“Hold this and look at this” was the directive from my Grandma – the items being a hotdog and a race book. At 9 years old I was already an accomplished gambler alongside Grandma at the Suffolk Downs racetrack in East Boston. She trained me from a young age in her foolproof method to pick the winner – “look at the horse’s name – Dudley Shoes is the one we want, it has the name of my street.” (This method rarely worked, but Grandma was undeterred). We would sit together in the stands, chomping on our hotdogs, Grandma’s and my eyes searching the horses on parade trying to find the one with the winning moniker, by our logic at least. My favorite part was watching the horses being guided into their respective pens at the starting line. I would watch them snorting and huffing, pawing at the ground, desperate to charge forward in a passionate race to the finish. The excitement and anxiety was palpable, and I often wondered what it felt like to be the jockey astride the horse knowing that the success of this race was only partially in their control. I imagined that the waiting must be a mix of anxiety and exhilaration mixed with a desire for the entire thing to reach its natural conclusion – the end of the race. I knew I’d never be a jockey (the only thing in life I’m actually too tall for) but in my 9 year old mind, the opportunity to feel that mix of heady excitement and anxiety was a fervent wish.
Fast forward 41 years, and my wish to devolve into an overloaded state of high intensity and anxiety had come to fruition.
I was in the checkout line at Marshalls. And I had assumed the position of a horse at the starting gate.
The line was long, and I unconsciously began pawing at the tile floor, looking around for clues in the environment as to what would happen next as I inched towards the front of the line. I was very close to resorting to huffing and grunting as the load of items in my arms grew increasingly heavier. My anxiety was rising because I knew I was going to have to engage in a temporary, transactional relationship with someone that I likely was not going to be able to hear clearly.
I tend to prefer online shopping. I avoid awkward exchanges with salespeople, and the inevitable occurrence of a fellow shopper engaging me in “small talk” – clearly missing the cue that the scowl on my face is meant to be a deterrent, not an invitation.
Unfortunately, I was in need of a shirt in the perfect shade of navy to complete an outfit for an upcoming event. Due to the timeliness of the purchase, I was unable to rely on online shopping, and instead found myself inside Marshalls. The haunted house of retail establishments due to its being unpredictable, chaotic, and you’re never quite sure what you’re going to encounter upon entry. The looming transactional encounter that waited for me at the end of this experience was peaking my anticipatory anxiety to new heights.
I attempted to assuage my anxiety by focusing on what I knew to be true about making purchases at a store, reminding myself of the predictability of interactions with a cashier during the checkout process. I focused on “how things usually go”:
-a half hearted greeting traded between both parties
-a question posed from the cashier along the lines of, “Did you find everything you were looking for?”
-a well rehearsed response of “Yes!” with feigned enthusiasm
-the ringing up of the desired items accompanied by the clunking sound of the security tag removal machine
-purchases shoved into a bag, handed over to the customer
-the whirring of automatic sliding doors
-pitter patter of the feet of happy customers skipping out into the sunshine
As harrowing as this process can be, my hearing impaired self is grateful to the system that the Marshalls brand of stores instituted a few years back – a flashing number display, akin to a deli counter, sending a nonverbal alert as to which register was available for the next paying customer. This system effectively eliminated my need to strain my ears and watch every interaction closely for nonverbal cues as to which register was available as I was unable to hear the words, “NEXT IN LINE”, being exclaimed amidst a store buzzing with activity and ambient noise.
In what felt like a blink of an eye, I was at the front of the line, carefully watching the digital number display, waiting for one to blink and direct me to the available cashier. The number 6 began to flash, my guiding North Star, and I moved forward to engage in what was sure to be a miscommunication.
Intellectually, I knew that sharing my hearing loss upfront would make this process so much smoother. However, I possessed the petulance of an unruly child and I just didn’t want to (insert foot stomp here). The constant announcement and disclosure of my disability is draining, and being on the receiving end of a myriad of reactions after said announcement makes it even worse as it ranges from nonchalance to shock to complete unacknowledgement. On the flip side, the big disability reveal often prompts declarations from the nervous, “Oh! My cousin’s neighbor is Deaf and they do SO WELL!’ or the jolly jokester with the time worn joke of, “What?” (hearty guffaw inserted here).
I just didn’t want to deal with it. At all.
The first part of the transactional interlude followed the predictable script of which we are all familiar, which made me hopeful that I could escape unscathed. The mandatory verbal exchanges were made, the tickets were scanned, the security tags clunked, and then the cashier spoke. They said…something? I froze, stared at them, and instead of asking for a repetition I engaged in an awkward “oh, yeah?” and an indeterminate, noncommittal head nod that could have meant anything from agreement to indifference.
The cashier – undeterred – spoke again, with a pause that indicated that a response was required on my part. A response I’d happily have provided, had I known the question. I had reached the point of the exchange where I had no choice but to self-identify – the words came tumbling out of my mouth: “I’m sorry – I’m hearing impaired, would you mind rephrasing the question?” I then mentally berated myself for leading with an apology that is never necessary – I have nothing to apologize for, and it is not my job as a person with a disability to create a safe space for someone with typical abilities. I leaned a bit forward over the counter, in an attempt to hear the repeated inquiry, which was fortunately accompanied by a pamphlet. I think I was asked if I wanted to open a store credit card, but I have no idea. I declined the request, quickly inserted my credit card into the payment kiosk, opted for an email receipt, grabbed the bag of merchandise, and hightailed it to the door.
As I stepped outside and made my way to my car, I asked myself if the quest for the navy blue shirt in that perfect shade was worth all of that stress.
The conclusion? Absolutely not.
I made a promise to myself that next time I would enthusiastically shop online and pay the exorbitant shipping fees for a rush delivery.
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