July 16, 2026

By Morrison

Author’s Note

As a white, nonbinary DeafBlind person, I write this essay with an awareness that I am both shaped by and implicated in the systems I critique. My understanding of racism and ableism is not complete, nor will it ever be; it is part of a lifelong process of learning, unlearning, and accountability. I recognize that I have whiteness privileges even as I navigate the world as a DeafBlind person, and I recognize that these intersecting identities shape how I move through community spaces, how I communicate, and how I interpret harm. My intention in writing this piece is not to position myself as an authority, but to contribute to an ongoing conversation within the DeafBlind community (and beyond) about language, power, and justice. I offer this work with humility, knowing that I will continue to make mistakes, and with a commitment to remain open to feedback, correction, and growth. My hope is that this essay supports deeper reflection, strengthens our collective understanding, and affirms the importance of approaching one another with curiosity, compassion, and a shared commitment to dismantling racism and ableism in all their forms.

Structural Oppression and the Systems That Shape Communication

Anti‑racism and anti‑ableism work require courage, reflection, and a willingness to sit with discomfort. As Ibram X. Kendi writes, confronting racism requires “a willingness to be vulnerable to the discovery of one’s own racist ideas” (Kendi, 2019). Disability scholars similarly argue that confronting ableism requires acknowledging how deeply society devalues disabled ways of knowing, communicating, and existing (Dolmage, 2017). When someone names racism or ableism within a community, it is not an act of shaming but an act of care, an invitation to understand the impact of a comment or behavior and to move toward repair. Accountability, in this sense, is not punitive; it is relational. Within the DeafBlind community, where communication is shaped by diverse languages, modalities, and lived experiences, these conversations become even more complex. Yet they remain essential to building a community grounded in trust, connection, and mutual respect.

The DeafBlind community is profoundly diverse. Members come from different cultural backgrounds, educational experiences, linguistic traditions, and communication modalities. Some use American Sign Language (ASL), some use Tactile ASL (TASL), some use Protactile, some communicate through text, and many navigate multiple languages depending on context. Despite these differences, the community shares a common identity and a shared desire for connection. This diversity is a strength, but it also introduces complex challenges in communication, interpretation, and understanding. Linguists have long documented that all languages contain dialects, regional variations, and culturally shaped forms of expression (Wolfram & Schilling, 2016). ASL is no exception. It includes regional dialects, racialized signing traditions, generational differences, and variations shaped by schooling, geography, and community norms. When these variations intersect with DeafBlind communication, especially tactile communication, the potential for misunderstanding increases significantly.

Research on tactile sign languages shows that tactile reception reduces access to visual grammatical cues, non‑manual markers, and spatial distinctions (Edwards, 2014; Collins & Petronio, 1998). As a result, signs that are visually distinct may feel nearly identical in the hands. The sign for “yellow” and the sign for “play,” for example, share similar handshapes and movements, making them difficult to distinguish tactilely. Signs that rely on facial expression, mouth morphemes, or spatial grammar lose essential meaning when transmitted through touch. Subtle differences in movement or orientation may collapse into a single tactile form. These are not errors; they are structural features of tactile communication. When the community overlooks these linguistic realities, misunderstandings are often interpreted as personal attacks, intentional harm, or disrespect, when in fact the issue is linguistic, not interpersonal.

Due to the diversity of our languages and the constraints of tactile communication, the same signed expression can be interpreted in multiple ways depending on the signer’s linguistic background, the receiver’s linguistic background, the tactile form of the sign, the context of the conversation, and the cultural or racial experiences that shape interpretation. This is especially important in conversations about harm, ableism. In ASL, the difference between “you are being ableist” and “that comment was ableist” can be subtle even visually (ASL: ABLEIST, THAT; YOU ABLEIST or ABLEIST, YOU). As you can see here the expression in ASL is shortened. Tactilely, the distinction may collapse almost entirely. Linguistic anthropologists describe this phenomenon as indexical slippage, when the form of an utterance is interpreted differently depending on the receiver’s assumptions, experiences, or expectations (Silverstein, 2003). Thus, what one person intends as naming a behavior may be received as labeling a person, not because of malice but because of linguistic variation. When people respond quickly, without clarifying intent, misunderstandings can escalate into conflict and silence necessary conversations about harm.

These communication challenges cannot be separated from the broader sociopolitical context in which English operates. English is not a neutral language. It is a language historically rooted in white, Anglo‑European colonial and ableist power, and its dominance today is the result of centuries of colonization, racial and ableist hierarchy, and economic stratification, not linguistic superiority. Scholars of sociolinguistics and critical race theory have long documented that English functions as a gatekeeping tool in the United States. Rosina Lippi‑Green describes Standardized English as “a language ideology that upholds the dominance of white, middle‑class norms” (Lippi‑Green, 2012). April Baker‑Bell argues that English, as enforced in schools and institutions, is “a white linguistic hegemony that positions Black and non‑white language practices as deficient” (Baker‑Bell, 2020).

English, therefore, is not simply a language; it is a racialized and classed system of power. It is also an ableist system. Jay Dolmage writes that academic and professional English privilege “normative, able‑bodied, able‑minded forms of expression” (Dolmage, 2017), marginalizing disabled communicators whose language practices do not conform to these norms. These ableist language expectations extend far beyond academic or professional spaces; they shape the bureaucratic systems disabled people must navigate to survive. Government agencies such as IRS, Social Security, Medicaid, and Medicare routinely issue letters written in dense, highly technical, and bureaucratically encrypted English (and often are not accessible for people with low vision or blind). Many disabled people, aging people, DeafBlind individuals, and people whose first language is not English struggle to decipher what these letters are asking for, what actions are required, or whether benefits are at risk. This is not a reflection of personal ability; it is a structural design choice that privileges those fluent in complex, institutional English and marginalizes those who are not. Scholars of disability and bureaucracy argue that inaccessible administrative language functions as a gatekeeping mechanism, limiting access to essential services and reinforcing existing inequities (Ben‑Moshe, 2020). In this way, bureaucratic English becomes another site where able‑minded and able‑bodied norms are enforced, and where disabled people are penalized for not navigating a linguistic system not designed with them in mind. These structural barriers compound the challenges many DeafBlind (and Deaf) individuals already face when English is not their foundational language.

Any examination of English as a dominant language must also acknowledge that the very notion of “perfection” in communication is not neutral. Tema Okun describes perfectionism as “a dominant white cultural value that positions mistakes as personal failings rather than opportunities for learning” (Okun, 2021). Disability scholars similarly argue that perfectionism is an ableist construct because it assumes a single normative way of thinking, writing, and communicating, and then treats deviations from that norm as deficiencies (Dolmage, 2017). When these racialized and ableist expectations are applied to DeafBlind people, especially those whose first language is ASL, TASL, Protactile, or a survival language (e.g. “home signs”), the result is a system that punishes them for not conforming to linguistic standards that were not meant for them.

In sum, perfectionism in English writing (even speaking) becomes not only a racialized demand but an ableist one, reinforcing the idea that only those who can perform “standard” English deserve to be heard or taken seriously. (Side note: It is common that society opt for those who can speak than those who do not; this is rooted in audism). This expectation ignores the linguistic realities of DeafBlind communication, the structural barriers many have faced, and the rich complexity of their native languages. It also obscures the fact that “standard English” itself is a cultural invention rooted in whiteness, not just an objective measure of intelligence or professionalism.

For many DeafBlind individuals, the ability to read and write in English is shaped not only by educational inequities but also by the foundational language through which they first learned to communicate. Research on language deprivation shows that when a child does not have early access to a fully accessible language, their later literacy development is significantly impacted, regardless of intelligence or motivation (Humphries et al., 2012). Many DeafBlind adults enter adulthood with ASL, TASL, Protactile, or a survival language as their first and most fluent language, and these languages differ structurally from English in grammar, syntax, modality, and semantics. As a result, writing in English often requires translating concepts from a visual‑gestural or tactile‑kinesthetic language into a written, auditory‑based system rooted in white, Western norms, ableist ideologies. This translation is not straightforward. It is cognitively demanding, and it is shaped by the linguistic foundation the writer has, not by a lack of intelligence or effort. Yet DeafBlind people frequently rely on English‑dominant platforms such as websites, listservs, Facebook groups, and online community spaces, because these are the primary digital environments available for connection in North America. When DeafBlind individuals write in these spaces, they do so using the linguistic resources available to them, shaped by their first language and by the degree of language access they received growing up. Their English may not conform to standardized expectations, but this reflects linguistic diversity and historical inequity, not personal deficiency. As Skutnabb‑Kangas argues, “expecting linguistic minorities to perform in the dominant language as if it were their mother tongue is a form of linguistic discrimination” (2000). For DeafBlind writers, whose native languages operate in entirely different modalities, the demand for “perfect English” becomes both an ableist and colonial expectation.

When we combine the dominance of English, the marginalization of ASL and tactile languages, the structural limitations of tactile communication, the racialized and ableist assumptions embedded in language norms, and the cultural expectation of perfectionism, we create a community environment where misunderstandings are not only highly likely, they are inevitable. This is why clarification is essential. This is why we must resist assumptions. This is why we must approach each other with linguistic humility. When someone expresses themselves in English imperfectly, the question should never be why they did not write correctly. The question should be how we can understand what they are trying to express in a language that is not their foundational or native language. This shift is not only compassionate; it is anti‑oppressive.

With this, this requires recognizing that communication in the DeafBlind community is layered, complex, and deeply shaped by linguistic variation. Misunderstandings will happen. What matters is how we respond to them. If we choose curiosity over assumption, clarification over judgment, and accountability over defensiveness, we create a community where everyone can be understood and where everyone can belong.

References

Baker‑Bell, A. (2020). Linguistic justice: Black language, literacy, identity, and pedagogy. Routledge.

Bourdieu, P. (1991). Language and symbolic power. Harvard University Press.

Collins, S., & Petronio, K. (1998). What happens in tactile ASL? In C. Lucas (Ed.), Pink Panther and Pals: Deaf Studies Today.

Dolmage, J. (2017). Academic ableism: Disability and higher education. University of Michigan Press.

Edwards, T. (2014). Tactile sign languages and the DeafBlind community. Gallaudet University Press.

Humphries, T., Kushalnagar, P., Mathur, G., Napoli, D. J., Padden, C., Rathmann, C., & Smith, S. (2012). Language acquisition for deaf children: Reducing the harms of zero tolerance to the use of alternative approaches. Harm Reduction Journal, 9(16).

Kendi, I. X. (2019). How to be an antiracist. One World.

Lippi‑Green, R. (2012). English with an accent: Language, ideology, and discrimination in the United States (2nd ed.). Routledge.

Okun, T. (2021). The characteristics of white supremacy culture. dRworks.

Silverstein, M. (2003). Indexical order and the dialectics of sociolinguistic life. Language & Communication, 23(3–4), 193–229.

Skutnabb‑Kangas, T. (2000). Linguistic genocide in education—or worldwide diversity and human rights? Lawrence Erlbaum Associates.

Wolfram, W., & Schilling, N. (2016). American English: Dialects and variation (3rd ed.). Wiley‑Blackwell.