In my last post, I confessed to not knowing enough about history. But one historical event I learned a fair bit about returned to me as I watched “Profound Silence”— a recent episode of QuakerSpeak—featuring Jane Fernandes, President of Guilford College. Guilford, in Greensboro, NC, is a liberal arts college guided by Quaker testimonies. 
When Jane, who is deaf, became Guilford’s ninth president in 2014, she had the distinction of being the first woman to hold the post. She also was the first deaf woman to lead an American college or university.
In the interview, Jane speaks and signs about her introduction to Quakerism. Although she was raised a Catholic, when she attended an unprogrammed Quaker meeting for the first time, she loved it. “For me, as a deaf person,” Jane says, “it’s rare when a group of people wants to cherish silence. It is rare.”
Jane was born deaf, to a mother who was also deaf, so she knows a great deal about silence. But her encounters with Quaker worship led to new awareness about her experience of being silent with others. “I’ve not been in a group of people that understands that, and a group of hearing people who strive to be in that state that I was born in.”
There’s a great deal that hearing people don’t understand about deafness, and that’s where Jane’s story and my history lesson intersect.
My husband is a sign language interpreter and has worked for over twenty years with children and adults who are deaf. He first started in the field at Seattle Central Community College’s Interpreter Training Program in 1981. Between his studies and work, he became friends with many people in Seattle’s large deaf community. I tagged along to social gatherings, fumbling with limited signing skills and relying on him to interpret. Along the way, I learned about some of the civil rights struggles of people who are deaf. One of them centered on a renowned school for deaf students, Gallaudet University in Washington, DC.
In March 1988, when the University’s Board of Trustees announced that a hearing person had been selected as Gallaudet’s seventh president, many Gallaudet students, alumni, staff, and faculty organized a protest. Their “Deaf President Now” campaign shut down the campus and raised awareness about the injustice of selecting the lone hearing candidate, Elisabeth A. Zinser, from a field of three finalists, two of whom were deaf. The protesters also presented four demands to the Board of Trustees:
- Elisabeth Zinser must resign and a deaf person selected president;
- Jane Spilman must step down as chairperson of the Board of Trustees;
- Deaf people must constitute a 51% majority on the Board; and
- There would no reprisals against any student or employee involved in the protest.
By the end of the week, the students ended their protest; all their demands had been met, Dr. I. King Jordan was named Gallaudet’s eighth- and first-deaf president, and Philip Bravin was selected at the Board of Trustees’ first deaf chairperson. Since Jordan’s selection, all subsequent presidents have been deaf. Incidentally, prior to her appointment at Guilford, Jane Fernandes was found to be “not deaf enough” to serve at Gallaudet. She was raised orally and didn’t learn sign language until she was in graduate school.
And here’s another interesting twist in history’s cycle. Gallaudet’s current president, Roberta J. Cordano, assumed her position January 1, 2016, making her Gallaudet’s first deaf woman president—and likely the second deaf woman (after Jane Fernandes) to lead an American university or college.
I’m grateful that I can hear and that I haven’t suffered the same effects of being silenced that deaf folks have (though I know something of the ways women continue to be muted). But when I quiet myself and sit with others doing the same, I’m most open to the Divine. Along with Jane, I cherish the silence.
I feel compelled to write about the January 21 women’s marches even though I experienced them second-hand through stories and images. While hundreds of thousands of people around the world marched, I held them in my awareness at an annual Quaker silent retreat. As twenty-five of us gathered at Huston Retreat Center on the banks of the Skykomish River, many of us spoke of carrying the intention to hold space in the silence for the marchers. We burned candles in solidarity, and I wasn’t the only one who felt the presence of those in the streets. How can this be, in the silence of the woods, before the quiet crackle of a woodstove, in the act of cooking without speaking? That’s part of the mystery for me of the silence; I can’t explain it, but I know it to be true.
Part of the work is to realize that change happens slowly and at times will seem that it’s standing still, just like the pace at many marches as people tried to move forward along packed streets. At times, it also will feel that we’re being re-routed, as happened during at least one march when the planned course was overwhelmed by the massive turnout.
I’m learning about my particular path even as I take hesitant steps. Much like walking a labyrinth, I labor to proceed with trust, to let go of the fear of taking a wrong turn. You can’t in a labyrinth, but I can—and will—as I try new actions and roles.
The Silent Retreat helped shore me up. In the woods and in the rustic cabins, metaphors abounded about the power of small actions—pencil-thin roots scrawling across the trail to support cedars stretched toward the sky; snowflakes collecting on peaks to 
feed waterfalls, pools, creeks, and rivers; coals and kindling in the wood stove igniting larger logs.
tion or a person and then endeavor to be faithful to that, rather than to an outcome.
I don’t remember if orange and yellow flamed in the woodstove of 
But I do recall the warmth and enthusiasm during introductions as participants revealed to me and my co-leader, 
After poking holes in the covers to match those of the interior, we secured the pages with waxed linen thread. Our final prompt was an invitation to write about dreams—or anything that was calling to us for reflection. Finally, I gave these instructions:
