Community

John Gumperz, a sociolinguist at Berkeley, defined a speech community as “any human aggregate characterized by regular and frequent interactions by means of a shared language system and set off from other such aggregates.” However, when I began to lose my hearing a year and a half ago, I quickly came to the realization that this shared language system does not just define a “speech community,” but rather is the very basis of any community.

A community could be thought of as a group of people. But while having crowds of people always surrounding you is all well and good, if there is no true connection being made with these people, then there is really no communal feeling, at all. Connections are made through the give and take of conversation—not just talking at one person and a person talking back at the person. I saw, as my hearing decreased, that I felt that I was moving away from all of the people around me. They were still present, but not really existing on the same wavelength as I was.

I had many experiences where I’d go out to a bar on a Saturday night with friends. I would sit with them, and (force myself to) laugh when everyone else was laughing. I thought of a study was recently done, which investigated why large groups of monkeys would get together, and essentially start to hyperventilate together. It turned out that this monkey hyperventilation was actually their form of laughing, and the group laughs created cohesion. Similarly, while I felt that everyone was getting closer, through shared laughs and shared stories, I began to feel more and more alienated with each outing.

In retrospect, I realize it is no surprise where I turned—poker. There is a definite community to poker, regardless of how shallow that community might be. And whereas the qualifications for admission to a country club might be wealth and high social standing, the sole qualification for admissions to a poker community is money, plain and simple. If you have the money, you are welcomed with open arms to the table.

Moreover, I think that one of the appeals of the poker community, aside from their (low) admission standards, was the form of communication. While there is always banter going on at a poker table, the majority of the “communication” is done through wagering. While someone might say something to induce a bluff, the majority of the signals can be culled from facial expressions and wagers. This provides an optimal situation for someone who is hard of hearing, since there is very little auditory communication going on.

Eventually, I realized that the cohesion I sought in the poker community simply wasn’t there, no matter how often I played, or how much of a “regular” I was. It was all about the money, and nothing else. I came to the realization that the allures of poker were superfluous, and there was not a real community there. I think this has become an important thing to bear in mind, as I find myself struggling in a lot of environments.

My stepdad has a sign behind his desk that reads, “Nothing is ever easy.” It is not a cute cliché or metaphor; it is just stark and true. I think that the only successful way to get through something like a hearing loss is to accept this maxim. There are no shortcuts, or easy ways out. It is hard, and it will always be hard. There is a price to pay for trying to bypass the difficulties. Nothing is ever easy.