5. Emerson
FIVE
EMERSON
People often ask me if it’s difficult navigating the world with my hearing loss, and I always have to tell them, “I don’t know.
” The truth is, I have nothing to compare it to.
Thanks to a car accident, I lost a significant chunk of my hearing in my right ear when I was twelve, and I don’t really remember what it was like before then.
I wasn’t navigating cities or getting around on my own at that age, so it’s not like I can look back and say, “Oh, it was easier then.”
I have to ask people to face me when they’re talking, or I’ll need to lean in awkwardly with my left ear at times. I’ve found ways to deal.
Is it harder for me out there? I can’t say. Isn’t it harder for everyone?
I try not to think about it, but being in New York City I’ve realized that, yeah, maybe it is more difficult.
There’s just something about all the chaos—the hustle and bustle—that makes it harder to keep up sometimes.
I walk through crowds of people to catch the train, elbowing my way past them to find a seat.
Once I’m on the subway, I have to watch the stations closely because the announcements are so garbled that it’s nearly impossible to understand them.
But somehow, I always manage to make it to where I’m going.
New Yorkers have a reputation for being rude, but I’m finding they can be surprisingly friendly when you least expect it. This morning, a woman notices me looking confused on the platform and helps me figure out which stop is mine. Small kindnesses go a long way.
Eventually, I make my way to the University of New York campus, an ivy-encrusted intellectual oasis in the middle of the city.
I walk through an arch into a quad surrounded by grand old buildings with columns named after very wealthy people, coming to Beresford Hall, a red brick building that houses the music theory and history departments.
The trickiest part of my journey, though, isn’t the crowded subway or noise.
It’s the intercom system at the entrance of this academic building.
The voice on the other end comes out so jumbled I can’t make out a single word.
It takes a bit of back and forth before the security guard figures out I’m allowed inside.
Once I finally make it to the department, I smile at the secretary. “You must be Professor Grant. Or rather, Dr. Grant,” she says, eyeing me curiously.
“Yes, but please call me Emerson.”
Before I can even look for my office, Sheena comes galloping down the hall and throws her arms around me.
The sight of her, familiar and smiling, fills my chest with warmth.
Even though I’m nearly twice her size, the force of her hug rocks me back a step.
Sheena has always given the best hugs—tight, genuine, like she means it—and today is no different.
I linger in her arms for a moment longer than usual, overwhelmed with gratitude that she’s here .
“You made it!” She brushes her bangs out of her eyes.
It may be August, but Sheena’s reliably wrapped herself in a shawl.
A baggie of nuts and dried fruit hang from her fist, and an assortment of bracelets spelling out different causes line her right wrist. She grew up outside of San Francisco but got her doctorate with me at the University of Illinois.
A time she fondly refers to as her “Crash Course in Winter” because after a few years, she learned that “cold” in the Midwest means something entirely different than it does in California.
“I did. I’m finally here. With you. No parallel fifths …”
“In Prague!” She finishes our inside joke from grad school and plants a kiss on my cheek. “How was your trip in?”
“It was fine,” I say, grasping her elbows. “How are Cindy and the kids?”
“Oh, the same. The boys are in high school now. Aiden’s a sophomore and Lucas a senior. We’ll be touring college campuses soon. And they’re eating us out of house and home.”
Before I can ask about their latest escapades, she cuts me off with a grin. “And the place you sublet worked out okay?”
“Well, about that. I’ve stumbled upon a bit of apartment drama.”
She laughs. “Welcome to New York,” she says.
I chuckle and decide not to bore her with the details right now.
She leads me into her small, cozy space, nestled in a row of faculty offices. I survey the organized mess, wondering how I’ll fit in here for the semester. Her hanging plant is longer than Rapunzel’s braid.
“Nice,” I say.
“Don’t worry. Your office is much neater. Hugo cleaned everything out before he took off for his sabbatical.”
We both take a seat.
“Don’t be nervous.” She leans over, extending her hand, and I take it. “Besides packing up his belongings, Hugo left a syllabus. Of course, modify it as you see fit.” She dips her chin. “You’re going to fit in wonderfully, Emerson. I promise.”
Sheena scoped me out during our graduate program’s orientation, homing in on me like a mama bear. I didn’t realize how much I needed taking care of until she helped me navigate the interpersonal intricacies of academia.
“Nervous is a perfectly normal feeling. It’s a natural physiological response to a new environment.
” I keep my leg from shaking. It’s one thing to admit nerves, but you don’t want to show it.
Just because I got a chance to teach at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country doesn’t mean I’m immediately crapping my pants. Yet.
“You’re an amazing professor.” She squeezes my hand then sits back, adjusting her wrap. “Try to relax. These are mostly eager twentysomethings. Take deep breaths. Try to relate, and remember they’re here to learn from the best.” She winks. “That’s you.”
Sheena stands and moves toward the door. The windowsill in her office is lined with plants—so many plants, it’s like a mini-jungle oasis. I’ve always been slightly envious of her green thumb. And the way her warmth and ease at connecting with people has helped her teaching career take off.
“You’ll do great. The students are going to love you. I’ve garnered a wonderful music department here. Everyone will step up to help you.” Sheena peeks out the door. “Unfortunately, my colleagues aren’t in today, but Will is here.”
She drags us into the hall, and we walk to another office, this one stuffed with multiple desks. “This is the office for all the department TAs,” she says.
She gestures to a young Asian guy with floppy hair and thick glasses. A Mostly Mozart T-shirt hangs on his lanky body. He’s two parts academic, one part college bro. He gets up from his desk and shakes my hand .
“Hi, Dr. Grant. Nice to meet you,” he yells.
“You don’t have to yell,” I say.
“I’m sorry! I thought … never mind.”
“I can hear you just fine,” I reassure him, trying to brush it off. Most people are cool with it once they realize. My goal is to just act like whatever’s assisting my ear isn’t there at all.
Brahms softly plays from Will’s computer. “Is that Brahms?” I ask.
“It is,” he responds, clearly pleased.
“You can turn it up.”
I lean against the towering floor-to-ceiling bookshelf crammed with books. The kind of bookcase I love, overstuffed and charming. I breathe in the scent of paper and ink, listening to the music, and in that moment, I’ve never felt more at home.
“I loved your paper on the development of symphonic form,” Will says.
“Especially when you go into Beethoven’s role in transforming the symphony from classical restraint to emotional expression.
” His statement is two parts flattering bullshit and one part genuine. “I’d love to discuss it with you more.”
“Sounds good. We can do that,” I say.
“Will, you take good care of this guy.” Sheena reaches up to wrap her arm around my shoulder. She’s practically on her tiptoes. “We go way back.”
“Grad school wasn’t that long ago,” I say.
“Professor Grant.” She cocks her head. “It’s been almost fifteen years.”
Sometimes I forget how long we’ve known each other, how much her career has flourished, and how stuck mine still feels. This really is a big break for me.
“Oh. Yeah. I guess we are …”
“Old?” Will says.
“Watch it,” Sheena snaps, though a smile tugs at her lips. “Dr. Grant is your new advising professor, and I’m still the head of this department.”
“Only teasing.” Will’s eyes glance down. “Nothing but respect for you both.”
“Now, most of the students in your class are great, but there are a few … shitheads,” Sheena warns, with a smirk that Will matches.
I laugh. “I’m sure I can handle them.” But my stomach churns as the words leave my mouth.
The truth is, I’m not so sure. I’ve always struggled to connect with people, including my students.
It’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and everyone else, something I can’t seem to break through no matter how hard I try.
I’m not good at small talk or at making others comfortable around me.
I’m better with ideas than with faces, better in front of a lecture hall than one-on-one.
The thought of being the approachable, relatable professor they all expect me to be feels like a role I’m never quite able to play convincingly. But I can’t let Sheena—or myself—down.
Sheena gives me a quick tour of the office, introduces me to a few other people, and then, most importantly, shows me the break room and the bathroom.
Nerves creep in. My first class is tomorrow.
I hope I get a good night’s sleep tonight—there’s been so much drama in my new apartment, and I really don’t need any more distractions.
Hopefully, the situation is rectified today.
“Thank you again for getting me in here,” I say.
“We look out for each other.” She pats my back, and my nerves settle a little.
We return to her office, and she checks the hallway and shuts the door. “I have to tell you something.”
I raise an eyebrow as she continues. “The university just got a really nice donation to endow a new music professor position. They’ll be interviewing in a few weeks.”