Reading between the lines

Each night at 7:45 p.m. (my unwilling 

and adult-dictated bedtime) my mom 
would read my favorite book to coax 
my 4-year-old brain to sleep. Red and 
blue fish circled my head and matching 
letters swirled around as she read …

“Did you ever fly a kite in bed? Did 

you ever walk with ten cats on your 
head? Did you ever milk this kind of 
cow? Well, we can do it. We know how. 
If you never did, you should. These 
things are fun and fun … ”

I never let my mom get through a 

whole verse of a Dr. Seuss book without 
interjecting. As she read the words, 
my little eyes darted back and forth 
between the lines — scanning for words 
I knew would eventually connect the 
verses through rhyme. Sometimes, 
it sounded like she skipped a word 
or misspoke a phrase, and I thought 
it best to take over for the sake of not 
butchering the great literary work that 
was “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, 
Blue Fish.” 

A decade later, I learned why I 

could never sit through my mother’s 
story times. I struggled to listen due 
to bilateral sensorineural hearing loss, 
a degenerative condition in which I 
lose the ability to hear volumes and 
frequencies over time. The diagnosis 

manifests differently in each person. 
While some may not experience 
progressive loss with the condition, 
mine will continue to deteriorate 
indefinitely. 

In 2020, when the pandemic began, 

my family and I first noticed my 

irregular hearing. I struggled to hear 
others on Zoom calls and could no 
longer hear the beep from our home 
thermometer. Of course, masks made 
conversations 10 times more difficult 
due to muffled sounds and no longer 
being able to lip-read, a hidden talent 
I unknowingly possessed. Though 
symptoms likely occurred earlier, the 
condition was difficult to catch because 
my speech was unaffected, a common 
way to detect hearing loss in pediatric 
patients. 

I think back to the countless nights 

spent with my mom reading Dr. 
Seuss and wonder if she really did 
skip rhymes. My complaints seemed 
genuine at the time, but I realize 
now they were likely rooted in an 
impairment my young brain couldn’t 
comprehend. 

Although my hearing loss isn’t 

absolute, it is severe enough to affect 
my function in everyday life. Without 
my hearing aids, I struggle to follow 
professors in class and engage in 
conversations with friends. My brain is 
set on indefinite overdrive, interpreting 
visual cues like lip-reading and body 
language 
while 
simultaneously 

navigating daily obstacles. 

Despite the obvious negatives, 

my impairment forced me to admire 
and understand literature in a way 
that complimented my experiences 
with hearing loss. I am drawn to the 

familiarity of literature because it 
is the space where I learned how to 
learn — teaching myself class lectures 
via textbooks and articles when it 
was difficult to listen to my teachers 
in class. Reading is a beautiful and 
personal activity for me. I value the 

raw interaction between the sentences, 
the page and my mind — no hearing 
aids necessary. Text is definitive; it’s 
permanent. Spoken words are easily 
lost in the air, time, memory and (for 
me) interpretation of the moment. 
Writing is a preservation of those 
thoughts — oftentimes, clearer than 
when they were first said. 

In everyday conversation, I am at a 

disadvantage. But books are my safe 
space — a dimension where I belong 
and exist just like everyone else. Yet, 
while literature may act as my personal 
utopia, reading and writing can be as 
exclusive for others as auditory content 
is for me. 

***
My family constantly encourages 

me to pursue my love of writing. They 
celebrate my every accomplishment 
and item of work along the way, likely 
sharing this very article with friends 
and posting the print copy on the 
fridge. While I’m beyond grateful 
for their involvement, my writing 
unintentionally excludes one of my 
favorite people, and many more 
throughout the nation. 

My youngest brother has struggled 

with severe dyslexia throughout his 
childhood. Dyslexia is a learning 
disorder in which individuals are 
unable to translate letters and words 
into speech sounds. Reading and 
writing are my brother’s greatest 
challenges, and more often than not, 
his personal nightmares. 

It is easy for my brother to feel left 

out in school when other students 
discuss books and articles that are too 
difficult for him to interpret. Because 
of my interests, he can also feel like 
an outsider within our household. My 
family enjoys reading excerpts of my 
writing before the piece is finished. I 
like to share my ideas and ask for their 
opinions while I’m still in the drafting 
process. Oftentimes, my brother can 
feel a disconnect between my family 
and I because he is unable to contribute 
to my work in this way. But we strive to 
include him, despite the challenges. 
When one of my pieces is published, 
my mother reads the narrative to him 
and my other family members out loud 
so they experience it for the first time 
together. With a simple act of kindness, 
my brother and I are able to connect, 
despite our contradicting impairments. 

S T A T E M E N T

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
6 — Wednesday, June 22, 2022 

The image I associate with a 

survivalist is that of a hermit — 
insular, eclectic, convinced that “the 
end is near” and certain that they are 
prepared for its arrival. However, 

when I think of my dad, I don’t see 
him that way at all. For as long as I 
can remember, I have enjoyed hearing 
him describe the lolling limbs of “The 
Walking Dead” zombies or the icy blue 
stare of the “Game of Thrones” white 
walkers, or whatever other undead 
threat from the latest book or TV 
show he was consuming (haha). But 
despite his long-standing fascination 
with zombie apocalypses, his store 
of freeze-dried meals and first aid 
supplies in the basement always 
just seemed like normal disaster 
preparedness. From an early age, I 
was drilled in knowing what to do in 
the event of an earthquake, having 
grown up along the San Andreas fault 
line: drop onto your hands and knees, 
cover your head and neck, and hold 
onto shelter until the shaking stops.

The only thing stronger than my 

reverence for the total collapse of 
society in zombie apocalypses is my 
appreciation for the way it is rebuilt. 
Stories like “World War Z” paint 
an ultimately hopeful picture of 
humanity’s ability to take advantage 
of the fresh start afforded by the 
apocalypse, learning from the failures 
of institutions, recognizing their 
weak spots and improving on them. 
However, the first time I heard that 
story was actually the Biblical story 

of Noah. In truth, I must credit my 
introduction to Armageddon to the 
hearty dose of scripture I was raised 
with as a Catholic. 

The book of Revelation is the final 

book in the Bible, its title derived 
from the Greek word apokálypsis, 
meaning “discovery.” There is a divide 
between Christians who believe the 

Bible must be read literally and those 
who interpret it to be allegory. This 
becomes all the more relevant in the 
final pages when all of humanity dies. 
To me, the Biblical Apocalypse is a 
reminder that the “doomsday,” has a 
long history of haunting humanity. 
Moreover, science — and science 
fiction — have probably provided 
humanity with just as many doomsday 
scenarios as religion has: nuclear 
war, artificial intelligence, biological 
warfare and climate change, to list a 
few. Of course, current events have 
become routine in their madness 
and unpredictability, which no doubt 
contributes to the growing social 
unease that journalist Jasper Hamill 
describes as “apocalypse anxiety.”

I see this unease reflected in 

media like Spillage Village’s album 
“Spilligion,” 
released 
during 
the 

COVID-19 pandemic, the lead single 
of which is titled “End of Daze.” 
The entire album — but especially 
this single — articulates a lot of 
the anxiety I have observed in my 
generation over the ominous future 
that existential threats like climate 
change present. Climate change is sort 
of the nonfiction version of a zombie 
apocalypse for many people I know.

REESE MARTIN
Statement Columnist

Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com

Design by Madison Grosvenor

CONNOR O’LEARY HERRERAS 

Statement Columnist 

Design by Abby Schreck

Anticipating the apocalpyse 

