STATEMENT

Reading between the lines

REESE MARTIN Statement Columnist

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.

Design by Abby Schreck

Anticipating the apocalpyse

CONNOR O’LEARY HERRERAS Statement Columnist

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.

Design by Madison Grosvenor