Respect Isn’t Selective: Why Do We Still Push Back on Black Deaf Voices?

When the intellectually Disabled community asked us to stop using the R-word, we listened.

When Deaf Autistic people asked us to stop using a harmful sign, we listened.

When DeafBlind people asked us to stop using a disrespectful sign for Blind, we listened.

But when the Black Deaf community asked us to stop using the B-hand and the n-word, suddenly the listening stopped.

Why?

The Double Standard

Respect shouldn’t be conditional. We’ve already proven that we can change when asked. We’ve shown that we can adapt our language and signs when communities explain why something is harmful. Yet when Black Deaf people ask, the response shifts from acceptance to argument. That’s not about difficulty — it’s about whose voices we value.

This double standard reveals something uncomfortable: we are willing to respect some communities, but not all. We are willing to change when it costs us little, but when race enters the conversation, suddenly respect becomes negotiable. That’s not equity. That’s racism.

This isn’t new. Black communities have always had to fight harder to be heard, even when asking for basic respect. What we see in Deaf spaces today mirrors the larger pattern in America: when Black people speak, white people debate instead of listening.

If we can accept corrections from one group, we can accept them from another. The refusal to do so exposes the hierarchy we’ve built — one where Black Deaf voices are placed at the bottom, even within spaces that claim to value diversity and inclusion.

Naming the Resistance

The excuses I hear most often are about “access.” Interpreters claim they must provide full access no matter the words, saying things like: “You’re depriving your Deaf client from full understanding if you don’t sign it exactly.”

But that argument doesn’t hold up. There are ways to provide full access without reproducing racist language or harmful signs. You can sign “N-word” instead of spelling it out. You can use the color sign for Black instead of the cultural sign that Black Deaf people have asked us to stop using.

Interpreters adapt constantly. We adjust for register, for context, for cultural nuance. We choose signs that fit the client’s background. We already make judgment calls every day. So why pretend that adapting here is impossible? It’s not. It’s just inconvenient for whiteness.

Access and respect are not opposites — you can have both.

So let’s be honest: these excuses aren’t about access. They’re about protecting whiteness. They’re about refusing to change when Black Deaf people ask for respect.

And that refusal is not neutral. It’s racism, plain and simple.

My Position

I am white and DeafBlind. And if I can obviously see this with my low vision, why aren’t y’all seeing it with full sight? To me, it’s clear: when a community says something is disrespectful, you stop doing it. Period.

The truth is, it’s not about access — it’s about comfort. Too many white interpreters cling to the excuse of “full understanding” instead of admitting they’re perpetuating harm. But comfort is not more important than justice. And “access” that relies on racist language is not access at all — it’s complicity.

Being DeafBlind doesn’t mean I’m exempt from responsibility. It means I have to be even more intentional about what I choose to see and how I choose to act.

If I can recognize racism with limited vision, then those with full sight have no excuse for willful blindness.

The refusal to see what is obvious is not about ability — it’s about choice. And that choice reveals where whiteness places its priorities: protecting itself instead of respecting Black Deaf voices.

A Challenge to the Reader

If you respected the requests of other communities, why not this one? What makes Black Deaf voices less worthy of respect to you? That’s the question we need to face honestly.

Because the issue isn’t difficulty — it’s willingness. And willingness is a choice.

Ask yourself: why do you resist? Is it because you don’t want to admit you were wrong? Is it because you don’t want to give up power? Is it because you’re hiding behind the excuse of “access” when alternatives exist?

Whatever the reason, it’s not good enough.

This isn’t just about interpreters. It’s about every white Deaf person who shrugs off Black Deaf voices. It’s about every ally who stays silent when they hear resistance. If you’re not challenging racism in your own spaces, you’re part of the problem.

Closing Call

Respect is not selective. It doesn’t stop at the boundaries of race. If we can listen when other communities ask, we can listen when Black Deaf people ask.

Respect means choosing signs that honor the people they represent. Respect means refusing to reproduce slurs, even when you’re interpreting. Respect means centering Black Deaf voices in decisions about Black Deaf identity.

That’s not optional. That’s equity.

The question isn’t whether it’s hard. The question is whether you’re willing to stop resisting and start respecting.

Change is possible. We’ve already proven it. Interpreters have adapted countless times when asked by other communities.

Further Reading

To deepen the understanding of Black culture, race, and history, here are some recommended books available on Amazon:

• Black AF History: The Un-Whitewashed Story of America

• Black Culture and Black Consciousness
• The Hidden Treasure of Black ASL and Centering Ourselves: Black Deaf and Hard of Hearing Perspectives

Final Thought

Change is never easy, but it is always possible. We’ve already shown that our communities can adapt when asked — and that same willingness can extend to honoring Black Deaf voices. Respect is not a burden; it’s a gift we give each other to build stronger, more inclusive spaces.

If we choose to listen, to act, and to keep learning, we can create a future where equity is not debated but lived. That future is within reach — and it starts with each of us deciding to respect, without exception.

“If you are not deliberately fighting racism, you are passively upholding it.” — Robin DiAngelo