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mmerriamI attended several SF/F/H conventions this year, all local here in the Twin Cities where I live (we have a plethora of local SF/F/H conventions) along with one gaming convention. I go to conventions for a variety of reasons: To see my friends and to be around other folks who share my enjoyment of SF/F/H in literature, movies, games, or other media. I go to support my friends who are professional authors by attending their readings and hawking their books and to get my own name, face, and fiction in front of the local public. I go to just enjoy myself.
It was a tough convention season for me this year. Each convention presents different challenges for this blind fan and writer, and at times those challenges overwhelmed me. The larger the convention, the greater the challenges, but even small conventions can present me with difficult situations.
For example, small conventions typically mean small consuites: Small, narrow, crowded, hard to get around in consuites. I usually end up sitting somewhere and asking my wife to bring me things, but this is sub-optimal for several reasons. For one, I still hate to be a "bother" to anyone, and would rather sit silently than risk breaking up a brilliant conversation because I need help getting through the crowds to the soda. And I know that's a personal choice on my part. I know.
And crowds. This is a fact of life at larger conventions, but it's something I struggle to deal with, to the point of sometimes getting so overwhelmed that I give up and go up to the room to hide. Now granted, I'm an introvert and at conventions I try to be "on" as much as possible--smiling, chatting, being social--which is exhausting to me. So I dive back into the room to recharge. But the crowds, oh the crowds, they are probably my greatest challenge.
Because people at conventions are talking and visiting and looking at all the shiny, and they don't actually pay much attention to their surroundings. Now, you'd think being well over six feet tall and wielding a long white cane would be a clue, but no. Any moment I'm in the hallways and trying to get around under my own power (as opposed to being assisted) the journey is fraught with peril, near-misses, people tripping over the cane, and accidental body-checking into walls. It is especially bad with small children, who tend to dash one direction while looking the other. This forces me to try and be extra slow and careful, hyper-aware of my surroundings. It's exhausting.
Dealer's rooms are another adventure. The same problems as above, now with bonus narrow aisles and displays lying in ambush, waiting for the hapless blind guy to stumble into them. Going into the dealer's room without assistance is nigh impossible.
The final thing the crowds tend to do is "blind" me. I'm already struggling with not being able to see much of anything in a rapidly changing environment, but the noise--especially around the party rooms (which I've learned to avoid)--basically leaves me without my other primary way of telling me what is happening around me. If I can't see clearly, and I can't hear clearly, what chance do I have? I've had to drop out of some things I wanted to do, simply because it became too hard on me in those situations to deal with the environment. There were moments where I quite literally froze in place because I lost my bearings and could not navigate my surroundings safely. It is a frustrating thing.
There was some disability programming at a couple of conventions this year, panels I pushed for about Disability in SF, which also touched on being a disabled fan (a panel I had taken part in at a convention a couple of years ago). Sadly, even this was problematic, as one of the conventions put us in a space that was too small and nearly inaccessible for our disabled fans in wheelchairs. And once I was in the room, I was stuck. There was no way I'd have been able to maneuver out of that room without help, and even then it would have been tough. Good thing I was safely ensconced on the panel!
And elevators: This is a real problem at larger conventions, where the elevators are few and broken down half the time (ask me about the night I climbed 22 flights of stairs). When the elevators are slow and not always working--placing them at a premium--and people want to get up their rooms to change for an event, or get to a room party, or whatever, all courtesy is tossed out the door. I've had to stand and wait through up to eight cycles of elevators because once one opens and clears, the faster, younger, able bodied people will happily charge forward and cram into the thing before those of us with canes or chairs can even start forward, squeezing us out in their mad dash to get aboard. Tough luck, gimp.
It's a wonder I even bother sometimes.
But I bother because I really want to visit with and see the people I want to see. I want to sit in the bar or consuite and talk with my friends, especially those I only see at conventions. I go because some of the panels were valuable to me when I was starting out as a writer and new to fandom, and I like to be on those panels now, paying it forward, encouraging new writers and fans (I especially like talking with teens about writing and literature and fandom. They're so enthusiastic, lacking all the world-weary jadedness so common in their adult counterparts).
I have learned tricks to help myself, like getting someplace early and scouting it out, figuring out the best routes, the best ways to get up on the raised platform to the panel table, how to get to various crucial locations in the convention. Since large-print programs are rarely offered and the program pages on the room doors and boards are sometimes in smaller fonts, I try to memorize my schedule and all the things I want to, though this can fall victim to last minute changes, leaving me wondering where the go for that panel I was suppose to be on.
The solution seems simple: Stop going to larger conventions and always make sure I have someone available to help me access the convention. I can tell you both of these answers are sub-optimal for me. I know I'd be missing some great stuff by avoiding the larger conventions, and I simply can't rely on having people to help me all the damned time.
I don't have the answers (yet), but I know I'll keep going to conventions of various sizes, trying to figure out the best and easiest ways to deal with these challenges. Because one thing I am is determined to do is this: I won't stop living my life because I'm blind. And conventions, both professionally and personally, are part of my life.
It was a tough convention season for me this year. Each convention presents different challenges for this blind fan and writer, and at times those challenges overwhelmed me. The larger the convention, the greater the challenges, but even small conventions can present me with difficult situations.
For example, small conventions typically mean small consuites: Small, narrow, crowded, hard to get around in consuites. I usually end up sitting somewhere and asking my wife to bring me things, but this is sub-optimal for several reasons. For one, I still hate to be a "bother" to anyone, and would rather sit silently than risk breaking up a brilliant conversation because I need help getting through the crowds to the soda. And I know that's a personal choice on my part. I know.
And crowds. This is a fact of life at larger conventions, but it's something I struggle to deal with, to the point of sometimes getting so overwhelmed that I give up and go up to the room to hide. Now granted, I'm an introvert and at conventions I try to be "on" as much as possible--smiling, chatting, being social--which is exhausting to me. So I dive back into the room to recharge. But the crowds, oh the crowds, they are probably my greatest challenge.
Because people at conventions are talking and visiting and looking at all the shiny, and they don't actually pay much attention to their surroundings. Now, you'd think being well over six feet tall and wielding a long white cane would be a clue, but no. Any moment I'm in the hallways and trying to get around under my own power (as opposed to being assisted) the journey is fraught with peril, near-misses, people tripping over the cane, and accidental body-checking into walls. It is especially bad with small children, who tend to dash one direction while looking the other. This forces me to try and be extra slow and careful, hyper-aware of my surroundings. It's exhausting.
Dealer's rooms are another adventure. The same problems as above, now with bonus narrow aisles and displays lying in ambush, waiting for the hapless blind guy to stumble into them. Going into the dealer's room without assistance is nigh impossible.
The final thing the crowds tend to do is "blind" me. I'm already struggling with not being able to see much of anything in a rapidly changing environment, but the noise--especially around the party rooms (which I've learned to avoid)--basically leaves me without my other primary way of telling me what is happening around me. If I can't see clearly, and I can't hear clearly, what chance do I have? I've had to drop out of some things I wanted to do, simply because it became too hard on me in those situations to deal with the environment. There were moments where I quite literally froze in place because I lost my bearings and could not navigate my surroundings safely. It is a frustrating thing.
There was some disability programming at a couple of conventions this year, panels I pushed for about Disability in SF, which also touched on being a disabled fan (a panel I had taken part in at a convention a couple of years ago). Sadly, even this was problematic, as one of the conventions put us in a space that was too small and nearly inaccessible for our disabled fans in wheelchairs. And once I was in the room, I was stuck. There was no way I'd have been able to maneuver out of that room without help, and even then it would have been tough. Good thing I was safely ensconced on the panel!
And elevators: This is a real problem at larger conventions, where the elevators are few and broken down half the time (ask me about the night I climbed 22 flights of stairs). When the elevators are slow and not always working--placing them at a premium--and people want to get up their rooms to change for an event, or get to a room party, or whatever, all courtesy is tossed out the door. I've had to stand and wait through up to eight cycles of elevators because once one opens and clears, the faster, younger, able bodied people will happily charge forward and cram into the thing before those of us with canes or chairs can even start forward, squeezing us out in their mad dash to get aboard. Tough luck, gimp.
It's a wonder I even bother sometimes.
But I bother because I really want to visit with and see the people I want to see. I want to sit in the bar or consuite and talk with my friends, especially those I only see at conventions. I go because some of the panels were valuable to me when I was starting out as a writer and new to fandom, and I like to be on those panels now, paying it forward, encouraging new writers and fans (I especially like talking with teens about writing and literature and fandom. They're so enthusiastic, lacking all the world-weary jadedness so common in their adult counterparts).
I have learned tricks to help myself, like getting someplace early and scouting it out, figuring out the best routes, the best ways to get up on the raised platform to the panel table, how to get to various crucial locations in the convention. Since large-print programs are rarely offered and the program pages on the room doors and boards are sometimes in smaller fonts, I try to memorize my schedule and all the things I want to, though this can fall victim to last minute changes, leaving me wondering where the go for that panel I was suppose to be on.
The solution seems simple: Stop going to larger conventions and always make sure I have someone available to help me access the convention. I can tell you both of these answers are sub-optimal for me. I know I'd be missing some great stuff by avoiding the larger conventions, and I simply can't rely on having people to help me all the damned time.
I don't have the answers (yet), but I know I'll keep going to conventions of various sizes, trying to figure out the best and easiest ways to deal with these challenges. Because one thing I am is determined to do is this: I won't stop living my life because I'm blind. And conventions, both professionally and personally, are part of my life.
