“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 It feels so medical and outdated, more suited for the elderly than for someone as young as I am.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.”
“Audiologist,” I mumble.
“What was that?” Bill asks.
“Audiologist,” I repeat.
“Right, that’s the one.” He chuckles. “Maybe I need my hearing checked, too. As I always tell my grandson, he shouldn’t listen to music that loud on those big headphones of his or he’ll regret it later in life.” Bill takes another large bite to finish off his hot dog.
Bill doesn’t realize he just said that he doesn’t want his grandson to become someone like me.
“Do you use other resources?” Susan asks. “Do you lip-read?”
Uh, yeah, I’ve already been lip-reading this entire time, but I know exactly what is coming next.
Without making any sound, Susan over-contorts her mouth and slowly asks, Can . . . you . . . read . . . my . . . lips?
I give a polite nod and take another bite of my food, large enough that I won’t be expected to speak. Can Mackenzie jump back in already? Unfortunately, she’s already been roped into conversation with other donors who need her to interpret so they can talk to Honey.
“So, seventeen,” Bill says. “That must make you almost done with high school. Thinking of going to college?”
“I’m going into my senior year. Still figuring out places to apply to, but I’ve got a couple schools on my list.” Never mind the fact that, with my current grades, some of those places might be a stretch.
“Good, very good,” he says. “Go to college.”
“Yes,” Susan chimes in. “You’re so well-spoken. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”
“Well-spoken?” I repeat. I hate what she’s implying. Susan gets fidgety, trying to come up with a response.
“Yes, well, I mean, look at you!” she says cheerfully. “One might not even know you were deaf at all. You certainly don’t sound it. College won’t be hard for you.”
This woman knows nothing about me yet feels perfectly fine making and voicing this assumption. She thinks I’m intelligent because I talk clearly?
“I have school accommodations that I’ll continue to use in college.” I stand with my plate. “Um, Ethan waved to me. I have to go help with something,” I lie, needing to blow off some steam.
“Yes, no problem,” Bill says. “Great to meet you. I’m sorry, I don’t believe we caught your name.”
“Lilah.”
“So great to meet you, Lilah,” Susan says. “We keep all those who suffer from disabilities in our prayers.”
Now I’m walking away, fuming. I’ve gotten “well-spoken” many times throughout my life. It’s meant as a compliment, but what they mean is that because I’m “well-spoken,” I don’t sound deaf, and therefore I don’t sound dumb. It’s not long ago that “deaf and dumb” was the actual label. The incorrect assumption that those who use a visual form of communication aren’t as intelligent. A driving force behind oralism and audism. It’s absurd and plain wrong.
Plus, I’m not always “well-spoken.” I mumble without realizing it . . . a lot. Hearies expected me to do the years of speech therapy it took to get to where I am today. They don’t know how much it takes to seem like a “normal” hearing person. My brain has to work overtime and process so much just to have a “normal” conversation. Yet I do all this, and they rarely provide accommodations, even when such measures could often benefit everyone.
The fact of the matter is, I have a significant hearing loss. One that impacts my life, no matter how well adjusted I’ve worked to be. It’s not on par with someone who has lost a few decibels to loud music. By telling me I seem “normal,” they’re not only shrugging off my disability but telling me I don’t fit their lowered expectations of people with disabilities. I find no pride in that.
I hurry over to Ethan and lean on his left shoulder. “Hey, wanna come here for a second?”