I'll give the CSI:NY writers credit; they tackled the idea of a deaf family with panache and sensitivity. No one developed Sooper Sign Language Fu skills, and while Mac was the first CSI to clue in to the deafness conundrum, it wasn't a ridiculous leap of logic. And I will love Flack forever for leaving the disability factor out of his initial rundown. That, more than anything else, speaks volumes as to how he perceives and values people. The family's deafness was secondary to the fact that they had been victimized. (It also lends credence to my not-at-all-secret belief that Flack's getting some gimpy love at home, but that's neither here nor there.)
The interpreter was a lovely touch, not to mention dead sexy; too bad he won't be back.
I loved the inventive approach Mac took to determining the murder weapon, though I'm confused. Was the weapon recovered on-camera, or did Mac just guess that Cole Rowen was deaf? On what basis did he link Rowen's print with the murder weapon?
I also want to heap praise on the writers for exploring the nuances of deaf culture specifically and disabled culture in general. Yes, Virginia, there is a difference in perception and self-acceptance between those who have supportive friends and parents and those who don't. A case in point:
When I was born in the prehistoric 1970s, not much was known about disabled psychology, and advocacy groups were just beginning to effect changes in education and mainstream socialization. Disabled children were intergrated into "normal classrooms" in 1973(or was it '75?). Doctors often gave parents the direst of predictions about their child's future. My mother was told that I would likely be profoundly retarded and never live independently.
She refused to accept that and went into such deep denial that I was not allowed to accept my disability and find ways to cope on my own. She was so determined that I be normal that she refused any adaptive equipment beyond my wheelchair. No special buttons on clothing, no special bras, no hand splints for writng, no reachers. If I wanted something that was out of reach, I either found a way to stand up or I went without. To use modified equipment was to concede that I wasn't "normal", and she just...couldn't.
So I ended up a lot like Cole Rowen, acutely aware of my difference, and just as aware that it made people uncomfortable. I always tried to do exactly what my teachers wanted in school because I didn't want to compound the disappointment they surely felt at being saddled with me. I was eager to make friends but seldom did so for fear of rejection. To this day, I refer to myself as "broken" or "defective", and when I was in school, I hated being stuck with the "Special Ed" kids because even though I knew the normal kids shunned me, I didn't want to be lumped in with the "freaks" and "retards", either. I knew I wasn't them, but I had no idea who I was.
By contrast, a college buddy of mine was raised by parents-a father, especially-who hit the ground running. Mr. K spent his life making sure that K knew she was as good as anybody else. He gave the concept of normal the finger in favor of what worked for K, and if that meant a house with nothing but ramps, handrails, sling seats, and automatic doors, that was just cherry. He loved K; he celebrated her. On her 16th birthday, he hired a band and took K four-wheeling and mud-bogging. It didn't matter that it required some ingenuity; it was what K wanted, and it was her birthday, and by God, he found a way.
K graduated college with honors in three years, and last I heard of her, she was working as an accountant for Christopher Reeve's foundation.
I guess where I'm going with this is to say that I knew damn well where Cole was coming from with his wholesale rejection of his deafness because I've been there. I've tried what he did, to pretend it could all be fixed if only...and so I sympathized with him even as I wanted to slap him for trying to distance himself from that part of his life. Add to that his obvious desire to shield his daughter from the stigma he'd endured all his life, and damn, did it hurt.
"There's a possibility I could be the father, yeah, but it's not like I'da married her; I mean, she was deaf."
"You're a real piece of work."
"What Detective Taylor meant to say was you're a scumbag with an eighty-dollar haircut."
Oh, Flack, thank you for that eye-popping anger and loathing. Not only was it dead sexy to see you snarl like that, but it reaffirmed your inveterate decency. And kudos to Mac for looking like he wanted to rip Seth Wolf's arm off and beat him to death with it.
I was going to comment on Stella and Lindsay's interactions, but this commentary is already mammoth, so I think I'll save it for tomorrow.
The interpreter was a lovely touch, not to mention dead sexy; too bad he won't be back.
I loved the inventive approach Mac took to determining the murder weapon, though I'm confused. Was the weapon recovered on-camera, or did Mac just guess that Cole Rowen was deaf? On what basis did he link Rowen's print with the murder weapon?
I also want to heap praise on the writers for exploring the nuances of deaf culture specifically and disabled culture in general. Yes, Virginia, there is a difference in perception and self-acceptance between those who have supportive friends and parents and those who don't. A case in point:
When I was born in the prehistoric 1970s, not much was known about disabled psychology, and advocacy groups were just beginning to effect changes in education and mainstream socialization. Disabled children were intergrated into "normal classrooms" in 1973(or was it '75?). Doctors often gave parents the direst of predictions about their child's future. My mother was told that I would likely be profoundly retarded and never live independently.
She refused to accept that and went into such deep denial that I was not allowed to accept my disability and find ways to cope on my own. She was so determined that I be normal that she refused any adaptive equipment beyond my wheelchair. No special buttons on clothing, no special bras, no hand splints for writng, no reachers. If I wanted something that was out of reach, I either found a way to stand up or I went without. To use modified equipment was to concede that I wasn't "normal", and she just...couldn't.
So I ended up a lot like Cole Rowen, acutely aware of my difference, and just as aware that it made people uncomfortable. I always tried to do exactly what my teachers wanted in school because I didn't want to compound the disappointment they surely felt at being saddled with me. I was eager to make friends but seldom did so for fear of rejection. To this day, I refer to myself as "broken" or "defective", and when I was in school, I hated being stuck with the "Special Ed" kids because even though I knew the normal kids shunned me, I didn't want to be lumped in with the "freaks" and "retards", either. I knew I wasn't them, but I had no idea who I was.
By contrast, a college buddy of mine was raised by parents-a father, especially-who hit the ground running. Mr. K spent his life making sure that K knew she was as good as anybody else. He gave the concept of normal the finger in favor of what worked for K, and if that meant a house with nothing but ramps, handrails, sling seats, and automatic doors, that was just cherry. He loved K; he celebrated her. On her 16th birthday, he hired a band and took K four-wheeling and mud-bogging. It didn't matter that it required some ingenuity; it was what K wanted, and it was her birthday, and by God, he found a way.
K graduated college with honors in three years, and last I heard of her, she was working as an accountant for Christopher Reeve's foundation.
I guess where I'm going with this is to say that I knew damn well where Cole was coming from with his wholesale rejection of his deafness because I've been there. I've tried what he did, to pretend it could all be fixed if only...and so I sympathized with him even as I wanted to slap him for trying to distance himself from that part of his life. Add to that his obvious desire to shield his daughter from the stigma he'd endured all his life, and damn, did it hurt.
"There's a possibility I could be the father, yeah, but it's not like I'da married her; I mean, she was deaf."
"You're a real piece of work."
"What Detective Taylor meant to say was you're a scumbag with an eighty-dollar haircut."
Oh, Flack, thank you for that eye-popping anger and loathing. Not only was it dead sexy to see you snarl like that, but it reaffirmed your inveterate decency. And kudos to Mac for looking like he wanted to rip Seth Wolf's arm off and beat him to death with it.
I was going to comment on Stella and Lindsay's interactions, but this commentary is already mammoth, so I think I'll save it for tomorrow.
I hate the fact that Lindsay wasn't in it very much. I miss having her on there a lot. I really don't like the whole Mac/Peyton thing. He needs to stay single...hehe.
