Classroom Culture: Facing The Dilemma Of Hearing ASL Teachers

THE CONCEPT OF STEREOTYPES has never been foreign to me. As a biracial individual with amblyopia (a lazy-eye condition), I have spent my life navigating misconceptions and assumptions about who I am and what I am capable of. Even when I landed what I consider my dream job in early 2024— teaching American Sign Language (ASL) at a Christian school— these stereotypes didn’t disappear. This time, however, the assumptions weren’t about my background or disabilities, but about my role as a hearing ASL teacher.

Now, some of you may be thinking: “Okay... you’re hearing and you teach ASL. So what?”

Well, here’s the important thing to understand: ASL is not just a language— it belongs to the Deaf community. It carries history, culture, and identity. Yet, there is a long-standing stereotype that hearing ASL teachers don’t engage with the Deaf community. Many assume we stay in the comfort of our classrooms, relying on outdated textbooks or YouTube videos instead of connecting students with real Deaf experiences. And unfortunately, the problem is that there are hearing ASL teachers who reinforce this perception by keeping Deaf inputs at a distance. The stereotype exists for a reason.

From the day I applied for this position, I refused to be that kind of teacher.

During my interview process, I made my intentions clear. In my cover letter to the school's principal, I wrote:

"If hired, I plan to regularly incorporate the input of my Deaf friends as guest presenters. Exposing my students to Deaf ASL signers would provide real-world opportunities to practice their developing ASL skills and would also introduce them to the basics of Deaf culture and etiquette."

That statement wasn’t just filler on a document— it was a commitment. A commitment to my students, ensuring they would learn ASL through real interactions, not just lectures. A commitment to myself, holding me accountable to do better than the stereotype of hearing ASL teachers who overlook the Deaf community. And most importantly, a commitment to the very Deaf friends who supported and encouraged me to step into this role in the first place.

I want my students to learn ASL the way it was meant to be learned— through real connection with the Deaf community. ASL is more than just a language; it’s a culture, a lived experience, and a vital means of communication for an entire community. That’s why ASL education should never exist in isolation from the people who use it every day.

To further bridge the gap between the classroom and the real world, I require my students to attend at least one Deaf event in our area each semester. This isn’t just an assignment— it’s an opportunity. It pushes them beyond the comfort of structured lessons and into authentic interactions where they must rely on their signing rather than their voices. It’s in these moments— whether struggling to sign a sentence or experiencing the warmth of Deaf community gatherings— that true learning happens.

But my goal isn’t just for my students to pass a class. I want them to develop a respect for Deaf culture, an understanding of the importance of language access, and the confidence to engage with the community in a way that is meaningful and respectful. Learning ASL is not just about memorizing signs— it’s about embracing and honoring the people and culture that give the language life.

Now, of course, every job has its politics. And the reality is, as a hearing person teaching ASL, I sometimes experience anxiety when interacting with certain members of the Deaf community—especially those who may object to what I do before even taking the time to get to know me.

And I get it.

The Deaf community has a long history of hearing people taking control of ASL—whether through oralist education that suppressed sign language, hearing interpreters who overshadow Deaf professionals, or hearing-led ASL programs that exclude Deaf perspectives and result in low-quality ASL education. With that history in mind, I understand why some Deaf individuals are skeptical of hearing ASL teachers. Some may question my qualifications, my motives, or whether I am truly committed to uplifting Deaf perspectives rather than just centering attention on myself. 

Sometimes, I worry about signing or doing the wrong thing. I wonder if my presence in this field is more harmful than helpful. But in those moments, I remind myself why I do this: not to replace Deaf perspectives, but to inspire a new generation of hearing ASL signers (and hopefully --- maybe some future interpreters), much like I was inspired in a high school class so many years ago. Now, of course, I know I won’t be able to change everyone’s mind, and that’s okay. My responsibility is to stay teachable, to be receptive when Deaf individuals give feedback. This ensures that my students understand ASL as more than just a language—it’s a culture, a community, and a legacy that must be honored.

Now, at the end of the day, I realize that my goal isn’t just to teach ASL—it’s to continue with this concept of building bridges. I want my students to step into the Deaf community with respect, humility, and a willingness to learn. I want them to see ASL not as a "pretty performance" or a skill to show off, but as a doorway to meaningful relationships and a deeper understanding of a culture that has long fought for recognition and equality.

As a rookie teacher in an already culturally political position, I also know that I don’t have all the answers. I will make mistakes. I will need correction. And I will continue to listen and grow. But if there’s one thing I hold onto, it’s that true unity isn’t about erasing differences—it’s about learning from one another, supporting one another, and working together.

Ephesians 4:2-3 says:

"Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace."

True unity requires humility, patience, and a willingness to be receptive with one another. It means valuing others above ourselves, acknowledging different perspectives, and working together toward a common purpose. That is my hope—not only for my students but for my own journey as a hearing ASL teacher striving to do this the right way.

So, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep learning. And I’ll keep striving to do better than the stereotype— because ASL education should never be about one person. It should be about the community it serves.

Until Next Time, 

Josh

P.S. - Spill the tea... what are you striving for in your line of work?

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