It was a serious meeting, about a serious topic, and I was sitting in a very serious position listening to the very serious speaker. The woman to my left had finished shoveling handfuls of miniature pretzels into her mouth and decided to fiddle with the bag…she twisted and twisted that crackling, crinkling bag over and over again. Her endless manipulation of that pretzel bag became the only sound that my hearing aids were registering – and, therefore, amplifying. My level of frustration continued to rise and I suddenly snapped. I reached over and in one seamless motion I ripped the bag out of her hands and threw it on the floor beside me. The speaker momentarily paused and glanced at me with a mix of amusement and horror on her face – as I sat once again stone faced and refocused on the very serious speaker delivering the very serious information.
I hate meetings.
Unfortunately, my profession requires that I attend meetings…frequently. All kinds of meetings: large meetings, small meetings, meetings around rectangle tables, meetings in important looking rooms with inspirational posters on the wall, and my favorite types of meetings – those that should have been an email.
I always arrive at a meeting at least five minutes ahead of the actual start time because I need to be primed and ready to play my favorite game, “Where The Hell Do I Sit?” The approach I take to determine where I sit functions at a level of military precision that would make Patton blush. I sweep the room with a gaze, I consider my sight lines from all possible angles, I contemplate the acoustics, and when I have honed in on the perfect spot I swoop into the seat with definitive authority. (And then I wait…because now I’m early and have no one to talk to…so I do that awkward thing of inspecting the point of my pencil, dash off a “serious email” to someone, pretend to study the handouts…the usual).
Most of the time, I get lucky because the environment is set up in such a way that it is clear where the center of the meeting will be happening – either the facilitator, presenter, or panel of persons has demarcated their space. This assists me with my decision making when determining the best possible seat that will place the majority of the incoming information to my left ear (relatively stronger ear, by a narrow margin) and will simultaneously allow me enough of a focal point so I can lip read to back up what I am hearing. I despise the “open concept” meeting space – when there is no clear spot as to where the action will be happening – either by design or by disorganization, this is the worst scenario for me to walk into because now any seat I pick may or may not be the one for me – if I wanted to play these odds, I’d go to Vegas and let it all ride on the roulette table.
I applaud those that conduct meetings from the front of the room when the chairs are arranged in neat and tidy rows. I sit in the front and it is marvelous! I know there will be plenty of room up there because no one else wants to sit in the front! This frees me from having to make a calculated decision and it is glorious! The meetings conducted at large square or rectangle tables, while not my favorite, at least have defined corner space. I can position myself at a corner and be able to pivot and swivel from side to side to catch all that is happening around me, though I do need to lean forward or lean back a little more frequently to make sure that I can see everyone’s faces. If I have to sit at a table, round or oval is best because it eliminates the angles of positioning to lip read that I have to awkwardly engage in when I am at a table with corners.
There is a meeting configuration that I despise more than Notre Dame Football – and for those of you that know me, you know this is serious – when long rectangle tables are “sprinkled” around the room and the speaker is going to “roam about” and “check in” with groups between presentation slides…because we will be “turning and talking”.
NOPE.
Do not turn, do not talk, do not roam – there is nothing to say or overhear from any of these “collaborative conversations” – because no one is talking about the “curious question” the well-meaning presenter has posed. The “group discussion” easily devolves into such riveting topics including lip gloss, crazy neighbors, the weather, or general bitching about not wanting to be in this meeting in the first place. I am now forced into an already uncomfortable position of leaning forwards, backwards, twisting, turning and leaning to try and follow even a little bit of what the presenter is saying during their little trip around the meeting space. This is then compounded by the eruption of “collaborative conversations” (which we all know is nonsense) that creates background noise making it impossible for me to even hear, nevermind participate in, the useless discussions about wrinkle cream, parking passes, protein shake recipes, and that witch in Human Resources. I become easily fatigued, and am now forced to sit there with a fake smile plastered on my face. I nod and smile or emote in some disapproving fashion in what is hopefully the right moment, and pray to any deity that is listening that the presenter will not ask me what our group discussed during our “unpacking opportunity”. It’s a good time.
It was at one of these extra special free-range meetings when I found myself on the receiving end of one of the more insulting and demeaning experiences I have had as a person with a hearing loss. I remember that I was turned away from this particular colleague and reviewing notes I had made on my computer to cross reference later against the handouts to help me ensure that I was capturing as much of the “big picture” as I possibly could in the seventh circle of hell that was this meeting formation.
There was a flash of motion just within my peripheral vision that was startling enough to cause me to turn my head to the left – only to be met with the visual of a colleague snapping their fingers at me while shouting my name, “JULIE! (SNAP) JULIE! (SNAP)!” I remember pausing ever so briefly thinking, “no…this can’t be real” – but it was very real and very, very rude. I was fortunate that I had at least one witness to the absurdity of it all – but I still cannot believe that it happened.
I was then forced into a position that most disabled people find themselves in from time to time – having to decide how to respond…do I assume the “Angry Advocate” pose or do I go with the, “Joking Disabled Pal” position. I went with the, “Are You For Real!?” persona – I turned to the offending party, and said “Did you seriously just snap at a person with a hearing loss? Seriously?” The response? “I called your name twice.”
Let’s brainstorm, gentle readers – think for a moment…what other strategies could you have used to get someone’s attention BEFORE resorting to snapping? Hmmm …a gentle tap on the arm, alerting another person at the table to please tap my shoulder, passing a note, sending me a text message on my phone, a small discreet wave in my peripheral vision…notice that NONE of them involve snapping!
The snapping action – beyond being blatantly rude and degrading – implies that I am “less than” in the eyes of the person committing the action. The snap sends a message that I am not competent enough to be independently aware of the world around me and obviously need to be communicated with in such a forceful manner. It becomes obvious to me that because of my disability, snapping must be the first and only strategy to employ because to offer me the respect of another form of gaining my attention is not worth your efforts.
Ask yourselves – and answer truthfully – if you were going to get the attention of a typical hearing person at a table, would you snap?
I didn’t think so.
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