My Godmother hit me up one evening and invited me to join her at an interpreters’ conference in North Carolina. Perfect timing, because I had just dropped my classes at Gallaudet University and was contemplating whether to continue my studies to become a professional interpreter. A little road trip couldn’t hurt, right?
A few weeks later, she called with unexpected news: she could no longer attend. I took it as a sign to end my journey toward interpreting. Yet she encouraged me to go anyway. Truthfully, I was hesitant. I had no conversational sign skills, and I was going to an interpreter’s conference where I was sure people would be signing. For context, my Godmother is a retired social worker who worked extensively with Deaf clients. Now she serves as a church interpreter. Her skills and grace in the field has always inspired me.
At first, I decided not to attend the conference, so I didn’t purchase a ticket. But a couple of nights before the event, I reached out to the host to ask if any additional tickets were available, since the website listed it as sold out. I was in luck, the host briefly reopened ticket sales, and I managed to secure one. On the morning of the conference, something shifted. I woke up early, packed a change of clothes, and drove from Fairfax, Virginia to Greensboro, North Carolina. I can only describe the decision as divine intervention; something pushed me to just go and see what The Black Interpreters Experience (TBIE) had to offer. Along the way, I booked a hotel less than ten minutes from the venue, checked in, and arrived just in time for the first panel.
Walking into the conference, I had no expectations. What I found amazed me: every interpreter on the stage looked like me. Representation matters, and in that moment, it mattered deeply. I sat in the front, feeling both out of place and at home. During a break, a woman approached me, introduced herself via sign and asked me, “Are you hearing”. She was so welcoming and excited to see me. It was my first independent interaction with a Deaf person, and I was both humbled and inspired.
Throughout the day, I met Black interpreters from across the country. Their stories were powerful, reviving, and eye opening. Many shared the adversities they faced, being overlooked despite their qualifications, called upon only during Black History Month or Juneteenth, and being excluded from opportunities simply because of race. The barriers were undeniable. And while the question of why we continue to fight for space in those rooms lingers, the answer deserves its own reflection in another entry.
By the end of the conference, the atmosphere shifted to celebration. We celebrated together and exchanged meaningful connections. I even met Matt Maxey, though our interaction was awkward on my part; I nervously pointed at him and signed “beautiful” instead of “handsome.” He laughed kindly, and though I walked away embarrassed, the moment reminded me of the humanity and humor that exist in these spaces.
I left the conference empowered, connected, and grateful. Many of the interpreters I met remain in contact with me today. TBIE gave me more than I expected. They “ate” and “left no crumbs.” Thank you for the nourishment.
