by Lauren Marks
Okay, okay, Jonah said. This doesn’t have to be a debate about ontology. There are personal issues at stake for me, too. You just talk about everyone around you as a group, and I wanted to think of myself as a much more individual force throughout your recovery. This essay made me think that I was never that important to you.
Why would you think that? I asked.
I told him I hadn’t been writing about him, specifically, but he felt I must’ve been, reminding me that he called all the time, and during the period I wrote the bulk of the essay, we spoke every day.
We did? I asked.
We do. We still do, Lauren. That’s what I mean. Jesus, am I just wasting my breath here?
I heard him slam his bedroom window shut, its weatherized frame rattling upon impact.
I’m sorry if I’m overreacting, he said. It’s never an easy transition from the glory of Seattle to the filth of Brooklyn. There’s not enough space, and it’s way too loud. I’m considering a move. I don’t just want a bedroom for sleeping and a kitchen for eating. I want a living room for, you know, living. Because I might not always want to live alone forever.
You’re considering a roommate again? I asked, honestly interested.
Not exactly, Jonah said. But I’d certainly like to be able to have company. Like you, for instance.
I told Jonah I didn’t know when a trip like that would happen. On the obvious level, there was the uncertainty of the brain scan. But other than that, things were going pretty well in LA and if I flew to New York, I’d have to figure out my school situation, living situation, job situation. Would I have to reach out to the subletter in my apartment and ask her if I could stay there too? There was just a world of expectations waiting to crush me the second I arrived in the city.
Honey, Jonah said, as far as New York is concerned, you don’t have to do anything, go anywhere, or see anybody. You don’t even have to go to your apartment, if you don’t want to.
I understood then that he was inviting me to stay in his place the whole time. I had never slept in Jonah’s apartment for longer than a two-day stretch. It felt like a bit of a perilous situation. Though I was drawn to the idea of spending this time with him, we had no precedent for real cohabitation. What if I arrived, and soon after he decided he didn’t want me there? Or what if I wanted out myself, but I had no bed to sleep in? It just might go terribly wrong.
Jonah, I only have enough money for groceries and subways. If you want us to be roommates, how would that work? Split the rent? Or should I divide my time in BJ’s and Laura’s apartments too?
You are making a mountain out of a molehill, Jonah teased, trying to ease my concern. I’ve got a place. I’m offering to have you stay in this place. Just come. That’s all you have to do. Come. Stay.
I didn’t feel like I could mention this to Jonah, but I couldn’t stop fixating on the word stay. Stay. In my journals, I wondered: What does this mean? It reminded me of something people said to dogs. Sit. Good dog. Stay.
talking to me about a plans for a new apartment. come, stay with me.
The p words so easily expressed, the care behind them—I feel alienated.
COMe (Leave where you are)
Stay (here in the New York a new world of expectations) Stay. Dog sit.
How long would I stay?
With Me: Don’t I have a home in NY? Don I did. With a sublettor is in my bed right now. Live in his place, stay in his house, come from where I am to meet him. And with me? The new Who is he to me? Who A friend, a boyfriend, a housemate.
No one is safe. No one is comforting. No one is desired.
I’ll never be able to account for all of the small moments of friction that my language disorder created between Jonah and me. I was sure that my aphasia was affecting not only my ways of perceiving the world, but also how I analyzed and reported on these perceptions.
This idea of linguistic relativity has always been a contentious one, sparking debates for years, across disciplines. It is sometimes referred to as the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis. Sapir and Whorf were linguists who conducted most of their research at the beginning of the twentieth century, although they never even coauthored a paper together, let alone a hypothesis. Still, both men believed in a strong interdependence between language and thought, and the statements put forth in Whorf’s book Language, Thought, and Reality were extremely bold. He wrote, “Language is not merely a reproducing instrument for voicing ideas but rather is itself the shaper of ideas.” He went on to suggest that language molded aspects of our personal experiences, but moreover, it also formed our very abilities to perceive those experiences. And these ideas enthralled generations to come.
This hypothesis in its purest form fell out of favor because, in spite of Whorf’s claims of doing “unbiased research” standing on “unimpeachable evidence,” current (and appropriate) criticisms of Whorf usually address his amateurism and cultural plundering.
However, Sapir and Whorf shaped the debate about the power of language in the mind, and their influence is still very much felt—with a lot of renewed interest in linguistic relativity—in more nuanced forms. But there is significant resistance to it from camps who are more invested in Universal Grammar, and hoping to understand the “language organ.” As Steven Pinker contends, “The idea that thought is the same thing as language is an example of . . . a conventional absurdity,” adding, “If thoughts depended on words, how could a new word ever be coined?” And this was part of the position Jonah was representing. Words were always symbols, never agents—they could only have a very limited scope in the thought process because they had no inherent powers of creation themselves.
At this point, I can see the virtues of all sides of this incredibly complex language debate, and my allegiances aren’t entirely fixed anymore. But at the time, language was still being rekindled in me, and I was resentful that Jonah was ignoring my unique authority on language relativity. I was the one with a linguistic disorder—what were his qualifications to prove me wrong?
Still, it’s hard not to wonder how radically different Jonah’s recollections of this exact same conversation might be.
We all know firsthand how our memories differ from person to person, even if we were side by side in the events being recalled. But we rarely think about the ways new experiences can actually affect our abilities to remember the old ones. Nonetheless, a memory changes every time we remember it. Or as Daniel Schacter writes in The Seven Sins of Memory, “It is difficult to separate . . . ‘the way we were’ from current appraisals of ‘the way we are.’ ”
There are so many frailties intrinsic to both language and memory, and how attached we become to our personal narratives. We tell ourselves that we are certain types of people. And to maintain consistency in our own recollections, and to avoid the pain of cognitive dissonance, we justify and accommodate our memories. We trim and exaggerate. And the vast majority of the time, we do all of this without even realizing it. In this way, it’s hard to imagine what is actually mutual in this life, and whether two different people can ever be on the same journey together.
• • •
The first vacation Jonah and I ever took was early in our relationship. We made an impromptu trip to upstate New York for a weekend so we could visit a sculpture garden called Storm King. We had no car and no place to stay. When we arrived, we discovered that almost all the hotels were closed for the season, and the same for the outdoor museum. But we were invigorated by that challenge. We convinced an owner of an officially “closed” bed and breakfast that we were newlyweds, so he let us stay that night. At Storm King, we snuck in, leaping over creeks and fallen trees, making it our personal playground. We kissed against the weathered iron, plunged our hands into each other’s jeans, keeping an eye out for the guard on patrol. Spontaneous, inventive, irreverent—this was us at our best.
Our next major adventure, however, was completely different. A year later, Jonah was admitted into a summer program in Amsterdam, a coveted a
nd competitive appointment among the acting students at NYU. Perhaps more well-known than the program’s prestige was the havoc it wreaked on relationships. These were young actors at the height of their physical peak, in sweltering weather, rehearsing in little to no clothing in a city where drugs were legalized . . . it wasn’t very conducive to fidelity. If one member of a couple went to Amsterdam while the other stayed behind, it usually meant the death of their romance. Very few couples remained unscathed after one of its members “went Dutch.”
Before our impending separation, Jonah made it clear he had no intention of letting our relationship dissolve this way. He made all sorts of overtures in the form of dates and gifts, and once, when I had left him alone at my house, he even slipped a note between my pillows, a prose poem of sorts—Lauren Marks. Marks, I you. You, I Marks. You Lauren, you Marks, love. Love I. I love. You love. I love you Lauren Marks.
After he left for Amsterdam, he continued to be clear about his persistent feelings. If he was tempted by the sensual nature of Amsterdam, he didn’t act on it. Instead, he incurred exorbitant fees calling me in New York a few times a week. He soon hatched the idea that I should meet him in Europe when his program finished. This wasn’t that easy. Jonah could still rely on his father’s financial contributions until his graduation, but I was spending the summer scrounging for babysitting and tutoring gigs. Luckily, being a performer in New York had taught me to live on the cheap. By combining our limited resources, including a gift of his father’s frequent flyer miles, we made the trip happen.
Our European sojourn started with a blissful reunion. In Switzerland and Italy, we stayed with some friends from NYU, sharing car rides and tiny hotel rooms, bohemian-style. But soon I was reminded how quickly the barometric pressure could change with Jonah. When a mood struck him, a sort of funnel cloud would form. No desire tempted, no words comforted. Everything and everyone was temporarily obliterated by the howling tempest whistling off his skin. It was a void that I could not bargain with.
In the picturesque villages of Cinque Terre, we wandered away from our friends for a few hours, walking the beach beneath a starless sky. Jonah started to bitterly complain. He had been waiting for me to join him in Europe, pining and planning, and for what? This was not at all the trip he had bargained for. I can’t remember if he directly accused me of being responsible for his current dissatisfaction, but my vulnerable mind started to spin it like that. Our problems, real and imaginary, were suddenly numbering in the thousands. And I felt hopelessly implicated in every single one.
I may or may not have voiced that sense of dread to Jonah, but I let the tears burn down my face, drying in the hot Mediterranean breeze. We had not reconciled when we returned to the cramped, single room we shared with that other couple. I had hoped his abject mood would lift the next morning, but he had stopped speaking to me entirely by the time we’d boarded the overnight train to Rome. As the sun rose the next morning, we were near the Colosseum and our suitcases were rattling over the broken cobblestones. Our plan had been no plan. What had been so charming and exciting in upstate New York felt desperate in Italy. I scoured the streets for any place to stop.
I dashed toward the first hotel that looked open. It was small and a little run-down, but being picky wasn’t an option. I handed over my credit card without even asking for the price. These mood swings in Jonah weren’t very common, and whenever they began at home, I would just go back to my own apartment, something I couldn’t do here. I thought if we could just lie down together, we could sleep it off and wake up refreshed and relaxed. In the room, I reached toward Jonah and tried to direct him to the bed. With a rough sweep, he just brushed my hand aside and headed toward the shower.
While he turned on the water, I took a bleak inventory. A bed. A bureau. A few hangers. What was I supposed to do in this room without him?
The unframed mirrors in the bedroom had a reflective trigonometry, making it possible to see into the bathroom mirrors without even facing them. Jonah had left the door open and I watched his shape distort through the shower’s dappled glass. He was a mass of intolerable blurriness. I resented Jonah’s indifference to me, then resented resenting it. Why had I ever agreed to this trip when there was clearly no escaping it?
Then? Out. Out was the only way.
There were locations in the world where I was still wanted, maybe even needed, and I had to return to a place where I felt necessary again. The practical considerations began to whir, though. It was a nonrefundable ticket—how would I pay to get back to New York?
But I muzzled the nagging doubt. I could handle a little credit card debt if I had to. And though it was going to be embarrassing to explain to BJ and Laura why I had to return so early, they wouldn’t make a bad situation worse. I zipped my suitcase and rolled it to the door.
And then Jonah stepped into the room in a towel, slippery as a newborn.
Was he feeling better? Or was it an illusion produced by the red heat rising from his skin?
What are you doing? Jonah asked.
I’m . . . I hesitated. I’m leaving, I said finally. I’m going home. I tightened my grip on my bag to show him I was serious—and to steady myself, too. Really don’t know what happened here or how I can change it, I continued. And I’m not saying it’s your fault, Jo. But I can’t stay with this . . . nothingness . . . between us.
Jonah stood exactly where he was. So I unlocked the door to let myself out.
Don’t, he said, so quietly I could hardly hear him. Don’t go.
I think I have to, I said. How can I stay with things like this?
Well, you shouldn’t have to leave. Still, he said, I can’t give you a good reason to stay, either.
This was our impasse. Neither one of us wanted to linger in despair, neither wanted a fight or an extravagant exit. There seemed no sensible course of action available, until my nervous fingers encountered a coin in my pocket.
Should we leave it to fate? I asked him, taking out the coin. Heads, I stay, tails, I leave.
There was a long pause from Jonah, while the water pooled on the wood floor where he was standing. Then he nodded.
When reason is exhausted, he said, there is only the unreasonable to explore.
I tossed the coin.
It glinted as it soared and twisted in the air on an unusually long flight, as if conscious of the weight of its own mediation. When it glided down to the bed, I released my grip on the suitcase and Jonah tightened his towel. Both of us stepped forward to read the verdict.
Heads.
With no hesitation at all, we clutched at each other, our bodies becoming a tangle on top of the fateful coin. We didn’t apologize because there was nothing and everything to forgive. The situation was beyond our reckoning, composed of aspects far beyond our own invention. It felt our union was being sanctified by luck itself.
Stay with me? he pleaded.
Stay, stay, he said. So I stayed.
19
It was February before I considered Justine’s idea that learning sign language might be helpful to my recovery. I hadn’t initially been able to follow her advice because my workload with her had been too demanding, but as soon as I thought I would be able to manage it, my mother found a course for me at the Greater Los Angeles Agency on Deafness (GLAD). It was even close enough to my parents’ house for me to drive myself to class.
The GLAD building was old Los Angeles chic—red tile roof, wrought-iron fire escapes, and an open, green courtyard. I arrived a bit early to find the front door unlocked. As I wandered through the hallways, the carpeted floor muffled my footsteps. But where was everyone? Had I come on the wrong day? I was still easily confused by dates and times. More self-conscious with every step, I tiptoed by the bathrooms and the drinking fountains, and when I spied a sign that read “cafeteria,” I followed it.
When I looked through the cafeteria window, I was surprised to see about thirty people and a party underway. They were milling around, pouring themselves coffee and s
natching donuts from open boxes. Their necks craned and their hands were animated in what appeared to be lively exchanges. The door between the action and me was thin, but I couldn’t hear any sounds from inside. It was as if I were peering from a porthole in a submarine, observing the animated life of the busy sea. I was mesmerized by so much conversation conducted so silently. I easily figured this wasn’t my class, but I knew I was in the right place.
The activity started to wind down, and others began to gather at the door with me. Then, our teacher, Sarahlena, a cute blonde with corkscrew curls and blue jeans, strolled past. She indicated that we should enter the room now. Two things became instantly clear to all of us: first, Sarahlena was deaf, and second, she could read lips extremely well. With students consisting of exclusively hearing people, this talent was incredibly useful.
The first day was full of fumbling. She passed around worksheets with the American Sign Language alphabet, instructing the class to try asking and answering questions while practicing their fingerspelling. She communicated by writing on the blackboard, though all of us struggled with her rule of not asking questions aloud, especially with her back turned. The protocol made perfect sense, but took a little getting used to.
What is your name? Sarahlena wrote on the board.
The students clumsily tried to sign their answers, but everyone had to consult their handouts. None of us knew the ASL alphabet yet, so our hands stuttered. Still, it was exciting to be in the company of other people who were so actively struggling with their words. In this unique environment, it was like all of us were suffering from the same language disorder.
For the second round of questions, Sarahlena wrote on the blackboard: What brought you to this class? Why do you want to learn ASL?