No One Left Behind? Maryland’s Deaf Community Is Still Waiting for a Seat at the Table
A Maryland Wire Magazine‑Style Op‑Ed
Maryland is entering one of those rare political seasons when every constituency suddenly remembers how fragile its place in the budget really is. The deficit is real, the cuts are coming, and the General Assembly is already triaging which programs get trimmed, which get protected, and which get politely thanked for their service before being shown the door.
In moments like this, the Governor’s campaign promise — “No one left behind” — stops being a slogan and becomes a test.
And right now, one community is still waiting for proof that the promise applies to them: Marylanders who are Deaf, Hard‑of‑Hearing, and DeafBlind.
To be clear, Governor Wes Moore has taken meaningful steps. Appointing Usherla DeBerry to lead the Governor’s Office of Deaf and Hard of Hearing was an important signal. Signing the interpreter licensing bill was another. These are not small gestures; they matter to families who have spent decades fighting for basic access.
But representation is not a box you check once. It’s a practice. And on that front, Maryland still has a conspicuous gap.
Not one of the state’s cabinet‑level agency secretaries is Deaf.
Not one senior policymaker in the departments shaping education, transportation, health, labor, or public safety brings lived Deaf experience to the table.
In a state where an estimated 1.2 million residents are Deaf or Hard of Hearing, that absence is more than symbolic — it’s structural.
This isn’t about appointing someone to run the Office of Deaf and Hard of Hearing. That office already exists, and it serves an important purpose. But its mission is, by design, narrow. It cannot substitute for having Deaf leadership embedded in the agencies where the real policy decisions are made.
If Maryland wants to live up to its equity commitments — not just rhetorically, but operationally — then Deaf Marylanders need to be present in the rooms where budgets are drafted, regulations are shaped, and priorities are set.
And here’s the part Annapolis sometimes forgets:
Representation is not a luxury item. It’s a governance tool.
When people with lived experience participate in decision‑making, the state makes fewer mistakes. It avoids costly oversights. It builds trust. It delivers services more efficiently. In a deficit year, that’s not just morally right — it’s fiscally smart.
This is especially true now, when every agency is preparing to defend its programs. Communities that lack representation at the senior level are always the first to feel the quiet, unintentional consequences of “across‑the‑board” cuts.
No one is asking for special treatment. Deaf Marylanders are asking for the same thing every other community wants during a budget crisis:
a fair chance to be heard before decisions are made.
Governor Moore has an opportunity here — not to appease a constituency, but to strengthen his administration. Appointing a qualified Deaf leader to a cabinet‑level or senior policy role would send a clear message that equity is not something the state practices only in surplus years.
It would show Deaf children that their futures are not capped at advocacy roles.
It would show families that their government sees them as full participants, not afterthoughts.
And it would show the rest of the country that Maryland’s commitment to inclusion is more than branding.
“No one left behind” must mean everyone — especially in the years when the budget is tight and the decisions are hard.
Maryland has the talent. The need is obvious. The moment is now.