On Becoming Deaf, Part I

On a cold winter morning in 1977, with snow that reached to the middle of our windows, I cried in my mother’s lap. The pain inside my ears was excruciating and it wouldn’t go away. I remember my mother cradling me with a pinched expression, trying to reass...ure me everything would be better soon. Of course, my ear infection did get better, but when it left, it took something away: my hearing.

My hearing didn’t leave all at once, but the ear infection started the process. At least, that’s what we believe. Before my illness, I’d never had any problems hearing or understanding, but after – well, that’s a different story.

Hearing loss crept up on me slowly, nearly undetected. It started when I first complained to my mother in early 1978 of a horrible ringing in my ears. She assured me it would go away, but it didn’t. It never left me. The condition is called tinnitus, and it’s not really a ringing, but a cacophony of sounds generated in the brain. Sometimes it’s quiet, some days I have a veritable symphony of constant tones in innumerable pitches and frequencies. Some days the lower pitches are loud. Other days, the high squeals that resemble a trio of badly-tuned flutes invades my head. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between the humming of my refrigerator and the noises in my head.

Why I Study the Holocaust

"It has shown me that everything is illuminated in the light of the past. It is always along the side of us...on the inside, looking out."
-Everything is Illuminated

When I tell people what I do, I usually try and make it as covert as possible to avoid potentially awkward encounters. Depending on the person, I might divulge my actual area of interest, but sometimes I simply say that I'm a student of history.  If people are interested in furthering a conversation with me, or simply interested in history, they will invariably ask me what time period I'm concentrating on. And then I tell them that I'm a student of Holocaust Studies, followed by one of three reactions, depending on the person. They are as follows:

1) The Joke.  This reaction is usually from a person who feels slightly uncomfortable by the simple mention of such a horrible period in human history. Of course, thinking about the Holocaust makes most people feel uncomfortable and rightly so. However, the joke I hear most often is, "Well, I guess you'll have everything you'll need to stage your own mass genocide." Usually I laugh it off, as I'm guilty of making light of the situation on occasion. You have to, or it will become an all-consuming vortex of sadness. But, suffice to say, this is not my favorite response.

Volunteering Abroad

To all of the volunteer organizations that attempted to extort money from me so that I may freely offer my blood, sweat and tears… screw you. I genuinely don’t mean to sound negative or pessimistic toward every volunteer organization—some are legit (I think). But if you want to volunteer abroad for a worthy cause, PLEASE stop before pulling out your plastic card to register and read of my experience.

I’m currently residing in the beautiful, yet destitute country of Nepal. First question: how did I get here? I wish I could claim some elite institution offered me a prestigious fellowship to come and study the culture, but the reason is far less glamorous—I purchased a one-way ticket, booked a cheap hotel and got a three-month visa. Next question: why am I here? Again, the answer isn’t glamorous—I felt like being here and it sounded like fun.

Before arriving, I conducted due diligence on various volunteer organizations. I thought about teaching English to Buddhist monks, holding craft sessions in an orphanage, engaging in a photojournalism course and I looked at a host of other spiffy-sounding opportunities. The websites, in all of their colorful splendor and flash-based design, showed pictures of blonde-haired, happy volunteers holding babies or monkeys. Then I’d click on the “program fees” portion of the website and my stomach would churn. $800 to volunteer for one month?! I knew I could scrounge up the cash, but a part of me strongly resisted. First, the website typically offered no explanation of how the fees were allocated—perhaps a portion would go to the orphanage, but who could really tell? Secondly… I have an ego. Maybe I sound like a cold, heartless bitch for saying this, but I’ve worked my ass off to harness my unique skill set. I’m indebted to SallieMae for the next 30 years as a result of going to college. I think my soul was almost sucked from me as I sat through my intermediate macroeconomics course. I worked for the Man by spending three years in a cubicle learning the trade of accounting. Now, I completely understand that I have been afforded opportunities in my life by virtue of being born in the US. For this reason, I want to volunteer with no expected remuneration. But I’m not going to pay for the privilege. And guess what? You don’t have to, either.

Getting High in Kathmandu

At the oh-so-wise age of 25, I decided the time, place and company were right to smoke marijuana for the first time. Up until the evening of May 5th, I guarded my pot virginity with the same zeal as a Christian who pledges abstinence before marriage. In addition to never consuming an illegal substance, I hadn’t tried a cigarette, either. My decision to abstain from pot was one of practicality mixed with frugality: Most corporations perform drug tests as part of the employment process, and I also viewed pot as an expensive indulgence in the event it was habit-forming. I can’t even say I was pressured to smoke. Just one blasé suggestion from a temporary travel fling was the only thing necessary for me to hunt down the substance. Though I knew procuring marijuana was a crime here in Nepal, I’m grateful I only learned about the whole, “maximum 20 years in jail” consequence after my transaction was complete.

So let me back track to how I scored the goods: on the nightly walk back to my cheap hotel located in the congested touristy area of Thamel, I’d often get solicited for pot from seedy characters and would always say no. This time, however, I slowed my gait and looked every Nepali in the eye, awaiting the proposition. The first came from 70-yr-old barefoot man in an olive-green “Faded Glory” shirt perched atop his bike and carriage. He smiled, flashing his yellow crooked teeth at me.

“Rickshaw, madame?”

I smiled in return and gave a polite no. The next question was from a 20-something Nepali standing with one foot rested against the wall of the alley.

In a low, slurred voice he asked, “Would you like some hash?”

Without hesitation, I gave a firm, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

I Am a Half Sibling

I am a half-sibling.

For some reason, saying that sounds almost dirty. It makes me feel like less of a person, and seems to downplay the relationships that I have with my sister and brothers. Half-sibling, to me, implies that I am only half of a person; that somehow I am not complete. Despite the various roles I have played in the lives of my siblings, I feel as though outsiders see our relationships as being somehow inferior to those shared by full-siblings. A quick Internet search on “half-sibling relationships” shows that I am not alone in feeling this way, as countless articles have been published regarding the complexities that exist within half-sibling relationships. Many other half-siblings, particularly those who met in their teen or adult years, describe having close relationships that they feel the rest off the world doesn’t recognize as being as powerful as the relationships between full-siblings. In a world filled with divorce and remarriage, it is surprising how few half-siblings feel truly welcome, important or valued in society.

My sister and I share the same mother. We are four and a half years apart and grew up living under the same roof. I was born in Dundee, Scotland and relocated back to Denver, Colorado with my mother as a child. Shortly after our return, my mother met my sister’s father and Brynn was born. I was there to hold her the day she was born, and quickly adapted to my older sister duties. I missed the opportunity to see her take her first steps because I was back in Scotland vacationing with my grandparents for the summer, but I have been there for every other major milestone in her life. I watched Brynn learn how to ride a bike, and later helped teach her how to drive. I was there for her sixth grade continuation and her first day of high school. I helped her get ready for her first date and took her shopping for her prom dress. Even though we are several years apart, she is one of my best friends.

Playing Nice, or Why I Hate the BBC

Hair curled: check. Eyeliner applied: most definitely. Cab fare just in case? Yes. I confess I also skimmed an article in the Wall Street Journal in hopes of impressing my policy analyst date by brushing up on my knowledge of Portugal’s impending debt crisis.

When I knocked on the door of his five-star hotel room, I couldn’t help but be struck by the discrepancy between reality and what I envisioned in those two hours of getting ready for the date. Instead of him opening the door and receiving a warm reception, he gave me a quick hug and ushered me in. “Just one moment,” he said, motioning to the bed while he sat at the desk near the window. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I really have to get this report sent off—give me a few minutes.” He handed me the remote to the TV currently playing the BBC and implored me to change it to whatever station I wished. I gave a relaxed smile and told him how waiting was no problem at all. I took off my sandals and sat on the bed. While I certainly didn’t mind watching the BBC—in fact, most days I actively enjoy it—I didn’t exactly anticipate this picture as the start of the evening. For the next 30 minutes or so, I flipped between the BBC and Al Jazeera while he finished his briefing. I observed his furrowed brow and frantic typing on the keyboard of his laptop. While I had spent 45 minutes taming my unruly thick brown hair, he repeatedly ran his hands through his messy blond locks.

It's Never Lupus, Except When It Is

When most people hear the word “lupus”, they quote “Dr. House” at me. “It’s never lupus!” they laugh. While this lame attempt at humor can be funny (doctors really never think it is lupus), most people then realize they know nothing of this disease that’s taken over my life. It’s not their fault. Lupus isn’t a disease that dramatically claims victims’ lives suddenly and painfully, rather it creeps in slowly and quietly, taking with it mostly young women, and minority women at that.

According to the Lupus Foundation of America, lupus affects around 1.5 million Americans, and approximately 5 million people around the world. It strikes mostly women in the childbearing years (18-44), although men, teenagers and children can develop it as well. It is characterized by flares and remissions in which the body continually attacks itself. Every case is different, but most people with lupus suffer from swollen lymph nodes, low-grade fevers, painful arthritis, rashes, anemia, extreme fatigue (akin to exhaustion), hair loss, mouth and nose ulcers, sun-sensitivity, swelling of the joints, pain in the chest upon breathing and a butterfly-shaped rash across the bridge of the nose. In severe cases, the organs can be attacked and compromised, leading to organ failure and eventual death.

My lupus developed as mysteriously as the disease itself, sort of like a bandit that came in during the night that left with my health.

Remembering My Nana

When I was eight years old, my Nana and I went for a picnic.

This picnic, mind you, was no ordinary picnic in any sense of the word; it was an adventure. We dressed up in ridiculous hats, sketchbooks and picnic baskets in hand and set off to discover the entrance to Whangdoodle land, a mythical place that existed in the pages of a Julie Andrews novel and in the heart's of any child who ever took the time to read it. We walked along the trails of Belmar Park and sat on the bridges and docks surrounding the lake, keeping our eyes peeled for a field of flowers or a bush that could potentially be the portal to this world that seemed all to real in our imaginations.

Our lunch that day consisted of lemon-gingers, cucumber and butter sandwiches and petite lemon cakes, some of Nana's very favorite things. We found a stone dock with a grand staircase to host our picnic on, and we sat sketching and chatting excitedly about our day while dragonflies hummed across the water and curious geese swam ever closer, hoping for a bite or two of our delicious lunch.

Taking a Lesson from Hungary

To say I grew up in a bubble would be putting it mildly. The summer I was 15, I realized everyone in my group of friends, including myself, would be spending some time in Europe during the school vacation. People lived in ridiculously overpriced homes for the luxu...ry of a small town feel, even though this “small town” included Aston Martin, Jaguar, Lexus and BMW dealerships. A trip to the adjacent town’s local mall, our regular hang out, meant a stroll by the always-packed Louis Vuitton and a vaulted and elusive Tiffany’s. I went to college in Orange County, California where my humble Nissan was always surrounded by a swarm of Audis and Lexuses, making me almost embarrassed to point out my car. Grad school saw me to New York City where I picked up extra cash nannying for adorable children of successful authors, doctors, lawyers and actors. While the families I sat for were never ostentatious or vomit-inducing about their wealth, it was always apparent when I took the children to gymnastics class and ended up next to a woman with a $10,000 Hermes bag. Sometimes, I would quietly listen in to conversations when I took the children to an Upper East Side eatery for homework and would overhear talk of jaw-dropping vacations and primary school tuition that rivaled what I already owed to New York University. 

Even though I grew up around extreme wealth (my parents had family friends who would charter their own plane to Vegas whenever they had the itch), my family was never of the Chanel bag carrying, jet setting variety. But we weren’t poor either. We took regular vacations. Every driver in my family had a car. I paid for my undergraduate study without loans and I had made it through those coed years without having to work.  By the time I was 25, I had been to Europe three times.

Solo Traveling in Nepal

“You’re going where, again?”

“Nepal.” 

“…by yourself?”
I paused for a while, letting the concept sink in. “Yes.”

Traveling as a single woman in regions beyond Europe’s gentrified cities is an undertaking that, while not for the faint of heart, is doable. Not just doable, but a soul-wrenching experience. The third-world country of Nepal welcomes an abundance of sojourners hailing from many backgrounds; some freshly-graduated students don nose piercings and buy bright pink saris to wear against their pale skin; others are Swiss financial consultants taking a break to hike the Everest base camp; others, like me, are going through a stereotypical existential dilemma wherein I wish--in vain--how a Buddhist meditation retreat at a monastery may help reveal my life's mission.

In actuality, solo travel to central Asia isn’t filled with spiritual revelations borne from Tibetan Buddhism classes. The more plausible (and less exciting) reality is incurring sinus infections from the cooking fires and motorcyclists. Bouts of traveler’s diarrhea are also to be expected in a region where greens and vegetables must be dipped in iodine to be fit for consumption. And then there are the times where you’re in your pancake-flat bed, aching to have conversations with people from home who know you best. On a brighter note, it only takes about a week to get used to Nepal’s routine power outages and fickle electricity. Here’s another tip--if you happen to find a toilet that flushes, star it on your traveler’s map along with any restaurant that doesn’t create a growling, uncomfortable churning in your stomach.