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  Copyright © 2019 Haben Girma

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  Twelve

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  First ebook edition: August 2019

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Girma, Haben, 1988-, author.

  Title: Haben: The Deafblind Woman Who Conquered Harvard Law / By Haben Girma.

  Description: New York: Twelve, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018050294| ISBN 9781538728727 (hardcover) | ISBN

  9781478992813 (audio download) | ISBN 9781538728710 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Girma, Haben, 1988- | Lawyers with disabilities—United

  States—Biography. | Women lawyers—United States—Biography.

  Classification: LCC KF373.G567 A3 2019 | DDC 340.092 [B]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018050294

  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-2872-7 (hardcover), 978-1-5387-2871-0 (ebook)

  E3-20190709-NF-DA-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  : Introduction

  Chapter One: When They Took My Father

  Chapter Two: The Expeditions Begin

  Chapter Three: War

  Chapter Four: Gender and a Load of Bull

  Chapter Five: Key by Key

  Chapter Six: Dancing in Enchanted Hills

  Chapter Seven: Dishing Up Trouble

  Chapter Eight: Water Fights in the Desert

  Chapter Nine: Lost in the African Night

  Chapter Ten: Guarding a Secret from the Village

  Chapter Eleven: The Latrine

  Chapter Twelve: Untangling Love and Control

  Chapter Thirteen: The Chapter My Parents Shouldn’t Read

  Chapter Fourteen: Play Like No One’s Watching

  Chapter Fifteen: A Positive Blindness Philosophy

  Chapter Sixteen: I Don’t Believe Fairy Tales, Except This One

  Chapter Seventeen: Ableism and the Art of Blind PB&J

  Chapter Eighteen: Never, Ever, Run from a Bear

  Chapter Nineteen: Alaska Gives Me the Cold, Harsh Truth

  Chapter Twenty: The Little Dog That Makes Earthquakes

  Chapter Twenty-One: Love Is Following Me up an Iceberg

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The First Deafblind Student at Harvard Law School

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Kicking Butt, Legally Speaking

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The White House ADA Celebration

  : Epilogue

  A Brief Guide to Increasing Access for People with Disabilities

  Discover More

  Photos

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”

  —Helen Keller

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  Introduction

  I’m Deafblind. Because I can’t see faces or recognize voices, every conversation needs to start with a name. My friends begin conversations like this: “It’s Cam,” “It’s Gordon,” or if someone is drinking, “It’s me.”

  My name is Haben. “Ha” like ha-ha, and “ben” like benevolent.

  Deafblindness encompasses a spectrum of vision and hearing loss, from the guy squinting at conversations signed three feet in front of his face, to the woman pounding the pavement with her white cane while analyzing traffic sounds through her hearing aids. I was born Deafblind. At age twelve I could walk into a room and see the indistinct outline of a person sitting on top of the long, blurred shape of a couch. That image fades more and more every year. Now, walking into a room is like stepping into an abstract painting of fuzzy formations and colorful splashes.

  My hearing follows a similar path. I was born with poor low frequency hearing and good high frequency hearing. Speech intelligence relies on high frequency consonants, so I intuitively learned to speak at a high vocal register. At age twelve I could hear my parents if they sat next to me and spoke slowly and clearly. Now, we communicate with the assistance of technology, such as a keyboard paired with a braille computer.

  Communities designed with just one kind of person in mind isolate those of us defying their narrow definition of personhood. This book takes readers on a quest for connection across the world, including building a school under the scorching Malian sun, climbing icebergs in Alaska, training with a guide dog in New Jersey, studying law at Harvard, and sharing a magical moment with President Obama at the White House. Unlike most memoirs, the stories here unfold in present tense. Hindsight may be 20/20, but 20/20 is not how I experience this ever-surprising world.

  Chapter One

  When They Took My Father

  Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Summer 1995.

  Two men in uniforms stand in the aisle of the plane, towering over Daddy. I watch from the seat next to him, straining to see the shadowy figures. Their curt tones trigger the sensation of mosquitos stabbing my skin.

  Daddy unbuckles his seatbelt. “I have to go,” he tells me.

  The two men escort him off the plane. For the first time in my seven-year-old life, I’m alone.

  I stare down the aisle. My field of vision ends at around five feet. A person walks by wheeling a bag. Two kids go by with backpacks.

  I sink into my seat and close my eyes. This plane is supposed to take us to London, then another plane will get us back to America. I was born and raised in Oakland, California. Daddy grew up in Ethiopia, so we came here for the summer. My mom and sister plan to enjoy two more weeks of vacation before returning to the United States.

  Memories from the summer play through my mind: dancing on the dusty streets with my sister and the neighborhood kids, baking raisin bread with Mommy, swimming in the Red Sea with Daddy…

  My eyes open. I stare down the aisle again. No one walks by. Everyone has boarded.

  It’s been an hour. Why isn’t he back?

  An invisible chain of tension squeezes my throat. The pain climbs up my neck to my head. I take deep breaths, struggling to hold on to hope.

  An announcement blasts through the PA system. The sound washes over me in incoherent murmurs, accelerating my pulse to a dizzying clip.

  All my life I’ve heard stories of Ethiopian soldiers tearing families apart. Soldiers threw Mommy in jail just for refusing to sing a song. Ethiopia claimed the neighboring country Eritrea, and for thirty years Eritreans fought for independence. Daddy was born and raised in Ethiopia, but his father, Grandpa Kidane, is Eritrean. During the war, Eritreans living in Ethiopia became targets. The war ended in 1991, though. It’s supposed to b
e safe for Eritreans visiting Ethiopia. Why did they take Daddy?

  The thought demolishes me like a kick to the stomach. I gasp for air as the pain spreads through my body.

  Why didn’t our American citizenship stop them from separating us?

  My eyes study his empty seat. He’s gone. I touch the seat, even though I already know. He’s gone. My hand feels a seatbelt. His seatbelt. The long smooth strap contrasts with the sharp metal buckle, the buckle that failed to keep him safe.

  Strong vibrations shake the jet. The engines rattle every nerve from the soles of my feet to the back of my neck.

  Burning pain tightens around my chest, climbing all the way up to my cheekbones. Breathing hurts. My nose labors for air as I fight against the suffocating fear.

  I need Daddy. Who will help me navigate the world? I don’t know how to find my next flight when we land in London. I don’t even know the international number to reach Mommy.

  A flight attendant looms over my seat. Mumble, mumble, mumble. She drops to my level. Mumble, mumble, mumble.

  Terror clamps my mouth shut. Pain immobilizes every muscle. The only movement comes from my tears.

  The flight attendant speaks again. Mumble, mumble, mumble.

  I stare at her, begging her to hear my thoughts. Bring back Daddy.

  She rises to her full height, turns, and disappears.

  Another flight attendant stands at the head of the aisle. From her gestures I know she’s going over the safety procedures. Too late. My life has already crashed.

  My hands squeeze the seatbelt Daddy used. That’s when I discover moisture on the metal buckle.

  A person rushes up the aisle, lunging into the seat next to mine. He’s back!

  I take a small breath, and pain shoots through my jaw as my body struggles to relax.

  Nothing can truly shield me from the violence of the world. Not my family, not American citizenship, not even self-defense classes for blind kids. At any moment, the forces of the world could take the lives of the people I love. They could even snatch mine.

  When we arrive in London, Daddy leads the way to our next gate. We settle into our seats, waiting for our flight to America. I gather the courage to finally ask, “Why did they take you off the plane?”

  “I don’t know. It’s okay now, though.”

  I shake my head. “Tell me. I can handle it.”

  He picks up a magazine from the seat next to him and flips through the pages. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t understand it.”

  “That’s okay…Then what happened?”

  He sighs. “They asked me if I was the son of Kidane. I told them yes. Then they asked me to fill out some paperwork. The plane was about to leave, so when the guy wasn’t looking I just ran for it.”

  My eyes water. “I’m glad you made it back.”

  He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Me, too, Habeniye.”

  Chapter Two

  The Expeditions Begin

  Oakland, California. Fall 2000.

  “I hate to say this, kiddo, but you’re failing the class.”

  My Deaf ears doubt what they hear. I look up at Ms. Scott, a teacher I trust and admire. We’re in the resource room for blind students at Bret Harte Middle School. The classroom offers the school’s blind students—all seven of us—braille books, braille typewriters, a braille embosser, computers with assistive software, magnifiers, even braille versions of Monopoly and UNO. We take turns working in the resource room for one period each day. The rest of the time we attend regular, mainstream classes with our nondisabled classmates.

  Ms. Scott and her assistants help mainstream teachers with accessibility, converting reading assignments to braille, audio, or large print, depending on the needs of the student. They also provide blindness training: identifying coins by touch, folding cash bills to tell them apart, and using the internet with magnification or text-to-speech software.

  Ms. Scott sits down next to me and tries again. “Mr. Smith asked me to braille your marking period report. I’m going to braille it for you, but I figured we’d talk about it now. It says you haven’t completed many of your homework assignments.”

  “But I did all the assignments, all the homework.” My stomach twists with indignation.

  “I’m just telling you what it says on the paper.”

  “I always do my homework. I’ve never missed an assignment. Maybe this is someone else’s report?”

  “I’m sorry, Haben, but it has your name on it.”

  Kicking the ground, I sit up straighter in my chair. “Then I don’t know. This doesn’t make any sense. I did all the work.”

  “It’s okay, kiddo. I’m on your team. I know you work hard. Let’s just talk this through. Do you remember not doing at least one assignment?”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I don’t think you would, either. Why don’t we ask Mr. Smith about this?”

  I nod, too anxious to speak. My subconscious buzzes with a warning. Something about Mr. Smith’s class puts me on edge.

  “I’ll call and see if he’s in now.” Ms. Scott walks over to her desk. Her voice sounds muffled now as she speaks outside of my hearing range.

  My hands drop to the braille book in front of me. Nancy Drew, a brilliant woman with the courage to stride into terrifying situations, is one of my heroes. My fingers glide across the dots, following her on one of her adventures. The story distracts me from the fear clawing at my spine.

  Ms. Scott returns to the table. “He’s free now. Shall we head over?”

  My jaw clamps shut again. Standing on hesitant legs, I follow her out the door.

  She turns left, moving down a hallway with a musty old-building smell. My heart thuds against my ribs as I trudge behind her. We soon cross a courtyard where the breeze carries a whiff of eucalyptus, and the scent reminds me of the decongestant my family uses on miserable, stuffy nose days.

  She slows to walk beside me. “How are the cartwheels?”

  A small smile flickers on my face. When I told her my dream of finally mastering the cartwheel, she volunteered to help. We spent a whole period at the school gym practicing. Haben, kick your legs higher! Keep your legs straight! Keep trying!

  “I can’t quite get my legs straight over my head.”

  “You were getting close the other day. Keep practicing. I know you can do it.”

  I blush, embarrassed. Another blind student has been cartwheeling since fourth grade. Ms. Scott has known how to cartwheel for more than twenty years. Then there’s me, twelve years old and cartwheel-challenged. “I’ll practice,” I mumble.

  Ms. Scott really is a phenomenal teacher, peppering our lessons with all kinds of surprises. Last year she introduced me to hot cider, which tastes divine, and eggnog, which tastes vile. She helped me register with the National Braille and Talking Book Library, and taught me how to order Harry Potter. The middle school has a tiny braille library, so I need access to the national library.

  She breezes through Mr. Smith’s open door and stops by his desk. I stop beside her.

  Mr. Smith talks as he approaches. His words blur together into an inaudible rumble.

  “Are you serious?” Ms. Scott asks.

  Mumble, mumble. His response sounds like German. Some of his speech sounds come through, enough to know that he’s speaking. But not enough to identify the words.

  “No way!” She bursts into laughter.

  My knees tremble. Are they laughing at me? I look from one to the other, straining to hear.

  Mr. Smith clears his throat. “So how can I help you?”

  “Haben has a question for you,” Ms. Scott tells him.

  “Yes?” The tall silhouette stands before me, waiting.

  I swallow. “The report says I’m missing assignments, but I did turn in all the assignments.”

  “Can I see that?” He takes the paper from Ms. Scott. “There are about ten missing. Did you read and respond to the questions for chapter four?”

  “
I…I thought you skipped chapter four.”

  He gives an inaudible response.

  “I’m wondering,” Ms. Scott jumps in. “How do you assign homework?”

  “I usually write it on the board, but I read it out loud, too.”

  “Okay.” She thinks for a bit. “Are you standing in the front of the room when you read it out loud?”

  “It depends on where I am at the time. Sometimes I call out the assignment from my desk.”

  “Haben, can you hear him from his desk?”

  I shake my head. My seat is at the front of the class facing the board. Mr. Smith usually stands or sits in the front of the class. His desk is all the way in the back of the room near the door.

  “So that’s what’s going on. She didn’t know about those assignments because she didn’t hear them.” Ms. Scott’s voice sounds calm, nonjudgmental. “Haben, what are some things you can do to make sure you get the assignment?”

  “Umm…I could ask one of the students at the end of class…I could ask Mr. Smith…”

  She turns the question to him. “Do you think that could work?”

  “Sure. You can come ask me if you have any questions. I do have a question for you, though. Why don’t you use hearing aids?”

  “They don’t work for my type of hearing loss. I’ve tried them.” My throat tightens in dread. My audiologist explained that because my hearing loss is the opposite of the typical type of hearing loss, the hearing aids on the market aren’t designed to help me. People believe her, but when they hear it from me they wonder if I’m just being a stubborn preteen.

  “Gotcha,” he says.

  Silence.

  “Haben,” Ms. Scott says, “did you want to ask about making up those assignments you missed?”

  “Is that possible?” My voice rises with hope. “Can I turn them in late and still get credit?”

  “Sure. If you finish them by next Friday you can get credit for them.”

  “I’ll do it. Thanks.”

  Back in the resource room, Ms. Scott takes charge. “All right, kiddo. I’m going to braille this list for you—have a seat.” She walks over to the computer next to the braille embosser. The computer has software that converts print to braille, and then sends that information to an embosser. The embosser punches dots into thick paper, producing braille.