Has COVID-19 Changed the World for You?

Currently, the virus is spreading rapidly in the United States, while Italy, Spain and other countries are dealing with the ravages the widespread infection continues to wreak. At age 83, I see this pandemic as another in a series of misfortunes that befalls mankind periodically. Of course this statement ignores the horrors of warfare present in various parts of the world, and the local droughts, locusts, and political misrules. For many young people the magnitude and portents of this pandemic are beyond anything they have heretofore experienced.Four years ago I read an article by a person whose “world changed” at a young age by the event of “9/11” in New York City. My reading of her well-written memoir initiated a memory search for that moment in my life when the perception of the world may have changed — that is, to have shaken me loose from the unexamined feelings of comfort and safety that childhood, for some, allows.

After pondering, I found that my awakening was gradual, with punctuated moments of fear, despair, horror and, in the case of “9/11,” anger.

I was one month away from becoming age five when the Japanese Air Force bombed Pearl Harbor, Honolulu, Hawaii on December 7, 1941. I don’t have a memory of the actual day of the invasion. What I have is the memory, subsequently developed, of all the pictures and commentary since that time. It didn’t affect me at age five — this was just the way the world was.

Uncle Harry was a block warden for the times when ‘blackouts’ were called by the civil defense organization. He was to assure that we and the neighbors had pulled down their blackout curtains and shades so that no light could be seen by possible invaders from off the coast of San Francisco. These were the times the whole family, seven of us would gather by candlelight in the living room to listen to news on the radio, or to music on the big Victrola. I imagined Japanese planes and submarines searching, searching, but finding nothing because we were so good at hiding. It wasn’t scary.

Then the war was over, and I was eight years old. My dad got a job in Manhattan with his cousin, a printer, and found a railroad flat in Brooklyn for us, a few blocks from the docks. Mom, sister Diane, and I followed later to arrive by train on New Year’s Day, 1946. I learned to live with fear and uncertainty in this neighborhood, more and more as I grew toward adolescence. I never knew when one of several local bullies would decide to beat me up.

When I got to junior high school, we learned how to act when the sirens went off, signaling a nuclear bomb attack from the Soviet Union. These felt weird, and I always felt that such preparations were useless because everything would be wiped out anyway.

Toward the end of the 1940s, many people from Puerto Rico started arriving in New York’s boroughs, including Brooklyn. One summer day a car full of Puerto Rican immigrants was circling around 48th Street, looking for a destination, the occupants unfamiliar with the neighborhood. They had interrupted the stickball game of the older guys too many times, so they stopped the car, bounced on it, rolled it, and beat up the guys in the car, using pipes and other things as clubs. I ran away to our tenement up the street, feeling as if I had been beaten up.

Soon after this we moved back to San Francisco and, later, to Berkeley. We felt safe again.

Until, ten years later, October, 1962. This is when the world changed for me: the Cuban Missile Crisis. I was living in Berkeley, attending the University. I often awoke, sweating, having dreamed a nuke had exploded over the whole Bay Area.

Source: theedge.com.hk

Then, in 1963 President John F. Kennedy was assassinated and began a horrible period of uncertainty and anger and disbelief in the authorities which the ‘Warren Commission’ could not quite damp down.

The civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated, then Senator Robert Kennedy was gunned down within months of each other in 1968. I didn’t care that much for the Kennedy brothers or family, but upon “Bobby’s” death I felt America was coming apart.

Then came the horrors of the Vietnam War, in which I was too old to directly participate, but I saw and felt the havoc it wrought on the young people and their elders.

I was present, in 1964–1965, at the ‘Free Speech Movement’ on the Berkeley campus, which began as a righteous protest and devolved into a battle between well-organized radicals and the State. It was warfare on campus and, in my mind, began the destruction of universities everywhere in the USA.

Time passes, wounds are layered over while one continues to do what humans tend to do, make families, go to work to support them, try to enjoy life occasionally. The horrors are buried, then… 9/11.

And now, COVID-19.

What will be the new or revised vision of the world young people will carry with them into the future, of those who survive? And, how will their new vision cause them to shape the world for succeeding generations?

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Deaf ≠ Stupid/Funny

Do we get annoyed with blind people? No.
Do we get annoyed with physically crippled people? Not usually.
Do we get annoyed with deaf people? Yes.

Do we think it’s funny that a blind person cannot see, that a crippled person cannot move gracefully? No. Or maybe yes, to immature people.

Do we think it’s funny when a deaf person struggles to understand what they can barely hear? Yes. Do we think a deaf person is stupid? Sometimes.


My hearing began to diminish significantly when I was around age 60. I am now age 83 and cannot have a conversation unless I wear hearing aids of the latest electronic iteration. Even then, my understanding of the words issued by any interlocutor is dependent on the level of ambient noise, the breadth of sound waves issued by the speaker, how well the speaker enunciates and the volume level of her/his speech.

Louder is not necessarily better! Clarity, and the formation of words by the speaker’s lips are more important than volume, for I can read lips. I didn’t recognize I had this ability until many years into my advancing deafness.

Cochlea in the inner ear Credit: sciencesoup.tumblr.com/

Certain sounds are mostly unheard– sibilants and stridents: s/z/f/v. This is where lip-reading helps. Why can’t I hear these sounds? TINNITUS!

Don’t shout! It hurts. Many of the little hair cells in my cochlea are damaged—bruised—and they will never heal. Loud noises make me jump. This is funny to some people.

I avoid large gatherings of people who are socializing. Even well-hearing people have trouble in such venues. In a small group, if I ask for a certain phrase to be repeated for clarity, more than one person will respond, sometimes loudly, and I still don’t understand. I can interpret the sounds of only one person at a time. Even then, I don’t hear every sound correctly, but by engaging in interpolation, I can recognize what may be missing from the string of sounds, and simultaneously form words in my head that make sense with respect to other sounds. I have a large vocabulary and a good memory, so I can understand the meaning of what is being said to me, even if I really only hear, accurately, 80% of the sounds as they are intended by the emitter.

This is hard work, and I get tired. I’m a party pooper.

I am not looking for sympathy. I have lived with this disability a long time and don’t expect the world to change to accommodate me.

As with the author of the novel “Deaf Sentence” intends, I am looking to educate the reader in hope that deaf people, including me, will be better understood by their interlocutors.

Thanks for listening…

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