Negotiation and solidarity at cultural borders in sport: A narrative inquiry into the lived experience of Deaflympians

Abstract

This narrative inquiry explores structural tensions and institutional frictions that emerge at the intersection of D/deaf and disability sport, and reimagines D/deaf-affirmed narratives within sport contexts. The theoretical framework was developed through a dialogue between the concept of the “Third Space” and critical deaf studies. To inquire into the negotiation of in-between cultural spaces, we engage with the lived stories of two South Korean Deaflympians. Both have trained under the Paralympic-centered disability sport system and have worked as Adapted Physical Activity instructors at a provincial disability association. Following the narrative inquiry tradition of Clandinin and Connelly, researchers engaged in conversations with Deaf athletes and gathered materials such as official documents, media posts, and personal archives to compose field texts. We collaboratively developed timelines, summary tables, and interim research texts based on the three-dimensional narrative inquiry framework (temporality, place, and sociality), and composed the final research texts in a first-person voice. A D/deaf-affirmed hybrid identity, integrated with an athletic identity, is represented in the narratives both as a discursive sign of destabilizing stereotypical discourses and as transformative actions on audiocentric reality. The ambivalence of D/deaf vulnerability not only reveals audiocentric privilege but also creates space for interdependent care and collective responsibility. Engaging in D/deaf-affirmed praxis in sport contributes to operationalizing the intersectionality framework as one of the spokes in the wheel while also advancing axiological practices.

Introduction

D/deaf ¹ sport and Deaflympians embody distinctive cultural phenomena. The International Committee of Sports for the Deaf (ICSD) autonomously organizes the Deaflympics, a sporting event that celebrates and reproduces the cultural heritage of the D/deaf community within the realm of sport. However, in many countries, D/deaf sport at the national level is frequently positioned under the broader structure of disability sport (Ammons and Eickman, 2011). In this context, D/deaf athletes are culturally located in a liminal space between audism and ocularcentrism. Locally, they are positioned within the hearing-centered Paralympic movement. Globally, they participate in the Deaflympics, which is hosted and organized according to visu-centric norms.

In the sociology of sport (and adjacent disciplines), research on D/deaf sport has generally developed along two interrelated but analytically distinct theoretical trajectories. One line of studies has emphasized the cultural and linguistic distinctiveness of D/deaf people, positioning D/deaf sport as a space for identity formation, socialization, and cultural continuity (Ammons and Eickman, 2011; Breivik et al., 2002; Foster et al., 2019). At the same time, a second strand of research has critically examined the systemic marginalization and cultural barriers that D/deaf individuals encounter within non-deaf sport environments (Irish et al., 2018; Irish et al., 2022). Despite contributions from previous research, there remains a lack of attention to Deaflympians’ lived experiences of structural tensions and institutional frictions at the intersection of disability and D/deaf sport.

In South Korea, the Korea Deaf Sports Federation (KDSF) is placed under the governance of the Korea Paralympic Committee (KPC), while the ICSD is institutionally separate from the IPC. D/deaf sports events are also incorporated into the National Para Games as part of broader disability sports competitions. Within this context, a narrative inquiry into the life stories of South Korean D/deaf athletes provides a complex yet reflective discursive space situated between disability sport and D/deaf sport culture.

This narrative inquiry aims to address the underexplored structural tensions and institutional frictions that emerge at the intersection of D/deaf and disability sport, drawing on the lived experiences of Deaflympians. Through their stories, this study seeks to reimagine the cultural flourishing of D/deaf sport and to re-story Deaflympian narratives as political texts aligned with broader movements for social justice. To guide this inquiry, the following research questions were developed:

First, in what ways do the narratives of Deaflympians reveal the negotiations between Deaf and audiocentric cultures, and between D/deaf sport and audiocentric disability sport structures?

Second, how do Deaf athletes’ narratives portray the process of subjectification and the formation of hybrid identities?

The context of D/deaf and disability sport in South Korea

Deaflympians in South Korea are culturally situated in one of the most ambiguous and liminal positions within the national sports system. After signing a memorandum with the IPC in 2004, the ICSD became an independent organization cooperating with the IPC; however, this distinction is not reflected in South Korea's national sports governance. KPC, a government body under the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, functions as the central governing authority for all disability sport, including D/deaf sport.

As the umbrella organization for disability sport in South Korea, the KPC has established a Paralympic-centered governance structure that enables a streamlined and direct line of communication between the central government and 17 provincial disability sport associations. However, within this system, D/deaf sport is only formally incorporated but remains marginalized in reality. This is most evident in how funds are allocated: the D/deaf sport community contends that less than 1% of the KPC's overall annual budget is allocated to D/deaf sport (Bae, 2021). Although the issue has not been widely discussed, the KDSF has asserted that its governance affiliation should be transferred from the KPC to the Korea Olympic Committee (Bae, 2021).

D/deafness, audiocentricity, and medicalization in South Korea

In South Korea, “hearing impairment” is the officially recognized term used by various public organizations. According to the Ministry of Health and Welfare (2023), “hearing impaired person” is classified based on medical criteria measured in decibels (dB) into “deaf persons” (a loss of at least 80 dB in both ears) and “hard of hearing persons” (a loss of at least 60 dB in both ears, or a loss of at least 80 dB in one ear and at least 40 dB in the other ear). Hearing impairment is also used as a legal term in the field of special education, emphasizing “substantial difficulties” caused by “severe hearing loss” (Presidential Decree No. 33406, 2023). The concept of hearing impairment is grounded solely in the medical model of auditory thresholds, overlooking the lived experiences and cultural identities of D/deaf people.

Although bilingual-bicultural education has been promoted in D/deaf education (Kwak, 2010), D/deaf students in South Korea typically begin learning Korean Sign Language (KSL) at an average age of 12.3 years, with only 26.5% having the opportunity to learn sign language during early childhood in an educational setting (National Institute of Korean Language, 2020). This delay is largely attributed to non-deaf parents often perceiving spoken language as the more valuable form of communication, even marginalizing Deaf culture and sign language (Kim and Kwon, 2019).

One of the most prominent representations of the audiocentric hegemony lies in the debates surrounding cochlear implantation (Kwak, 2010; Won et al., 2014). D/deaf children frequently undergo surgery and speech therapy based on parental decisions made without a comprehensive understanding of whether medical and surgical interventions open new opportunities for D/deaf students or pose a threat to the development of D/deaf identity and sign language itself (Kwak, 2010). Some D/deaf students who have received cochlear implants effectively adapt to inclusive education and even progress to higher education; however, the vast majority experience delays in language development and struggles with identity within audiocentric educational settings (Shin and Yoon, 2019). From a critical perspective within the context of South Korea, it is likely that audism misrepresents D/deafness as a condition of deficiency and inferiority, further devaluing D/deaf individuals through medicalization and audiocentricity.

Theoretical approach

Within this paper, Homi Bhabha's concept of the “Third Space” is used as the primary theoretical framework to explore the cultural negotiations in the processes of subjectification of Deaf athletes (Figure 1). In contrast to other (post or de) colonial critics who have engaged with the positivity or negativity of images reproduced through stereotypical discourse, Bhabha examines the dynamics by which stereotypical discourse exerts power in the process of subjectification, along with the effects it engenders (Bhabha, 1994). In his analysis of colonial discourses, Bhabha asserts that the positions of colonial subjects are unstable and often overlap between the colonizer and the colonized. This state of subject formation does not manifest as monolithic or fixed but rather as conflicted and negotiable (Rhee, 2016). His insightful interpretation transcends the rigidities of cultural determinism and instead articulates intersubjectivity between the colonizer and the colonized (Huddart, 2006).

Figure 1.

Theoretical framework.

As Bhabha asserts, “The enunciation of cultural difference problematizes the binary division of past and present, tradition and modernity, at the level of cultural representation and its authoritative address” (Bhabha, 1994: 35), the iterative processes of cultural negotiation within the interstices of culture render the originality and authority of stereotypical discourse incomplete. This process dismantles its contradictory and negative polarities. He conceptualizes the space where (counter) discourses are negotiated as the third space. This space is not a simple conflation of cultural domains but instead an “in-between” space that disrupts the mirror of representation and produces cultural hybridity and ambivalence (Bhabha, 1994). From this perspective, the cultural and political texts of ocularcentric and audiocentric discourses are already being negotiated between opposing poles.

Previous studies utilizing the third space as a theoretical framework examine intersections where two or more discourses converge, enabling hybrid cultural formations to emerge through processes of cultural negotiation. Yahya and Wood (2017) explored the “Funds of Knowledge” and hybrid identities developed within the third space of play, where families’ cultural traditions interact with Canadian culture acquired in school. Sterrett (2015) investigated how students from diverse health professions construct interprofessional identities and expertise within the third space, a site where individual perspectives, knowledge systems, and professional culture are shared. In sports studies, Tolgfors (2024) examined the narrative of Sara, a dual practitioner working as a university lecturer and a physical education teacher, focusing on the third space where vertical discourses (scientific “know-why”) overlap with horizontal discourses (practical “know-how”) in physical education.

Because Bhabha does not provide a framework for analyzing audism and audiocentricity, this study aligns his concept with the critical works of deaf studies and critical deaf pedagogy. These perspectives argue that sign language and Deaf culture have been persistently marginalized by audiocentric norms reinforced by medical and educational institutions (Bauman and Murray, 2013; Ladd, 2003). Audiocentricity, intertwined with compulsory ableist norms, compels D/deaf individuals to normalize and assimilate into non-deaf society (Bauman et al., 2013). Ladd (2003) critiques the threats to sign language and the marginalization of Deaf culture, framing these as colonial strategies. He conceptualizes the oppression experienced by D/deaf communities as a form of linguistic colonialism.

More recently, Bauman and Murray (2014) have conceptualized “Deaf Gain” as an epistemological shift—from understanding D/deafness as a deficit to recognizing it as a source of cognitive, cultural, and creative gain. Deaf gain articulates the unique advantages and contributions inherent in D/deaf ways of being and knowing (Bauman and Murray, 2014). Within critical deaf pedagogy, scholars have contributed to the development and application of “Deaf Aesthetics” in educational settings as an axiological practice. Deaf aesthetics seeks to transform audiocentric structures to create accessible and inclusive educational settings for D/deaf students, while aligning with broader commitments to social justice movements (Skyer and Cochell, 2020; Weber et al., 2025).

Through the conversation between two theoretical perspectives, this study conceptualizes the subjectification process of Deaf athletes, who are often marginalized in sports discourses, as a third space, where their life trajectories negotiate with dominant ideologies such as audism and ableism. Textualizing Deaf athletes’ lived experiences into narrative form does not merely document individual experiences; it unveils the often-hidden oppression rooted in audiocentric beliefs through enunciating cultural differences. Moreover, it generates a political space and impact within the third space. This research advocates for alternative perspectives, beliefs, and actions to challenge the prevailing audiocentric discourses and ideologies in sports.

Research method

Narrative inquiry

This study adopts a narrative inquiry approach grounded in a pragmatism, initially developed by Clandinin and Connelly (2000) and later expanded by Caine et al. (2022). According to John Dewey's pragmatist philosophy, experience unfolds over time and is shaped through individuals’ continuous interactions with their social and material environments (Dewey, 1997). Within a pragmatist paradigm, narrative inquiry views knowledge not as a fixed truth to be discovered, but as a situated and relational construction arising from lived experience and meaningful engagement with the world (Clandinin and Connelly, 2000). Stories are not merely expressions of lived experience; rather, they are dynamic processes through which individuals co-construct knowledge, negotiate meaning, and generate new possibilities for growth, action, and transformation within social, historical, linguistic, and political contexts (Clandinin and Caine, 2013; Pinnegar and Daynes, 2007).

Caine et al. (2022) extend the epistemological foundations of narrative inquiry by foregrounding experience as political and discursively constructed. While remaining rooted in Deweyan pragmatism, they incorporate critical, poststructural, and postcolonial insights to explore how knowledge is shaped through power relations, positionality, and social inequities (Caine et al., 2022). In this view, experience becomes a sensitive indicator of social injustice, and narrative emerges as a political space for emancipatory knowledge production. This expanded perspective aligns with the theoretical framework of this study, the third space, in which narrative becomes not only a site of meaning-making but also a site of discursive negotiation and resistance.

Positionality narrative

I first met D/deaf athletes not as research participants, but as trainees in an Adaptive Ski Training Program. Some were D/deaf, but I only knew a few basic signs. I felt unsure of how to communicate, and that uncertainty turned into anxiety. Beneath that nervousness, there was a stereotype: “D/deaf people are stubborn.”

I rode a lift with a D/deaf trainee. Sitting side by side, I felt uneasy. But by the time we reached the top, we had communicated through speech, phone texts, and gestures. It was a moment of unexpected intimacy. The real barrier was not D/deafness, but my own assumptions. By the end of the session, the D/deaf trainees were skillfully handling the adaptive ski equipment. I was surprised—not by their ability, but by how little I had expected from them. Later, I heard that some had competed in elite-level ski competitions. They joined this program simply because they loved skiing. I hadn’t been curious about who they were. I viewed their D/deafness through a deficit lens and interpreted it through value-laden assumptions, like stubbornness. But they were the ones who opened their hearts first and invited me into a dialogue.

Narrative inquiry begins with experience (Clandinin and Connelly, 2000). This experience reconstructed my understanding of D/deafness—not as something deficient, but as whole. As a researcher, I began to recognize the importance of engaging with D/deaf ways of knowing and living, shaped through everyday negotiations with structural oppression. My own experience, as an instructor entangled in stereotypical assumptions, became the narrative starting point for this inquiry.

Participants

Through connections formed within D/deaf sports networks, we sought to invite Deaflympians whose lived experiences reflected multiple dimensions of engagement with both D/deaf and disability sport. The first experiential dimension centered on their identities as elite D/deaf athletes who had competed in both the Deaflympics and the KPC-run National Para Games. Their stories offered rich insight into how they navigated visu-centric and audiocentric sport environments, constantly negotiating identity and belonging within distinct cultural and institutional contexts. The second dimension concerned their roles as instructors in Adapted Physical Activity (APA) or disability sport programs within provincial disability sports organizations. In South Korea, 17 such organizations were operated under the KPC, which strongly aligns with the audiocentric Paralympic movement. In this study, working as APA instructors functioned as a structural site of tension through which the friction between D/deaf instructors and the hearing-centered sports administrative structure could be explored.

It was rare for individuals to simultaneously occupy both the roles of athlete and APA instructor. There has been little to no scholarly research on the lived experiences of navigating dual roles as both D/deaf athletes and APA instructors; moreover, inviting participants with such experience through existing practice-based networks has proven difficult. Nevertheless, two Deaf athletes consented to participate in this study. Both had competed in the Deaflympics more than twice and currently worked as APA instructors. They identified themselves as Deaf and used KSL as their first language. To ensure confidentiality, they opted to use pseudonyms and personally selected the names “Duri” and “Nara.”

Duri attended inclusive classrooms from elementary school through university. He first encountered Deaf culture during his graduate studies, which was also when he began his journey as an athlete. Nara grew up with D/deaf friends at a residential school for the D/deaf. University was the first place where she stayed within a predominantly non-deaf society. Nara began participating in sports in early childhood following the advice of her physical education teacher.

Data collection and analysis

Data collection and analysis followed the principles of narrative inquiry (Clandinin and Connelly, 2000), situated within a pragmatist framework. Grounded in narrative inquiry's emphasis on the temporal nature of experience, this study explored how Deaf athletes re-storied their lives over time, through transitions, disruptions, and ongoing processes of identity negotiation and subjectification from early childhood to the present. Building on this approach, two Deaf athletes were invited to participate in three rounds of conversational interviews over a 9-month period (approximately 120 min each). During these interviews, their life stories unfolded around key transitions and turning points. The interviews were conducted as open-ended conversations, with the athletes guiding the process of re-telling their own narratives. Supplementary materials—such as personal notes, social media posts, and official documents—were also gathered to enrich the narrative depth and provide contextual grounding.

The interview environment was co-designed to prioritize linguistic accommodation and accessibility, fostering emotional safety and mutual presence. Deaflympians demonstrated both an awareness of effective communication strategies for interacting with non-deaf researchers and the communicative competence to lead interviews. In every session, we co-constructed specific ways in which communication could be accommodated to meet their preferences. Duri was able to communicate both through spoken language with lip-reading and KSL. He generally preferred KSL in public settings, but tended to use spoken Korean in private or familiar social interactions. Within the intimate and trusting relationship developed with the researcher, we primarily communicated in spoken Korean and used written notes during the interviews to support mutual understanding.

In the case of Nara, she preferred to conduct the interviews with a sign language interpreter. At her request, we invited an interpreter with whom she had a personal relationship and felt most emotionally comfortable. Particularly in mediated interactions involving the interpreter, we recognized the potential for shifts in meaning through the interpreter's understandings and translations. To address this, we incorporated ongoing validation strategies during the interviews, such as summarizing participants’ responses for confirmation and using written notes to visually verify key points. Before the third interview, Nara expressed a desire to share more personal and sensitive memories directly with the researcher. In the final conversation, we used a range of communication tools. Nara communicated by typing into a Word document, while I posed and answered questions through a voice-to-text live translation application and written notes. If the apps did not provide sufficient clarity, we used the Word document as a real-time conversation space.

The analytic process followed the three-phase structure of narrative inquiry: field texts, interim research texts, and final research texts (Clandinin and Connelly, 2000). Field texts—understood as the initial co-constructed accounts of experience—were developed from the first interview and participant-provided materials. Interim research texts, conceived as provisional texts for collaborative reflection, were developed during the second and third interviews, drawing on the three-dimensional narrative inquiry space (Clandinin and Connelly, 2000): temporality (how identity and meaning shift over time), place (how physical and institutional spaces shape belonging and agency), and sociality (how personal relationships and structural forces interact). Through ongoing conversations with participants, we collaboratively reconstructed their life stories in chronological form. These stories gradually took shape as visual timelines that functioned as reflective tools that enabled participants to revisit and recompose past experiences. Building on this temporal grounding, we revisited storied moments through the dimensions of place and sociality to explore how spatial contexts and relational dynamics shaped lived experience. The re-storied accounts informed summary tables, which served as scaffolding for the development of the interim research texts. Final research texts were composed in the first-person voice. Throughout this process, we as researchers were engaged in “experiencing the experience” and interpreting the social meanings embedded in participants’ lives (Clandinin and Rosiek, 2007). In sport research, first-person narratives have been used in various forms, including composite voices (Donnelly et al., 2024) and individual life stories (Tolgfors, 2024). In line with Caine et al.'s (2022) view of storytelling as an ethical practice that honors vulnerability and complexity, we chose to present each participant's story as a distinct, first-person account.

Duri's story

Exile from the hearing world

My parents always worried about my future. They believed that survival in society meant adapting to the non-deaf world. Their concern translated into careful management of my everyday life. They ensured I wore my hearing aid, placed me in inclusive classrooms, and believed that mastering spoken language was the key to my success. For them, D/deaf schools and sign language represented exclusion and a closing of my future opportunities.

My experience in school was marked by confusion and a sense of distance. I could hear my teachers’ and classmates’ voices, but the words were rarely clear to understand. School learning felt like trying to study in a noisy place. I became adept at pretending, keeping my head down, flipping through books, acting as if I were following along. Underneath it all was a persistent fear: that someone would realize I was D/deaf. I attended non-deaf schools through university, but I rarely understood the content of the lectures. My education became an isolated project.

After graduation, I applied to a graduate program in sports rehabilitation to become a physical therapist. It turned out to be different from what I had expected—it was APA, not a way of being a therapist. My initial reaction was disappointment, but this shift would become pivotal. For the first time, I met others whose experiences of D/deafness and disability resonated with mine. There was a shared sense of difference, but also of relationship on affirmation.

In this space, D/deaf peers introduced me to new ways of seeing and being. I started learning sign language and began to truly understand what it meant to belong, not by conforming to others’ standards, but by being understood and accepted for who I was. As I confronted and let go of my painful past efforts to “pass” as non-deaf, I learned to affirm and accept myself. I finally found a safe place within my new community of kinship.

The word “Deaflympics” came up in conversation. Hearing it stirred something within me—a sense of direction, a goal that aligned with my emerging identity. For the first time, I could imagine myself not as someone lacking, but as someone moving toward something meaningful.

Audiocentric sports hierarchies

Working as an APA instructor at the provincial disability sports association marked another significant transition. Officially, the association supported disabled athletes, offering opportunities for training and competition, as well as official leave. I felt hopeful that my professional and athletic aspirations would converge.

However, when it came to the Deaflympics, I encountered the limits of this support. The association informed me that only Paralympians were eligible for official leave. For D/deaf athletes, even participation in the National Para Games did not receive the same recognition. The explanation was always the same: “We’re just following KPC regulations.” The message was clear: our accomplishments did not carry the same value.

Nevertheless, we—D/deaf athletes—chose to go to the National Para Games. We trained, we competed, and we won medals. That year, our province ranked first at the National Para Games. Only then did the association revise the rules to count our participation as official leave. It was not a matter of justice, but of institutional interest. When our achievements benefited the organization, our contributions were recognized; otherwise, we remained invisible.

A similar discrimination appeared with the launch of the Gold Wing Project ² for the Paris Paralympics. Athletes were categorized: S, A, and B tiers for Paralympians, and with a separate D-category (Deaflympic Mastery) for D/deaf athletes. The D-category received minimal support, with no year-round training and limited resources. This experience made it clear that the Korean disability sports structure prioritized Paralympic athletes, leaving D/deaf athletes at the margins. Oppression within the sport hierarchy for D/deaf athletes was shaped by the intersection of audism and ableism. While the Deaflympics meant everything to us, it meant little within the Paralympic-centered structure.

Within this context, I began to reflect on representation and leadership. I noticed that in Paralympic sports, some athletes became coaches after retiring. In D/deaf sports, this had never happened. There were no D/deaf coaches on staff. The structure of sport was built around non-deaf people, even in spaces ostensibly meant for the D/deaf community. This was not just about the absence of role models; it was a matter of language, culture and respect. Sign language was rarely used or valued. Communication barriers were frequent. Coaches often attributed these barriers to D/deaf athletes, rather than questioning the lack of accessible systems. This response was a clear example of how audiocentric sports hierarchies oppressed D/deaf athletes by attributing language barriers to D/deafness, rather than addressing systemic issues.

Everyday resistance

Despite these challenges, I found allies among the APA instructors I worked with. Most of them were non-deaf, but we took care of each other's needs. I offered administrative and practical knowledge to improve APA lessons, while they supported me by typing messages, writing notes, and slowing their speech. They included me in conversations and decision-making. When I shared my concerns about being denied official leave for the Deaflympics, they raised the issue with the association. We filed a petition together, demanding equal treatment for Deaflympians as Paralympians. For me, it was not just about the petition; it was about affirmation of D/deafness and connection with others who understood vulnerability. The regulations did not change, but the experience built solidarity.

These moments of support shaped my sense of agency. In public, I chose to use sign language, even when I could communicate in spoken language. It became a way to assert my identity in a world oriented toward hearing. My advocacy extended beyond my personal experience, I pushed for accessible sports facilities, disability rights, and respect for Deaf culture.

Sport, even D/deaf sports, remained a complex space—one marked by conflict, ambiguity, and messiness. For D/deaf athletes, the field was never neutral. Yet, by insisting on our presence and resisting erasure, we carved out space for ourselves. Everyday actions—showing up, signing, speaking out—became acts of resistance.

My life as a Deaf athlete is lived in between: between worlds, between identities, between structures. It is in this in-between space that I find meaning and insist, again and again. This is how I practice everyday resistance—a way of being, knowing, and saying, again and again: We are here. We matter.

Nara's story

Demythologization of audism

I spent my childhood in the dormitory of a Deaf school. The environment was shaped by sign language and was fully inclusive. I did not need to explain myself or struggle to fit in. Being away from my parents, I found a sense of belonging among friends who shared my language and identity.

At eight, my parents told me that I needed a cochlear implant. Their hope was for me to communicate better with non-deaf people, to be able to “succeed” in the broader world. I underwent the surgery, and after that, attended speech therapy classes. I practiced speaking, sitting across from a teacher who corrected every movement of my mouth. But the spoken words never quite felt natural. For me, D/deafness wasn’t something to restore or rehabilitate. It was an integral part of my life and identity, not a barrier to overcome.

My parents and I had different expectations. They were invested in the idea that success depended on speaking well. I, on the other hand, found pride and comfort in being Deaf. I preferred to use sign language. I was already communicating, already building relationships, already participating in the community. Despite pressure to assimilate, I maintained my position and eventually stopped attending speech therapy.

School offered more than language; it was also where I discovered my passion for sport. Over the years, I tried different sports. Winning wasn’t my only motivation, but participation, improvement, and the joy of movement mattered most. Entering tournaments, experiencing both victories and defeats, I began to understand the broader possibilities of my own capacity. Encouragement from peers and teachers, and later from coaches, helped build my confidence.

Transitioning to university marked a significant change. I began an APA program. For the first time, I was in a setting where D/deafness was not the cultural norm. Professors used only spoken language, and the program materials used the term “hearing impairment” rather than D/deafness. My classmates identified as people with hearing impairment, not as D/deaf, and they relied on oral communication. The environment was fundamentally different from my previous experiences. It was as if I had immigrated to a new land.

Rather than reject those around me, I sought out ways to communicate and collaborate. We used whatever tools worked, including gestures, written messages, and drawings. I found that mutual respect was possible, even across significant differences in language and identity. It became clear to me that adaptation did not have to mean assimilation. I was able to maintain my Deaf identity while engaging with others in an audiocentric context.

I’ll never forget the first time I went to the Deaflympics. I was surrounded by athletes and officials communicating primarily in sign language. Every aspect of competition logistics, from start signals to announcements, was communicated visually. I did not have to rely on interpreters or constantly ask for clarification. This contrasted sharply with most sporting contexts, where spoken language dominated. I felt as if I could finally breathe. I learned that the power generated through spoken language was not always solid or stable; instead, it could be fragile and contingent on changing power relations and context.

Living deafness in the borderlands

After graduating, I began work as an APA instructor. The position was not permanent, and the pay was modest, but I found the work meaningful. I supported and was supported by colleagues who faced similar job insecurity. I shared my knowledge of sign language and training techniques. In return, colleagues would transcribe spoken information for me and help navigate meetings. The process of exchanging knowledge and skills helped us grow as instructors. As we came to understand each other's lives, we discussed the language barriers faced by participants in APA lessons and began to consider how we could make the program accessible to everyone.

However, hearing hegemony still casts its shadow. Interactions with coaches and other staff were sometimes challenging. Communication barriers persisted. At times, coaches attributed these difficulties to my D/deafness rather than to the lack of equitable and accessible systems. I worked to address these issues. I would point out that without appropriate visual supports or interpreters, D/deaf athletes were placed at a disadvantage. My goal was not just to insist on my own needs, but to raise questions about broader inclusion in sports.

Coaching provided further opportunities to reflect on ways of being and knowing as D/deaf in sport. When I worked as a temporary coach, I interacted with athletes with various bodies experiencing disabilities, not only D/deaf athletes. Coaching athletes who were visu-centric learners felt intuitive, as we shared visual cues and hand signals. The greatest insights came when I coached D/deaf athletes. I invited them to experience, through their muscles and joints, what words alone could not convey. I positioned the equipment directly on their bodies, allowing them to sense its placement and function. Coaching in a D/deaf way was not just about understanding or recognition—it was about sensing and feeling through the body: touch, balance, posture, pressure, and movement. Together, we learned a bodily rhythm that could be shared beyond language. They later told me that their bodies began to sense the movements more clearly. That moment stayed with me, prompting me to think critically about D/deaf ways of coaching in sport.

Bridging in-between

I began sharing my training and competition experiences on social media. At first, I didn’t expect much interest. But soon, other D/deaf people started reaching out, asking questions and expressing curiosity about sports and fitness. They shared their own stories with me, and I found myself, at least in part, joining them on their journeys of self-discovery. As this community grew, a sports media company reached out to me, proposing new collaborations such as producing home training videos in sign language. Up until that point, I had never seen any physical activity videos led by a D/deaf instructor using sign language. I was excited by the idea of creating spaces for D/deaf-centered representation in sports. It became an opportunity for me to build bridges between D/deaf and non-deaf communities.

Sometimes, I had the opportunity to stand in front of others and speak. At a small D/deaf forum, I shared my experiences as a Deaf athlete. I didn’t speak about the need to assimilate; instead, I focused on the value of maintaining D/deaf identity. I wanted to show that it's possible to participate without giving up the unique perspectives and strengths of Deaf culture. For me, the goal was not simply to be accepted in an audiocentric society, but to create new forms of knowledge and practice that affirm D/deaf ways of being.

Invitation, Dialogue. Negotiation. Affirmation. Justice…

Reflecting on my journey, I see that much of my motivation has come from a desire to bring people together and foster mutual understanding. I have invited people into conversations to recognize and address the stereotypical and misunderstood ideas about D/deafness. By negotiating in the spaces between D/deaf and non-deaf worlds, or between D/deaf sports and disability sports, I have acted as a bridge for understanding, inclusion, accessibility, and mutual respect. My story is part of an ongoing process of self-transformation—one that I hope will help create safe spaces for others to thrive and flourish.

Discussion

We tell stories to enrich the souls of others and to cultivate the wisdom within ourselves (Banks-Wallace, 2002). In composing narratives with D/deaf athletes, the landscapes of both athletes and researchers began to overlap, creating a relational and interconnected story. The hybrid identities of D/deaf athletes embody lived experiences of resistance and alliance within audiocentric and ableist sports culture. Their narratives remind us that subjectivity is formulated by negotiation of intersubjective relations, and that engaging with other cultural borders is the way to collectively move toward justice in sports.

Negotiation at the border

Audism, the superiority of spoken language deeming sign language and Deaf culture as inferior, builds and justifies an audiocentric belief system (Ladd, 2003). In the realm of sports, this belief system manifests as a supremacist ideology. The coaches, practitioners, and administrative staff in sports rarely question the assumptions and beliefs formed by audiocentric norms. The perceived hierarchy of spoken and sign language produces false beliefs about D/deafness and reinforces imbalances of power relations between non-deaf coaches, administrators, and D/deaf athletes.

Audiocentric beliefs frame D/deafness as a deficiency and impairment. Negative stereotypes about D/deafness, intertwined with the medical discourse, devalue D/deaf athletes and their achievements. Government-implemented sports policies unintentionally yet systematically carry out practices aligned with audiocentric norms, placing D/deaf athletes in one of the most precarious positions. Systemic oppression perpetuates through political and cultural apparatuses, such as Paralympic-centered regulations, segregated training tracks outside the Paralympic system, and problematizing hearing impairment in communication. Sports policies and the Paralympic movement have ostensibly claimed to promote inclusivity, but reinforce ableist normativity in practice (Hammond and Jeanes, 2018) and disempower non-Paralympians such as D/deaf athletes (Akimoto and Sawae, 2022).

However, the stories from Duri's and Nara's experiences constructed the third space where stereotypical discourses are destabilized. This third space becomes an ideologically negotiable site between dominant and counter-discourses for the formulation of the hybrid identity (Bhabha, 1994). In contrast to many Paralympians who are likely to reject a disability identity (Purdue and Howe, 2012), Deaflympians affirm and embrace their D/deafness and subsequently cultivate a hybrid identity that integrates their athletic identity. They choose sign language as their first language and consistently redefine their identities on their own terms, distinct from the interpellation imposed by dominant norms. In an audiocentric sports culture, Deaf athletes appear to conform to existing sports norms, yet through everyday interactions and strategic performances, they subtly challenge and subvert hegemonic structures by asserting their cultural and linguistic identity. This iterative process of cultural translation as resistance produces political texts that destabilize dominant audiocentric discourse in sports.

Engaging into the border

This hybrid identity not only enables Deaf athletes to resist but also exposes the complexities of D/deaf vulnerability emerging from the challenges imposed by audiocentric communication practices in sports. D/deaf vulnerability is ambivalent. It serves as a source of conflict with privileged and hegemonic groups in sports, such as coaches and managers, yet it also fosters a shared sensitivity that nurtures interdependent relationships with non-deaf coworkers who experience other forms of vulnerability within the sports structure. Those who acknowledge their own vulnerability and recognize the need for mutual care develop interdependency (Nishida, 2022). A shared sense of vulnerability diminishes the attribution of D/deafness as a defining weakness or burden within the group.

D/deaf vulnerability creates contingent conditions for forming D/deafness-affirmed solidarity, as well as for engaging in praxis that fosters the humanization of both self and others. As a response to the question, “Who is centered?” (Kriger et al., 2022: 310), practices in sports based on the lived experiences of marginalized people are directly linked to social justice. The D/deaf-affirmed interdependent practices enacted by Duri, Nara, and their friends have contributed to the survival of cultural subaltern groups in sports by sustaining everyday acts of mutual support and preserving knowledge generated from the lived experiences of Deaflympians.

The lessons about affirming D/deafness and D/deaf vulnerability demonstrate that our existence is fundamentally relational, constituted through interdependency. Caring for and taking responsibility for others, especially those in precarious conditions, plays a critical role in subject formation. Subjectivity emerges through ethical responsibility toward the Other (Levinas, 1969) and through the recognition that interdependency and vulnerability fundamentally shape the self (Butler, 2004). In this sense, engagement in the liberatory process, rooted in praxis and humanization (Freire, 2014), is not merely an individual endeavor but a collective responsibility. This process not only supports and advances the empowerment of D/deaf athletes but also fosters conditions for broader collective liberation in sports.

Conclusion

The narratives of Deaflympians reveal that power relations and structural hierarchies in sports are reinforced by audism and ableism. Their stories underscore how dominant audiocentric norms in sports culture can lead to the cultural and institutional exclusion and marginalization of D/deaf athletes. As non-deaf people came to dominate organizations for the D/deaf and impose control over their spaces (Alker, 2000), Duri's and Nara's narratives on the absence of D/deaf leaders and coaches prompt a deeper reflection on the crisis of D/deaf autonomy in sports. The absence of D/deaf leadership, even within D/deaf sports, raises questions about moral bystanding among all actors in sports—whether through intentional action or passive inaction, and calls for political and institutional practices by IPC and NPC leadership to promote and preserve the value of diversity and inclusion by fostering co-flourishing alongside Deaf culture.

D/deaf athletes have continued to (re)write their own stories despite these challenges. The stories create a political and discursive space within the sports structure. In this space, their narratives invite people who wish and hope to engage in praxis in order to increase life chances for those who are experiencing multiple systems of oppression. Their invitation also aligns with many sports scholars who have already urged engagement in axiology-led practices and study (Kriger et al., 2022; Peers, 2018).

D/deafness is invisible. The D/deaf community also remains socially invisible (Healey, 2017). This invisibility is also evident in sports. Centering the voices, experiences, and knowledge of Deaflympians is a responsive action toward social justice. Engaging in D/deaf sports culture will provide wisdom to reflect on taken-for-granted and largely hidden ideas about audiocentric beliefs, which are reinforced by overlapping systems of oppression. This commitment will contribute to operationalizing the intersectionality framework as one of the spokes of the wheel (Kriger et al., 2022) while also advancing axiological practices in sports.