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.”