I have never been one to seek out or excitedly participate in sitting around a fire due to my general disdain for camping, which has historically been a more common place to gather around a roaring flame. I love a toasted marshmallow on a clean and sterilized skewer – no off the ground sticks for me, thanks – so long as that sweet treat is followed by me bidding my companions adieu, and retreating to a luxurious, many pillowed bed in a clean, well appointed hotel.
The peak of fire pits seemed to be during the pandemic as it offered a socially distanced option, especially during the long nights when everyone has had their fill of sourdough starters, craft projects, and Zoom cocktail hours. It provided a great option for folks to gather and quell some of the loneliness that came from the forced isolation, but for those of us with hearing loss it is not an equitable, accessible activity.
The act of hearing, for me, is hard enough in broad daylight or brightly lit rooms, where I need to reposition myself multiple times in the course of a conversation to ensure that I have the best view of people’s lips so I can study the word formation as a backup to the spoken word. I am jockeying for the best location within a group of people to be able to interpret body language, nonverbal signals, and facial expressions especially when the inevitable happens – crosstalk. I’m now challenged further to follow multiple streams of conversation, choosing which thread to follow and contribute to, if any. It ultimately ends with me sitting back, exasperated and exhausted, nodding and smiling and punctuating the empty air with laughter, taking my cues from the others, even though I have absolutely no idea what is amusing. (Ironically, this very situation is what started “Hearing Things With Julie and Brad” as we were sitting next to each other in the corner of a room, amidst cross talk, simultaneously lost and the rest is history, but I digress…).
And now let’s introduce the concept of a hearing impaired person participating in a conversation around a fire pit. Basically, see the above paragraph and turn off the lights. It is made that much more difficult by my complete inability to see anyone or anything in the fading light as it transitions to complete darkness. On the rare occasion where I am around a fire pit (in a domesticated area, not a campsite – that just gives me the shivers) I am usually with enough friends or family members that are accommodating and patient, and are used to repeating or rephrasing things to help me participate and socialize. I am relieved when I am with familiar faces because I know the tempo of their voices, their regional accents and their speech patterns. I am also much more at ease because I do not need to engage in my most hated activity (aside from outdoor, nature-based pursuits) – disclosure.
The act of disclosing my hearing loss to people I do not know is exhausting, annoying and necessary. I have written at length about this in prior blog posts, but to summarize, it is ongoing self-advocacy in ensuring that those that do not know me are aware of my hearing loss and are educated in what I need to successfully engage in a social situation. I am already saddled with this inconvenience, and to encounter unfamiliar people around a fire pit makes this almost unbearable as I now need to engage in my “friendly-neighborhood-disabled-person” routine in a darkened environment. At times, it just feels like it’s too much effort for little reward.
I do enjoy the fire pit gatherings with my wonderful friends and neighbors up north during the summer months, but most of the time I’ll leave this largely inaccessible activity to others.
I’ll be inside with my books.
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