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February 28, 2025
Amy Adams, Program Coordinator
Museum of Deaf History, Art, and Culture
455 E Park St​
Olathe, KS 66061
Dear Amy,
When we stare into the night sky, each star tells a story - some burning bright with purpose, others
finding new positions as their time in a particular formation evolves. Today, I must acknowledge that my
star in the MDHAC constellation is shifting its orbit, no longer able to shine in the position it once held
with such pride.
The journey of a docent is like that of a sculptor, chiseling away at misconception until understanding
emerges from the stone of ignorance. For years, I have carved pathways through the museum's halls,
transforming everyday facts into transcendent experiences. Each tour became a living canvas where
visitors could witness the vibrant brushstrokes of Deaf history painting itself before their eyes.
My path with MDHAC officially began in 2018, during one of my darkest moments. After the election, I
felt lost - dismissed - crushed. When someone from MDHAC invited me to sit at the front desk, I
hesitated. Putting myself in public view again felt overwhelming, but it aligned with my passion for
writing legal advocacy strategies on my laptop. I accepted, not realizing this small "yes" would
transform my life's direction.
Nearly a year later, when docent training opportunities arose through a partnership with Nelson-Atkins
Museum of Art, my name wasn't on the candidate list. Yet somehow, as the person staffing the front
desk, I was invited to participate as an unofficial candidate. I never intended to excel - in fact, I secretly
hoped to perform poorly enough that I wouldn't be asked to lead tours. I worried the public wasn't ready
for my perspectives on Deaf history and culture, which some considered too direct or intense.
Then came that pivotal moment - giving a practice tour to volunteers from that same large museum.
Something unexpected happened. These visitors resonated deeply with my authentic presentation of
our Deaf history, perspectives, and visual way of experiencing the world. Their enthusiastic response,
coupled with encouragement from the same person who first invited me to the front desk, convinced me
to embrace this role I'd been avoiding.
Now I stand at a crossroads. My work building Deaf leadership across the nation flows like a river that
has outgrown its local banks and seeks broader horizons. This inner purpose draws me forward with
the gravitational pull of countless stars, irresistible in its power.
Meanwhile, the museum I once knew has transformed. Displays change without discussion, like
paragraphs rewritten mid-story. The narrative I carefully constructed now contains segments I did not
author, elements inserted without context, altering the story's very meaning. How can one tend a
garden when the landscape itself shifts beneath one's hands?

Within these walls now exists a subtle current of dismissal - not violent like a storm, but persistent like
erosion. My contributions, once treasured insights, now seem to disappear into seas of indifference. In
spaces where my perspectives once flourished, I now perceive only fading impressions.
The displays I meticulously incorporated into my tours have been altered without consultation, creating
a disconnect between my prepared narrative and the visual story now presented. It feels like watching a
familiar landscape suddenly rearrange itself, making my carefully mapped journey impossible to follow.
My work on the proclamation for governors to recognize our community - words I selected to transform
perceptions from medical pathology to cultural celebration - was altered without discussion before its
presentation. The revised document, stripped of nuanced language highlighting our visual-spatial
intelligence and unique contributions to humanity, felt like watching a vibrant painting fade to muted
tones. When we reshape the public narrative about our existence but find our own words rewritten, we
lose the authentic perspective that makes advocacy powerful.
This pattern of disconnect feels especially poignant given the deep historical ties between KAD and this
museum. In the 1980s, KAD spearheaded crucial fundraising drives that helped transform MDHAC
from vision into reality. Even the LaRosh Fund contributed directly to this museum's construction. That
foundation of mutual support makes the current distance all the more striking - like two branches that
once grew from the same trunk now bending in different directions.
More recently, my research about local Deaf history and the LaRosh Fund scholarship hasn't received
the acknowledgment I believed it deserved. Offering these insights feels like extending a hand in
friendship only to find it remains unclasped.
I've also experienced a growing discomfort in the museum atmosphere. Where I once freely shared my
cultural knowledge, I now find myself constrained by an invisible boundary of judgment. The joy of
cultural exchange has been overshadowed by the weight of unseen scrutiny. What once felt like fertile
ground for authentic expression now feels like shallow soil where genuine contributions struggle to take
root.
Deafhood demands authenticity. It requires spaces where our truths can breathe without constraint.
When research meets skepticism, when history is treated as malleable rather than sacred, when lived
experience is subordinated to administrative convenience - these create rifts that widen with time.
I've been fortunate to witness different styles of leadership during my time at MDHAC. In the past, the
museum radiated a welcoming energy that made volunteers feel appreciated for their contributions
rather than merely fulfilling obligations. The atmosphere fostered creativity, mutual respect, and genuine
community building. Volunteers eagerly returned, knowing their passion for Deaf culture was valued
above all else. This collaborative spirit has dimmed in recent months, replaced by an environment that
treats freely given time as a commodity and passion as a resource to be managed. The contrast
between these approaches is evident in how volunteers now select their days of service, gravitating
toward times when their contributions are celebrated rather than merely extracted.

The transformation in visitors' understanding when they grasp that being Deaf isn't about absence but
presence - a vibrant way of experiencing the world through visual and spatial intelligence - has been
the most rewarding aspect of my work.
With this letter, I am formally withdrawing from my dedicated volunteer position as a docent tour guide
at MDHAC. Like a meteor shower that transforms into individual shooting stars, each carrying wishes
across the sky, my experiences here have scattered brilliant moments of connection that will illuminate
paths I've yet to travel.
I extend my deepest gratitude to everyone at MDHAC who provided the space for me to develop as a
cultural ambassador. However, the current environment has become increasingly difficult for me to
navigate. The dismissive treatment of my contributions, changes made to exhibits without consultation,
and the uncomfortable atmosphere created by certain individuals have effectively pushed me away
from the institution I once loved serving. These behaviors have transformed from occasional
frustrations into a pattern that signals my full participation is no longer valued. While these experiences
have shaped me profoundly, it's clear I must direct my energy where toxic interactions don't impede my
ability to contribute meaningfully to our community's representation.
My connection to our cultural heritage remains undiminished. While stepping back from scheduled
docent responsibilities, I'll continue to visit the museum and participate in special events. Consider this
not a departure but a transformation - like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, my dedication to our
shared mission takes a new form while maintaining its essential nature.
I still believe in MDHAC's potential to be a sanctuary where Deaf culture, art and history can flourish
authentically. Perhaps when the museum establishes proper governance boundaries and accountability
structures, when power is distributed rather than concentrated, and when volunteer contributions are
welcomed rather than redirected, my regular involvement might resume. Until then, I must follow the
path that allows my energy to flow most freely toward the advancement of our community in the most
healthy form.
Even as I shift my position, my commitment to preserving and celebrating our cultural legacy continues
unabated. Like water finding a new channel, my dedication flows onward, nourishing different ground
but still part of the same essential river.
The stars in the night sky don't disappear when they move positions - they simply shine their light from
a new place. That's what I'm doing now.
With unwavering dedication to our shared journey,
Chris Haulmark
CC: Chriz Dally
CC: Suz Dennis​
CC: Kim Anderson