There is an indescribable level of anxiety when you need to wait for your name to be called or your number to be declared – and in our world, there are so very many instances of this system being put in place – from waiting rooms, the deli counter, the DMV, restaurants, and karaoke to name just a few. This week, I recalled a core memory of mine when I was in a situation where my name could have been called, however unlikely. The anxiety I felt then is akin to the anxiety I feel now – especially when I am on my own without someone with typical hearing to help me not miss the verbal summoning or even having Brad there because between the two of us we can sort of hear something collectively. I wish I could say that things have gotten easier – and in some ways they have with the advent of technology like buzzing pagers for restaurant waits or numbers displayed on a screen – but for the most part, we are still defaulting to auditory channels without visual support.
I was clad in jeans, blue sneakers and what I deemed as fancy and high fashion at the time – a turquoise blue jordache brand sweatshirt complete with the image of a horse on the front with fancy fringe dripping down the mane.
Welcome to 1985.
I was in the 5th grade, seated in the middle rows of an already crowded gymnasium, where the stuffiness and humidity sent up a sour odor of too many students in too small a space on too hot of a day. I was already uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons: my horrendous “Dorothy Hamill” bowl cut was starting to frizz as the curls of my hair were beginning to respond to the humidity, and I distinctly recall the feeling of just having had enough of it all – the weather, 5th grade in general, and sitting in that gym not hearing a thing, per usual.
The acoustics were horrible.
I was daydreaming, as I am wont to do even today, courtesy of the combination of ADHD (finally diagnosed as an adult to the shock of no one) and hearing loss. I did not have the words for it at the time, but the constant fight to hear the world around me involves active listening – a never ending jockeying for position in a world not designed for me. The combination of lip reading, eye contact, self disclosing my hearing loss, and positioning myself physically around people led to a visceral response that I have now come to know as “listening fatigue”. In short, I was done, and escaping to my inner thoughts was far preferable than continuing the farce of attempting to listen, respond, and react to the activity around me.
There was a raffle happening at the front of the gym. I barely registered that names were being pulled from a circulating drum that looked like an oversized hamster wheel, whose inhabitants were not animals but slips of paper with student names. The garbled names were spoken into a microphone, and the sounds then splattered into the air of the gymnasium, impossible to understand. I was already exhausted, happily ensconced in one of my imaginings, when I was jolted back to reality by the sharp jab of an elbow into my side by a classmate seated next to me. I whipped my head to look at them, ready with a defensive physical reaction of my own, and they told me “They called your name. You have to go up. You won.”
Time slowed for me in that moment as I was not completely confident that I had heard what my classmate had uttered. I looked around me for clues in the environment that may provide clarity, and saw what felt like everyone in that gym staring at me, waiting expectantly. I stood shakily, willing my legs to carry me forward to the front of the gym. As I gingerly picked my way through the crowd of students, praying feverishly that I would not fall due to an already compromised vestibular system, I felt my face redden at the attention. I willed the world to swallow me up but the closer I got to the front of the gym, the more I realized that all eyes were on me.
I approached the adult with the microphone, who offered me a medium sized yellow box. They smiled warmly and said…something. I couldn’t hear them and was too mortified to be front and center to even attempt to engage in any dialogue. I took the box, and made the agonizing return trip back to my seat.
A wave of relief washed over me when I squeezed back into my spot, lowering myself to the floor. I was grateful and overwhelmed that I had made it to my initial position of anonymity amongst the throngs of students, and almost immediately drifted back to my safe space in the floaty clouds of my imagination.
I had no idea what was handed to me, I never looked at the box.
Later, back in the classroom, at the urging of classmates, I finally looked at it – it was a mask making kit.
How appropriate for someone that was constantly trying to blend in with the crowd.
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