Hello Alice: Challenges and Change for Marlee Matlin
Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago in the 1970s was not much different for me than it was for anyone else. In fact, life on Ozanum Avenue in Morton Grove, Ill., was pretty much like an episode of ‘The Brady Bunch.’ Every day was a “sunshine day” — it was all about “keep on, keep on, keep on groovin.” I had my hearing aid firmly planted in my ear and walked around like I was the most popular girl in town, an attitude my parents totally encouraged. I envisioned myself as a deaf Marcia Brady with long, luxurious hair, skating down the street saying “hi” to everyone in the neighborhood.
In our household it was all about chutzpah. To my parents, it was me, not my deafness, that was notable. Whether or not the world liked it, I was going to be treated like any child should be treated, with love and respect. So every day my parents opened the door and encouraged me to explore. They allowed me to roam the neighborhood on my own, walk to stores by myself and even let me meet new kids on my own. Yes, I was “different.” And, yes, people were often cruel but — deaf or not — that was just part of growing up. Growing up as a Matlin, however, meant there was an answer for everything.
When kids made fun of my hearing aids, I would tell them they were just big globs of bubble gum. And when some kids made fun of my speech, my brothers would jump to my defense and say, “Our sister doesn’t talk funny. She just has a mysterious accent because our parents are foreign spies.”
But it was when I faced my biggest barrier — my own attitudes about my hearing — that my parents helped me understand that deafness was all in my mind and not in my ears. It happened when they got the city to put up a big yellow sign right in front of our house that said, “Caution: Deaf Child Crossing.” At first, I fought that sign hard; I thought it would remind people that I was “handicapped.” But my mom and dad offered a different perspective. They told me that the sign wasn’t for the handicapped — it was an announcement that people were coming to Marlee’s neighborhood. Though it might have said, “Deaf girl lives here, you better slow down,” they told me to see that the sign had another message. It said, “Hi, I’m Marlee. Want to stop by? I’ll be your best friend!” Besides, they told me, what other kid in the neighborhood had their own sign?!
Well, eventually that sign became one of the defining moments of my life, and for that reason, it’s why I used it as the title of my first novel for children, ‘Deaf Child Crossing,’ about a young girl who just happens to be deaf, dealing with the ups and downs of growing up in a suburb of Chicago over the course of a summer. It’s funny, it wasn’t until I was researching the book, that I got my dad to admit that he had another motive for putting up the sign. You see, whenever my dad’s poker buddies got lost coming to our house, he would just simply tell them: “Just drive around until you see that big yellow sign with the deaf kid warning on it and that’s where you know to park your car.” No wonder no one ever got lost coming to our house!
This “can do” spirit — the idea that I could do anything I set my mind to despite being deaf flowed freely from my family — particularly from my mother. It was my mom who helped me discover my love for acting. She saw it as the perfect outlet for the girl who loved sitting down with a Judy Blume book in hand or in front of the bathroom mirror, performing stories and creating fantastic characters. You see, in my world of books and mirrors, there were no barriers. In books, I would never have to struggle to hear the printed word and in my mirror, everyone signed perfectly.
Well, eventually, my mother helped me find a more productive outlet — the small community theater called The Center on Deafness — a place that served both hearing and deaf children a few minutes away from our home. I was just 7 years old when she brought me there and as soon as I walked in I learned that they were putting on a production of ‘The Wizard of Oz.’ No need to tell you who got the part of Dorothy.
I’ve been acting ever since, but somewhere along the way, I stopped playing Marcia Brady. Today I am the mother of four. I am also a Girl Scout leader, cook, car pool driver, mediator, closet organizer and pretend math whiz. Whatever fantasies I entertained at 11 years old about being the beautiful Marcia Brady have given way to another reality: I have morphed into Alice. Goodbye Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.
Seriously, life is grand for me and I relish the challenges I face every day. As for work, despite the predictions of many in Hollywood that my Oscar for ‘Children of a Lesser God’ was the result of a pity vote and that I would disappear like so many one-hit wonders, I am still — as always — a working actress who happens to be deaf.
Whatever issues many predicted would stop my career dead in its tracks are just not there. Times have changed; technology has evolved to the point where I have 100% access. But, most importantly, attitudes have changed. In the end, I tell people the only thing that I can’t do is hear. Whatever handicap they think I have here in my ear has more to do with whatever is in their mind.
Most of the barriers I face on a daily basis are more humorous than they are distressing. Compound it by the craziness we know is Hollywood and all I can say is that I’ve had some interesting encounters.
Once, while working on a television show for NBC, a studio executive came to visit the set and watch me work. After a few moments, he went over to the show’s producer and commented: “That Marlee … is … fantastic!” — (pause) — “Is she going to be deaf for the entire series?”
And once, while getting ready to appear live in front of millions of viewers on CNN — as the director counted down the seconds, “5, 4, 3” and I got my last looks from hair and makeup — the female interviewer leaned over to Jack here and said in a most serious manner: “Could you tell Marlee that my dog is deaf?”
But I have to be fair — these encounters don’t only happen in Hollywood. Here’s a good example: I’m waiting for a plane to take off when the flight attendant hands me a dinner menu. Suddenly, she notices me signing, holds up her finger and grabs the menu out of my hand. A few moments later, she returns with a new menu … in braille.
I tell these stories not to trivialize the barriers facing people like myself but rather to show that, in my case, breaking through barriers often means doing it with a smile. And I’d just as soon prefer to walk around them than break them down. I work every day to help people understand, like my parents taught me, that deaf people not only deserve respect, they deserve to be heard. I’m here, being honored with this wonderful group of Chief Everything Officers, because of the can-do attitude, lots of love and little bit of chutzpah my parents gave to me — thank goodness I was born a Matlin.
I am proud to wear the Chief Everything Officer badge. I hold my head up, proud to be Alice and not stress out that I am no longer Marcia. Yes, as a mom of four, I am short two kids to qualify as a full bunch, but it’s a challenge nonetheless, especially now that I’m working full-time on a series. I am still managing to make it work, but only because I’ve got my CFO, my Chief Father Officer — my husband — right there beside me the whole way.
Like Alice’s Sam the Butcher, my ever-reliable husband, Kevin, is why I’m able to be here today. No matter if I’m traveling and working, girl-scouting or carpooling, it all happens because he is there with his love and support 24/7, filling in, subbing, taking the reins when I physically cannot be like Samantha Stevens on ‘Bewitched’ and be in two places at once. And just when I was feeling my worst — two days after my last c-section, he managed to come through as any CFO should – he gave his CEO a nice bonus package for a job well done [Matlin refers to her necklace]. Unfortunately, the timing of his “push present” was just a bit off. He did it while I was hobbling to the bathroom, bent over, dying for a Vicodin. When I saw the necklace, I sat up like this, smiled for a brief second and then retreated to my hobbling position.
Life for me will always be about doing all that I can, reaching for my dreams and never stopping. And every day those dreams are coming true. Sixteen years ago, I lobbied to Congress on behalf of closed captioning and twenty-six million hearing impaired Americans. As a television viewer, it was important for me to spread the message that those little black and white words at the bottom of our TV screens are so important to our world. Today, closed captioning is everywhere and not only provides access for millions of Americans who are hearing impaired but also serves to help people learning English as a second language and serves as a tool to help our children learn how to read. They even work great in bars and at the gym!
And today, AOL is jumping in by breaking new ground in providing closed captioned content for streaming videos. I will continue to work to ensure that executives in Hollywood and across the entertainment industry understand their responsibility to provide programming that is accessible to all despite what barriers stand in their way. I am proud that AOL is there at the forefront and I look forward to much more.
So what is today about for me? Well, it’s no longer about hearing aids and speech classes. It’s not even about whether or not a deaf person like me can make it happen in Hollywood. For me, it’s about listening, listening o my heart. In the end, silence will be the last thing the world will ever hear from me — you can bet on it. And I’m sure it’s the same for the women we are honoring today.
Thank you.
