Deaf people say they sometimes feel like they're living on a different planet from those who can hear, but when both learn to use American Sign Language (A-S-L), it can open up a new world of communication.
In Detroit, Wayne State University is taking notice. The school's College of Education recently included A-S-L instruction to its curriculum, and the classes are filling up. As the program grows, the school is actively recruiting people who are deaf or hard of hearing as teachers.
Kathryn Roberts, interim assistant dean of teacher education at Wayne State, said it would not make sense to teach ASL without instructors from the deaf culture.
"It was really important to our division that we had people from the deaf community working with us, because deaf culture is a huge piece of what we wanted to be teaching," Roberts explained. "And education programs, particularly Wayne State's education program, we have a huge focus on the community."
Roberts added there are an estimated 400,000 deaf people in Michigan, which means the program potentially affects one out of every 20 people in the state. She pointed out the college offered eight sections in ASL this past semester, and expects the program to expand as demand increases.
Emily Jo Noschese, assistant professor of bilingual and bicultural education at Wayne State University, was one of the first instructors the school recruited. Noschase, who is fourth-generation deaf, not only teaches ASL, but has helped identify and hire five part-time ASL instructors.
Noschese, who spoke in sign language through an interpreter, said there's value in communicating with those who cannot hear.
"Anybody that's working in a business, somebody who might own a business or a company, they are guaranteed to have a deaf person that might want to come in and work for them," Noschese emphasized. "They learn sign language; that could benefit the rapport between them and the client, because they will be able to communicate with them."
Noschese stressed part of learning ASL is understanding the ways of the "deaf culture," because they sometimes express themselves in very different ways from the hearing population.
"We are very blunt and direct. That's a cultural norm of deaf people," Noschese stated. "There's no wishy-washy. There's no sensitivity, beating around the bush, around a certain topic that we might care about. So, hearing people sometimes are a little bit thrown off about that."
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By Kyle Smedley for the Ball State Daily News .
Broadcast version by Joe Ulery for Indiana News Service reporting for the Ball State Daily News-Free Press Indiana-Public News Service Collaboration.
No matter the opponent, no matter the location, no matter the time, Keionte Newson kneels and bows his head at the 26-yard line before kickoff of every Ball State University football game. The senior Cardinal linebacker takes a moment to speak to his second cousin Dexter Jones, who died 10 years ago.
While praying, Newson calls on his family members who have died for guidance, looking to Jones and his deceased uncle, Jeremy Grant, specifically as father figures he has never truly had.
Keionte said he has a poor relationship with his true father, Derek, but that's only a piece of the 13-year puzzle he has had to piece together en route to becoming the first in his family to earn a college degree.
Since the age of nine, Keionte's life has been filled with adversity. His mother, Sharmane Grant, was laid off from her job as a caregiver, and Derek left the family for five years.
Keionte had to stop playing youth football so the family could use that money on essentials. Keionte, along with Grant and his siblings, then moved into Section 8 housing. Shortly thereafter, Grant fell into a years-long state of depression.
Keionte lashed out at himself and others, struggling to find an outlet for his pent-up anger.
Despite it all, in Keionte's five years at Ball State - with his family back in Covington, Tennessee - he has thrived more than ever during his 22 years on this Earth.
Now that his time as a Cardinal is over, Keionte said he is finally ready to share his story.
"Regardless if I'm put in the NFL or I get blessed with a great job or something, I just want to change how everybody sees our family," Keionte said.
Financial Insecurity
A conversation between Grant and one of Keionte's aunts still sticks with him more than a decade later. Grant, the household's main provider, had just been fired after working for nearly five years as a caregiver for those with mental illnesses, and she went to the family to discuss their next steps.
"I didn't know what to do," Grant said. "I was doing hair and cleaning doctor's offices ... It wasn't a lot of money, but it would be enough."
Keionte eavesdropped on the conversation and walked into the kitchen. Even as an elementary schooler, he knew money was tight, and he knew playing youth football wasn't free.
Despite his love for the game he had already been playing for five years, Keionte told his mom he would quit football to save the family money. A couple of years later, Keionte's family found a way to get him back involved with football in small, community leagues. He didn't start consistently playing until middle school began.
As soon as he was old enough, Keionte wanted to find work to help bring in money for the family. Grant wouldn't let him, telling Keionte it wasn't his job to provide for the family as a teenager, which drew out even more frustration from Keionte.
While he now realizes his past frustrations may not have been rational, Keionte felt his mother wasn't making the right decisions to put the family in a better financial situation. The arguments escalated enough that Grant asked Keionte to move out, after which he stayed with a friend for about a month before moving in with his newly present father. That didn't last long either, as Keionte cited a lack of effort from Derek as the reason for their still-standing issues.
Keionte moved back in with Grant after less than a year away, remembering how he cried for his mother no matter where he stayed.
"I tried to give her space for a long time, and that probably wasn't the best thing for me to do," Keionte said. "For a long time, I would see her in the morning, and she'd be on the couch, then I'd come back after practice and school, and she'd still be there ... I'd go home and sit in my room and shut myself off because I didn't know how to express my emotions properly. I was angry and mad all the time."
Grant confirmed that she was depressed for years after losing her job, but she didn't know how upset Keionte was when he retreated to his room for hours after school.
"He's always been kind of a loner," Grant said. "... I'm glad he didn't fall into the environment of Section 8 housing."
Grant continued to work odd jobs for years before finally finding consistent employment near the end of Keionte's time in high school. Prior to his senior year, Keionte presented Grant with the idea of transferring from Brighton High School to Blackman High School. He knew if he transferred to Blackman, his mother would have a better chance of finding employment.
She did and was hired as a computer technician in FedEx's supply logistics department, a role she still holds today.
"I never completely gave up," Grant said.
The Search for a Father Figure
For as long as Keionte can remember, he visited his father every weekend. However, Keionte remembered Derek "disappearing" for about five years after his ninth birthday.
He believes Derek spent the majority of that time in Texas, but Keionte said he never cared enough to ask his dad for confirmation. Once Keionte started eighth grade, he said Derek began to "creep" back into his life, attending the occasional middle school football game or messaging Keionte's mother to check on him.
"He would take me to a workout or a trainer, then give me some half-ass advice," Keionte said. "I was like, 'You don't even want to be telling me this right now, and I can feel it.'"
Keionte's relationship with Derek has been up and down since, only improving to the point where the two stayed in the same hotel room after Ball State played Western Illinois in 2021. Keionte remembered having razor bumps on his face and neck that day, and when Derek pointed them out, Keionte blamed his father for never teaching him how to properly shave.
Derek responded by telling Keionte he didn't need to be around to teach "trivial" lessons like that to his son, to which Keionte took major exception. A couple of years of little-to-no contact passed, during which time Keionte immersed himself in his faith for the first time.
He was told by members of his Bible study to let go of the grudge he held against Derek, and Keionte slowly started to build the bond with his father back. That was until April 2, Keionte's 22nd birthday, when the day came and went without a text from Derek.
Keionte messaged his father the next day to ask why he didn't reach out. Keionte said Derek responded that Keionte didn't wish him a happy birthday the year prior, prompting Keionte to scroll through their text messages and find a greeting he sent to Derek on his 50th birthday.
"All those years he missed, he missed happy birthdays, Happy New Year's, Merry Christmas and all that," Keionte said. "When he wasn't there, he wasn't there for real ... I was like, 'I've been trying, trying, trying to give you opportunities, and you just keep burning them.' I said, 'You can come to my games, but you won't be on my ticket list. I won't have tickets for you. I don't want to talk to you after games.'"
Keionte said he isn't interested in rekindling a relationship with his father until Derek shows Keionte that he cares about his personal life rather than just his athletic ventures.
The father figure that Keionte looked to in his adolescence was only 13 years older than him - his second cousin, Dexter Jones. The two spent nearly every moment together.
But in December 2014, Keionte came home from watching a local high school basketball game, and he said his life changed. Jones died from heart failure, found by family lying face down in his front yard.
"Two days before that, [the family] all went to play basketball, and he was running circles around everybody ... He was a ray of sunshine, and when he passed, it tore a hole in my family," Keionte said.
Grant was still unemployed at the time, and her depression only worsened after Jones' death. In the aftermath of losing his cousin, Keionte experienced suicidal thoughts for the first time.
His grades dropped, his focus was sporadic and he didn't enjoy spending time in his own home. When Keionte was home, he released his anger by punching holes in the walls or shouting at family members.
"Where I was growing up - if you were gonna be a man or call yourself a man - people expected men to hold on to their emotions," Keionte said. "I felt lost, and I found that football was the only safe haven I had."
Keionte's male role model after Jones' death became his middle school football coach, Larry Williams. He filled the gap in Grant's struggles to drive Keionte to and from football practice every day due to the 30-minute distance between their home and Brighton Middle School. Outside of football, Williams kept Keionte in check in the classroom both in academics and behavior.
Without Williams, Keionte said he doesn't know if he would have gotten to the point of earning a full-ride scholarship to play Division-I football, and it was during this time that Keionte discovered his love for the number nine.
This is the brotherhood they talk about'
Keionte first wore the number nine during his sophomore and junior seasons at Brighton High School, but he was not able to carry the number over to Blackman High School for his senior season. In his first two seasons with Ball State, Keionte wore the numbers 56 and 25.
He remembered feeling a sense of restoration when he earned the number nine ahead of his third year as a Cardinal, but Keionte felt like he did not live up to the standards of wearing a number that holds such high importance within him. In his two most recent seasons, Keionte said he has proven he deserves the number nine by earning True Cardinal 1 honors and serving as Ball State's team captain for the 2024 season.
"I can't be that guy that's frustrated and flustered and always worried about what's going on; I got to be that happy face and bright light that's in the locker room," Keionte said.
Perhaps no Cardinal took more from Keionte's leadership than redshirt junior wide receiver Qian Magwood, foraying that into a friendship that has lasted nearly a half-decade. Citing Keionte's outgoing personality as one of his most personable traits off the field, Magwood said his best friend was a "beacon of light" for the Cardinals.
"I know a lot of days where he's not having his best days, and he still comes in laughing, acting goofy and messing with somebody," Magwood said. " ... Some days, I come in and I just don't have it, but somehow, some way, with the guys in there, it's impossible to have a bad day."
Keionte and Magwood make a point to talk with each other for a brief moment before each game. Magwood said the meeting could be as simple as a dap up or a conversation revolving around prayer or words of encouragement.
Their vulnerability around each other comes with being roommates for years, staying up until dawn talking about their struggles and even being by each other's side when they receive traumatic news.
Magwood remembers he and Keionte hanging out at another player's apartment during their freshman year when Keionte suddenly left the room to take a phone call. He came back and told the room that one of his friends in Tennessee had been shot dead.
"I remember him hanging the phone up and starting crying. He just fell into my arms," Magwood said. "This was the first moment where I was like, 'This is the brotherhood they talk about.'"
Magwood has had moments where he's the one crying in Keionte's arms. When his grandmother died last year, he remembered Keionte being one of the first people to call and make sure he felt supported in his loss.
Heart on His Sleeve
Keionte has tattoos on both arms - the ink encompassing the struggles he has endured since the age of nine. On his left arm are a dove, a clock with a broken hand, a shattered hourglass, the word "ambition," and the phrase "I came a long way, but I'm not as far as I'm going to be." Before he leaves Ball State, he plans to add the number nine to his sleeve.
"I started from Section 8 housing to a soon-to-be college graduate," Keionte said. "That's leaps and bounds, and people don't live to see that sometimes."
Kyle Smedley wrote this article for the Ball State Daily News.
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