How Taigen Walton Overcame Adversity to Become Canada's Youngest Black Sign Language Interpreter

At a very young age, my family knew I would be something. What that something was, they had no idea. I was chatty, sassy and brave. My parents often received comments from my teachers that I was a loving girl but talked too much. At the tender age of five, my parents enrolled me in gymnastics, piano lessons and a Seventh-day Adventist sign language performance group. Shortly after, I dropped out of piano lessons, complaining that it was too much. I would only stay in gymnastics for a few years as competitions began to conflict with my religious day of worship.

I was the youngest member of my sign language group at the time. The instructor noticed my love for the language early and began giving me solo and private lessons. I continued in the group until I moved to Florida when I was 13 and happened upon another Seventh-day Adventist sign language performance group that I inevitably joined. I began performing at weddings, funerals, churches and nursing homes. It had been the only hobby I had stuck with for that long. Around the age of 15, I moved back to Toronto, where I helped lead another Adventist sign language performance group at my local church. It was a full-circle moment for me but strangely unfulfilling. There was an obvious missing piece in this desire I had using the language: the Deaf people who originated it.

When I got to high school, a family friend told me about a local college with a sign language interpreter program. Immediately, I did my research and started to plan my future. I was in grade 11 at the time, but I enrolled in evening American Sign Language (ASL) classes that were offered twice a week. That experience changed it all for me. This was the first time I had ever learned American Sign Language from a Deaf instructor. The class was fully immersive, and students were prohibited from using their voices. I learned so much about the cultural nuances that I had previously missed out on when learning from a non-native user of the language. Upon completing the course, I signed up for a Deaf summer and winter camp to continue my studies in an immersive, voice-off environment. By the time I graduated from high school, I had received early acceptance into the prerequisite program for the sign language interpreter program to which I had been introduced. The years of experience prior to enrolling had paid off, as I graduated from the prerequisite program on the Dean’s List.

Illustration: Malaaya Adams

The application process for the sign language interpreter program was rigorous. People from all over the country came to Toronto to apply. That year, of over 80 applicants, only 20 students were accepted; of them, I was the youngest and one of three people of colour. The first year was tremendously difficult, by design, to pick the bad apples from the bunch. Surprisingly, I discovered that I was one of the apples that would be picked. One Monday, I learned via text that my closest uncle had passed away. When I lived in Florida, the two of us were very close. I worked at his shoe shop as his secretary and cashier and attended church with him; he loved when I performed my songs for him. I was devastated by the news but couldn’t process it as I was called to the front to deliver my first presentation in ASL. It was all a blur, and afterwards, I excused myself from the class and went home. The following day, I met with my professors informing them that I would be attending the funeral in a few weeks. They shared their condolences and requested that I return with proof of attendance. 

When I returned, I turned in the funeral program and continued my classes as usual. After a tireless semester, I was shocked to discover I had failed a course. This was the first time in my life I had failed anything. Despite informing my professors of my absence, they deducted marks for the daily 10% quizzes I missed while away. I was absent for several days, so I just missed the passing grade of 70%. The only other person who failed the class was one of my white classmates. As we sat together on the GO train headed home, we decided to email the professor asking for extra credit work. Surprisingly, my white counterpart received the accommodation while I did not. 

Illustration: Malaaya Adams

This was just the beginning of the tireless fight for recognition and support I would undergo at that school. Later, I learned that I had to restart the whole year because I failed the course. After four years of going back and forth with professors, hiring private tutors, volunteering, and working at Deaf organizations alongside Deaf co-workers who insisted I would be a valuable addition to the profession, every person of colour in my class, including me, were kicked out of the program. 

It was a devastating time, yet the students came together to form a class action against the professors and program. After working with representatives from the college to provide statements describing experiences of racism, discrimination and verbal abuse, it seemed we were finally receiving the support we deserved. Shortly after our second meeting, however, a strike broke out at the college. Faculty were left looking for other work, and the college representatives working on the case dropped out. As we were looking for new representation, we discovered the college had planned to use our statements in a lawsuit against the program without the students’ knowledge or consent. We went from feeling supported to being betrayed.

Nonetheless, I persevered. Only five other schools in the country offered a sign language interpreter program, each in a different province. Although I had no desire to move away, I saw no other options. After a year of working and preparing, I moved out West to continue my dream. Luckily, some of my courses transferred and lessened my workload.

After a great first semester, I again found myself fighting to be seen by my professors. One of my professors, who had been teaching in the program for over 20 years, assigned a reading entitled, “Characteristics of Oppressed Peoples: Their Effect on the Interpreting Context.” The 1987 article attempted to draw parallels between the experiences of oppressed racial groups to the experience of the Deaf community. The article was not peer-reviewed and had no citations for its statements on the Black experience. Further, the author, a white woman, does not identify with any of the oppressed, minority groups discussed. She spoke about Black people exuding rage, violence and envy specifically against white people, who are deemed the oppressors. I called out my professor for assigning an outdated, incorrect article as required reading and called for its removal from the curriculum. The interpreting profession is already predominately white––the average interpreter being white women over the age of 40––and not fully representative of the community we work with and for. Other students, who did not see an issue with the article until I spoke up, agreed that it should be removed from the curriculum. Meanwhile, the professor said she “didn’t get a chance to re-read the article,” deflected every alternative I suggested and subsequently retired at the semester’s end.

Illustration: Malaaya Adams

Despite this incident and similar experiences, I continued to focus on my goal. I went back to my roots by prioritizing meeting Deaf Christians in my local churches, visiting the United States to volunteer, and attending Deaf Black-led events. With much perseverance, I graduated from my program with an award of distinction. I was the youngest of only 15 active Black sign language interpreters in Canada. Currently, I work full-time as an interpreter and aim to abide by accountability, equality, inclusion and respect. I hope that this profession will grow to represent and serve the world we live in every day. 

This is a guest contribution. If you would like to share your story, email us editorial@tonedmag.com.