad; he had been deaf since birth and she lost her
hearing at the age of six because of illness. Their world was visual, not auditory, their
conversations signed rather than spoken. Their language (American Sign Language, or ASL)
became ours too; we "talked" with our hands and "listened'' with our eyes. My siblings and
I, all hearing, had Iicence to shout, sing, or yodel at will. No one told us to be quiet. We lived
near a busy highway, with semi-trailer trucks roaring by at all hours. My parents were
oblivious to the din, and we kids were so used to it we just tuned it out. My siblings and I
squabbled without parental intervention, and learned the hard way to resolve our conflicts-
with little finesse, alas; usually it boiled down to who yelled the loudest or gave up first.
Although sound was meaningless, sight and touch were vital to my parents. Vibration got us
kids in trouble more than once. We dared not race down the stairway while Dad was
napping; the shudder of the floor woke him instantly.
Like most deaf folk, my parents relied on visual and tactile cues to
get each other's attention, stomping on the floor or flicking the light switch. We kids did the
same, or else tapped a shoulder. We learned early that such deaf cultural norms are taboo in
the hearing world. Foot- stomping is too loud, light-flashing too rude, and touching people
(even a shoulder tap) too intimate.
At school, I excelled in my classes because it seemed the hearing thing to do, and besides,
didn't it prove my parents' aptitude for raising us? I was a social dud but impressed my
teachers.
Only when my two worlds collided did my chameleon soul falter, for how can one be two

2. colours at once? Whenever my parents signed in public, curious onlookers stared,
fascinated by their splendid expressions and fluttering hands. I grew fiercely protective,
scowling at the oglers or blocking their view. I like to think I terrorized the bejesus out of
some, though I cannot say for certain they noticed me at all.
Before the days of professional interpreters, TTYs (telephones with print displays), and
enlightened attitudes, my siblings and I talked for our parents, relayed phone messages, and
became their communication link to the hearing world. I took on the task of enlightening
the insensitive, although results were variable. Many had not learned the "yelling the
loudest or giving up first" method of conflict resolution. Others were not as bent on their
own enlightenment as I was.
"Hey, is your mom deaf and dumb?" a classmate asked me once. Resisting the urge to
respond in kind ("Hey, did your mom raise you to be hearing and thoughtless?"), I shot
back: "She's, deaf, but she's not dumb!" Hardly eloquent, but it addled him enough that he
backed off. My father, too, was saddled with "disabled" and 'handicapped'' stereotypes. "Can
your daddy drive?" a stranger asked, incredulous, as Dad and l strode toward our car one
day. Lt perplexed me when adults knew so little. (I was chest-high to my father and a half-
dozen years shy of driving age. Just who did this guy think was about to take the wheel?)
"Yes," I blurted, an answer so profound it surely bowled him over.
Indeed, my parents'' disability was not their deafness, but people's attitudes toward it. At
home, and with deaf friends (or anyone who sued ASL), they conversed easily and fluently.
With others, they wrote notes: both my parents carried notepads and pens everywhere. Dad
especially was a master of mime, and would act out anything, even at the risk of looking
ridiculous.
"Was it different, having deaf parents?" people ask. Different than what? It was the only life I
knew, as normal to me as anyone else's is to them—and as precious.
Good parenting doesn't require functional ears; nor does good loving. We had plenty of
both. Daddy was a farmer, a sociable fellow who loved teasing and rambunctious play with
his kids. Mom was more shy and more reserved around people, but I adored her; she was
the most unselfish being I ever knew. Mama's single-minded goal in life was to raise us well
and release us to the world equipped with all we'd need, plus a healthy dose of common
sense. She succeeded admirably.
As I grew into adulthood, I fretted that I would one day be forced to choose between my two
worlds, and what good is a chameleon with only one colour? So I opted for careers that
would keep me in both: teaching deaf students, freelance interpreting, and teaching
interpreter trainees.
Today adults like me are labelled CODAs, an acronym for "children of deaf adults." But I
prefer the deeper meaning of the word coda: an independent, concluding musical passage.
Even a diehard chameleon yearns to one day find her own niche, and combine the best of
both worlds into a multicoloured melody that is hers alone.
What I learned of life and people, chameleons and codas, I gained from two diverse
communities. Growing up with deaf parents taught me resiliency, compassion in the face of
ignorance, and the value of human diversity. In viewing the world from more than one
angle, I learned to cherish my parents' gift to me: fluency in two languages, understanding

3. of two cultures, access to two worlds--and the tools to create an independent coda with my
own unique rhythm.
Now, if you'll excuse me, l believe my music's playing ...