Give Me a Sign(37)
Mackenzie tries to coax some of us to come chat with the potential donors, but none of the girls follow, so she goes on her own and appears to be having a grand time. Other than Mackenzie and Gary, the rest of us aren’t particularly in a social mood, but Assistant Director Ethan is doing his best to be professional.
When the food is ready, Ethan calls for our attention, drawing all eyes to himself. “We’re so grateful to have our special guests here today,” he says and signs. “And even more grateful that they helped us prepare lunch. I know we’re all starving, so we’ll let the kids go ahead and line up for food while Gary lets you know a little more about Camp Gray Wolf.”
Gary takes a spot next to Ethan and gives a brief introductory speech while we file to get food. But on the walk back, Gary is positioning all the campers and staff on only one side of the picnic tables so our guests can sit across from us.
Sure enough, I’m only a few bites into my burger when a couple walks up to me.
“Is this spot taken?” a cheery old man with a gray receding hairline asks. A woman who I suspect is his wife hovers closely beside him. They seem like nice grandparents, the kind who spend most of their retirement volunteering.
“Please join us,” Mackenzie calls from the other end of the table when our campers, being too shy, don’t answer or hear the man in the first place.
“Don’t mind if we do.” The man leans forward to put his plate down, carefully lowering himself onto the bench. “I’m ——，” he says. “And this pretty young lady with me is my wife, ——。”
“Nice to meet you, Bill and Susan,” Mackenzie says and signs. It’s helpful that she’s one of those people who repeats names after meeting someone.
Everyone else takes their seats. Most of the potential donors seem unsure who they could easily converse with, and campers who are normally very vocal are keeping to themselves. I want to do the same, but I also know what’s at stake with this luncheon and force myself to do my best to engage in the conversation, mostly nodding along while Mackenzie talks.
“Yes, I’m studying to be an interpreter. This camp is amazing practice. It’s almost a rare thing to be able to immerse myself in American Sign Language this way. It’s such a wonderful experience.” She makes it sound like this entire summer is homework and we’re experiment subjects, rather than just disabled kids enjoying time outdoors.
Susan is directly across from me, trying to get my attention while I drink from my water bottle.
“What?” I ask.
“Is your shirt in the wash?” she repeats.
“My shirt?”
“The polo,” she clarifies.
“Oh, we didn’t have enough.” I turn my shoulder, demonstrating the duct tape that practically screams “donate some money so I get a polo next year.” “And I’m only a junior counselor this summer, so this works.”
“Interesting. Does that mean you’re new this year?” Bill asks.
“Well, I was a camper. But now I’m seventeen—well, eighteen this fall, and yeah.” Really coherent here, Lilah. “So I’m a junior counselor.”
“Very impressive,” Susan says, looking truly proud for some reason. “Then will you be a senior counselor next summer?”
“I’d like to be.”
Bill takes a bite of his hot dog. He says something before he’s finished chewing, so he holds his napkin over his mouth while he talks. I shake and tilt my head to the side. He wipes his beard, places the cloth down, and repeats himself. “How’d you like being a camper?”
“Great. It’s an important place to meet other people like me.” I hope my response doesn’t sound too rehearsed, but that’s what they want to hear, right?
“Of course,” Susan says. She takes a sip of soda, formulating her next thought. “So you’re hearing impaired?”
“Hard of hearing,” I correct her, though I also dislike this preferred terminology. It feels so medical and outdated, more suited for the elderly than for someone as young as I am. There’s also a misconception among hearing people that these terms mean my hearing loss isn’t significant and that simply shouting could do the trick, which is far from accurate. Therefore, I primarily use “hard of hearing” only when I’m worried about not being “deaf enough” to use “Deaf.” Because my hearing falls short of a profound ninety decibels, some might argue that the severe loss isn’t diagnostically deaf, making me feel like I have to watch my step with my own identity.
Bill elbows his wife. “Saying ‘impaired’ isn’t P.C. these days.”
“I’m so sorry,” Susan says. “Do you wear hearing aids?”
My hair is frizzy from the lake, down and spilling over my shoulders. I push it back after setting my fork down on my plate, turning my head to show both my hearing aids.
“Look, they’re purple,” Susan says. “How fun, hiding behind all that gorgeous hair. I never would’ve guessed since you’re so pretty.”
“How long have you had them?” Bill asks.
“Um, since I was a baby.”
“You like them?” he asks. “They work well? One of my buddies needs to get a pair, but he keeps dragging his feet on going to the doctor.”