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