Morrison’s Space: A DeafBlind Activist

May 2, 2026

By Morrison

I stood alone in the rain outside the State House while MCDHH celebrated its 40th anniversary inside. The cold soaked through my clothes, my signs, and eventually my resolve, but not enough to make me leave. A month earlier, our DeafBlind community’s event in that same space had been canceled without a truthful explanation and accountability, while the Deaf and Hard of Hearing community’s celebration was allowed to proceed without hesitation. That contrast was profound. It was a reflection of a deeper inequity that has long shaped our experiences: the DeafBlind community is still treated as an inferior, not important to fight for, an inconvenience, complex, or a burden, even within spaces that claim to serve us.

As I stood there, with signs on the ground – that clung to the pavement, I felt the weight of a truth I have written about many times: systems built by sighted, hearing, and able-bodied people continue to harm us… And too often, our own communities enable that harm. In my earlier reflections, I wrote that “workplaces and academic settings… are mainly established by white, able-bodied, sighted folks… [which] creates more harm than good.” That harm was not theoretical on this day. It was raining on me. Literally and figuratively. 

The silence from the community was profoundly hurtful. I kept waiting for people to show up, for someone to stand beside me and say, “We see you. We stand with you. We stand for the DeafBlind community.” But no one came. Some stayed away out of fear of those in power. Some stayed away because survival leaves little room for protest. Some stayed away because aligning with DeafBlindness threatens their proximity to privilege. And some stayed away because they did not want to be seen standing with us. The absence hurts because I know what it feels like to disown an identity in order to belong. I once wrote, “I became an artificial being… I treated my own people as how others have treated me… all because I saw that they were not ‘good enough.’” This was influenced by ableism that I internalized. That is what the community is doing to us. I know the temptation to shrink, to hide the cane, to avoid Protactile in public, to cling to the Deaf identity that feels more socially acceptable. I know it because I have done it. But on this day and a month ago, I refused to disappear. I embrace my DeafBlind being, my language, my culture, and deafblind community. I’m standing for them, for me. 

What deepened the pain was learning that some organizations, including those funded to serve Deaf, Hard of Hearing, and DeafBlind communities, had instructed their own staff and contractors not to participate in the protest. They were told not to stand outside, not to be seen supporting us, and instead to attend the celebration inside (or work). This was not a neutral administrative decision; it was a deliberate act of silencing in a form of violence. It reflects a form of oppression so deeply internalized that it now replicates itself within the very communities that once fought against it.

This is where the contrast with Deaf President Now (DPN) becomes impossible to ignore. During DPN, the Deaf community came together with extraordinary unity and purpose. No one was told to stay away. No one was threatened for standing up. No one was instructed to remain silent. Instead, Deaf students, faculty, alumni, and allies mobilized collectively to demand representation, access, and leadership that reflected their lived experience. The community understood that their liberation required solidarity, visibility, and courage. They prevailed because they stood together.

Yet when the DeafBlind community began our own movement for DeafBlind leadership, cultural recognition, and access, when we asked for the same solidarity the Deaf community once needed, the response was starkly different. Instead of collective action, we were met with avoidance. Instead of unity, we were met with silence. Instead of “empowerment,” some organizations actively discouraged participation. And now, as we fight for our own access and visibility, people are being told to stay away. The very community that once demanded justice is now instructing its own members not to stand with us. The irony is painful. The harm is real.

It is devastating to witness Deaf organizations reenact the very patterns of marginalization they once resisted. To ignore the inequity facing the DeafBlind community is discriminatory. To instruct DeafBlind employees/contractors not to take a stand is coercive. To threaten their job security if they show solidarity is inhumane. These actions are manifestations of ableism and moral corruption. As I stood alone in the rain, it became painfully clear that the community that once fought for its place in society is now leaving DeafBlind people to fight this battle alone, and that abandonment cuts deeply.

Hours passed. The rain continued. My hope began to wash away with it. I felt like a fool… But movements are not built on crowds; they are built on the people who show up even when the crowd does not. Sometimes that looks like one DeafBlind person standing in the rain, refusing to be erased. And then, one person shows up. This person who stood beside me, committed and unafraid yet anxious, but had faith. Later, my partner came, wrapped me in their arms, and said, “You’re so cold…” They held me in disbelief that I persisted, stayed as long as I did in the cold rain. Their presence did not erase the hurt, but it reminded me that solidarity does not require numbers, it requires courage and determination.

This protest was not just a protest. It was a mirror. A mirror reflecting the inequity between Deaf and DeafBlind communities – as the deaf and hard of hearing celebrated while abandoning their core morals, the fear people have of aligning with us, the internalized ableism we all carry, the systems that continue to fail us, and the loneliness of being the first to stand. It was also a beginning. Because movements start with one person in the rain. And on that day, I was that person.

I do not want to stand alone. I should not have to. None of us should. But until the community is ready to confront its own complicity, its own isms, its own fear of proximity to our DeafBlind being, I will continue to stand… because I refuse to disown who I am and my community and our access. And because I believe, deeply, with persistence – that anything can happen, anything can be, and change will prevail. 

For those who care, and want to overcome this injustice, the next protest will be on June 1st and 2nd, Monday and Tuesday from 10:30am – 3pm (RAIN or SHINE). This is a great way to kick off DeafBlind Awareness Month, which is in June.