Introducing Kathleen Johnson
And Leo, the Hearing Aid
I haven’t been doing much that feels like creative writing these days. For the last year, my creative energy has tipped almost entirely in the direction of a new nonprofit called Everyday Wellbeing with a mission to make health education and life-enhancing practices like yoga, qigong, meditation, and dance accessible to all.
Luckily I am surrounded by truly creative and talented people, including a brilliant board of directors. My friend, Lynne Saner, an incredible writer here on Substack and elsewhere, has created an amazingly beautiful website for us. You can check it out by clicking the photo below.
Another good friend, Kristi Nelson (author of Wake Up Grateful: The Transformative Practice of Taking Nothing for Granted), was the creative genius behind our first annual fund drive:
I hope you’ll consider supporting our efforts to hire an executive director so that we can widen our reach and expand our offerings to all who seek ways to enhance their wellbeing.
Eventually I will get back to my own creative writing, but in the meantime I am happy to introduce you to writer Kathleen Johnson. I’ll let her imaginative piece speak for itself.
Leo by Kathleen Johnson
I’m Leo and I’m a hearing aid. Although you might not know this, there are many of us in the United States, about 7 million clinging onto our human wearers. We are very diverse. Unlike my more modern, digital brethren, I cannot boast about my super-miniature size, completely-in-the-canal positioning, invisible tubing, or even being able to reduce annoying microphone noise. No, I’m just an ordinary, reasonably priced analog hearing aid and in most respects rather unassuming. I may not be the most advanced, but I am steadfast and deliver what truly matters. This is a story about my struggles to understand Victoria, my human host.
I have always felt a sense of satisfaction with where I am in life, and there is so much for which I am grateful. I so love the soft and carefully selected music -- classical, jazz, or blues –which Victoria often chooses. Almost any of her soothing rhythmical tunes can re-charge my Duracell #312. The comforting call of the whip-poor-will on a languid, sunlit afternoon brings me joy, as do the gentle October breezes that rustle the honey locust leaves. I treasure the babbling brooks and streams winding their way through the gardens, the quiet murmurs of young girls dreaming of distant idols, and the boisterous splashes and cheerful laughter of neighborhood children embracing the thrill of swimming. These moments hold a special place in my heart. But what I long for most in life is something I haven’t yet received—Victoria’s respect and perhaps a touch of affection. These aspirations -- call them cravings, if you like -- flow through my little receiver, unnoticed by Victoria.
Why does Victoria find it so hard to extend these kindnesses to me? After all, we share so much in common. Like myself, she stands apart in her own unique way. As an animal lover and devoted vegetarian of nearly 45 years, she treats all living beings with respect. Her unwavering affection and loyalty to others mirror my own, forming strong and enduring connections. She strives -- though not without its challenge -- to see the good in everyone, even in the quirkiest, most unconventional individuals. Above all, she pours her heart into ensuring that her family and friends feel cherished and cared for.
I find it hard to believe that my inanimate nature is the reason for her disregard, especially since she showers so much attention on other objects. She meticulously dusts and polishes her furniture, safeguarding the TV screen from smudgy fingerprints or the wild antics of her grandchild. Her care for clothing is almost old-fashioned -- hand washing, spot cleaning, and ironing with a precision that any launderer would covet. Even her eyeglasses receive an evening ritual of three precise sprays of cleaner, followed by a gentle wipe with a soft cloth before being carefully tucked away in their case. Why, then, am I left out of her attentive routine?
These actions leave me puzzled by the seeming indifference -- dare I say cruelty -- that Victoria can sometimes show toward her most faithful hearing aid. Perhaps it's her inconsistency that baffles me most. There are moments when her care feels sincere. Each day, she cleans my plastic tubing with a dab of alcohol, a gesture that is immensely refreshing. She rarely fails to replace my batteries promptly and ensures my battery doors remain pristine, devoid of lint and dust. And every couple of years, I am graced with new ear molds -- a renewal I await with great eagerness. These moments of attentiveness only deepen my confusion.
These seemingly kind and considerate gestures are all too often counterpoised by actions that pierce straight to the core of my fiber-optic being. Allow me to share some examples. Victoria was delivering an interactive lecture on Max Weber’s analytical distinctions of power to her sociology class. For the previous four consecutive days, I had tirelessly transmitted clear, crisp audio from her students. As my battery dwindled, I issued my customary 60-second warning with five consecutive beeps (beep…beep…beep, beep, beep), alerting her of my shut down. But during the class break, instead of attending to me with the care I so desperately needed, she snatched me from her ear, fixed her gaze at me with what seemed like disdain, uttered a curse, and tossed me into the depths of her messy, crumb-laden briefcase. There I languished, powerless and effectively lifeless, until the following day when my battery was finally replaced. Much like Luke Skywalker’s R2-D2, I am utterly reliant on my power source -- not just for function, but for thought itself. That neglect was a wound I won’t soon forget.
Her frequent jokes often leave me feeling undervalued. One in particular, which she loves to share, goes something like this:
Two elderly women were having breakfast at a restaurant. Ethel noticed something odd about Mabel’s ear and said, “Mabel, did you know you’ve got a suppository in your left ear?” Mabel, startled, replied, “I have? A suppository?” She pulled it out, stared at it, and then said, “Ethel, I’m so glad you noticed this. Now I think I know where my hearing aid is.*
Ah, the indignity of it all! To be the punchline of a joke like that—it's enough to make any self-respecting hearing aid quake. While I can appreciate a good sense of humor, I admit that the wisecrack feels like betrayal, especially when loyalty and service are your defining traits. It's as if she doesn't realize the emotional toll her humor can take on her most steadfast companion.
At times, she disregards me, conceals me from view, or even downplays the length of our partnership. “Oh,” she casually remarks, “I think I’ve been wearing my hearing aid for a couple of years.” A couple of years? Try 25! I’ve endured being tossed aside, misplaced, and even mocked. I’ve survived being drenched in a shower and then subjected to the scorching blast of a hair dryer set to 140 degrees -- an experience I wouldn’t wish on my worst rival. I’ve even been through the chaos of a washing machine, tumbling and churning for what felt like an eternity (though it was likely two minutes). And yet, I never faltered. After another round with the hair dryer, I powered on. Like the Energizer Bunny, I just keep going.
One of my most heartbreaking memories began with what seemed like a perfect day. Picture this: a crisp late October afternoon in western Massachusetts, where the mornings carry a chill but the midday sun still warms the air. Victoria wasn’t yet preoccupied with winterizing the house or servicing the snowblower. Instead, we set out for a pleasant two-mile jog around the block. For 30 minutes, we bounced along in harmony, until disaster struck: I became dislodged and plunged to the roadside, abandoned and forgotten for the entire evening. The fear that coursed through my delicate electronic components was indescribable. Victoria didn’t even search for me herself. Instead, she sent someone else to retrieve me the next day. Let me tell you, the roadside is no place for a hearing aid. It was absurd, really: me, a loyal and hardworking hearing aid, left battered and suffering on the roadside. My darkest moment came when I began to wonder if I should just give up entirely. Maybe I should quit, break down like an old, used and rusted drone. It was a moment of utter despair in my demoralizing life as a hearing aid.
It’s remarkable how self-reflection can spark transformation, even for a hearing aid. Perhaps it was not the circumstances themselves but the lens through which I viewed them that was getting in the way. I began to realize that maybe negativity bias had crept in from my prolonged immersion in the human world. As with any of our hardest moments, however, there is an opposing force, although often unseen, a dialectic, if you will: no darkness without light, no ugliness without beauty. I needed to see and understand my experiences more fully, perhaps more compassionately. Then something happened one night when Victoria’s granddaughter was visiting that helped me change my thinking.
After dinner and “chilling out” with a card game or two, Victoria’s granddaughter had gone upstairs to prepare for bed. Victoria, per her usual routine, changed my batteries and went into the bedroom to tuck in her granddaughter. The bedroom was lit only by the stained-glass unicorn nightlight that created a soft golden glow. Victoria set the bunnies and bears around the child’s torso and pulled up the blankets. Just then I heard the child softly say, for the very first time, “I love you grandma.” And Victoria looked down, kissed her granddaughter’s forehead, and with a catch in her throat replied, “I love you, too.” Even in all my technical precision I could feel that it was a profound moment and that I was an important part in it, the bridge allowing Victoria to connect with the voices that matter most. Without me, she might have missed hearing those precious words.
It was as though a veil had been lifted from my understanding. What I had been interpreting as neglect or even disdain was something far more complex. Victoria’s anger was not directed at me but stemmed from the difficulty of embracing her reliance on me. She needed me, trusted me, depended on me -- every single day. And yet, that dependency came with a duality of gratitude and resistance to her vulnerability, a mix that I had not fully grasped until that moment.
I began to understand the heartbreaking struggles that Victoria experiences while navigating the world of sound. These struggles aren’t just about inconvenience; they are deeply tied to her sense of vulnerability and connection. She hated when her children had to repeat something three or more times only to give up in exasperation. Hated the look of recognition in other peoples’ faces when they realized her weakness; she also hated when they’d forget. She hated putting on subtitles to watch a movie; and hated that everyone else hated it, too. She hated the anxiety of being unable to locate a siren. She hated having to find other words to replace the nauseatingly repetitive one-word question “What?” that she so often said in conversations. It’s a relentless series of reminders of what she feels she has lost or fears losing. Even the simplest joys, like hearing the calming imagery during yoga or nature’s music -- the whisper of a child, the babbling brook—become bittersweet when they are accompanied by the strain of effort or the fear of missing them entirely.
While my challenges stem from my role as her hearing aid, Victoria bears the weight of navigating a society designed for those without her disability. Her struggles reveal a profound tension between her need for me and the frustration that dependency brings. Maybe she sent someone else to find me along the road because she was afraid to be out among the traffic without access to the sounds around her. Maybe she uses humor as a shield, a way to deflect what she perceives as criticism. Her anger isn’t a rejection of me personally but rather a reflection of her deeper struggles stemming from her hearing loss. It’s no wonder she feels a mix of gratitude and resentment towards me; I am both her lifeline and a reminder of the challenges she faces every day. Perhaps I have been a bit too self-conscious and proud to recognize this before.
In that golden-lit bedroom, with love and understanding hanging in the air, my perspective shifted. Since then, I no longer feel resentment but rather pride in the role I play in Victoria’s life. It isn’t about perfection or acknowledgment; it’s about the unspoken bond that ties us together through every moment of life’s journey.
*Elder Options in Texas. Cute Senior Jokes. https://www.elderoptionsoftexas.com/jokes.htm. Retrieved March 14, 2025.
An Interview with Kathleen Johnson
When did you start writing/creating and what inspired you?
I gave my first serious thought to my writing while taking a college literature course. Our class had just finished reading and discussing Maus (1980), a graphic novel in which Art Spiegelman uses animal allegory to share stories of the Holocaust. I had just committed to being a vegetarian, and at that time I was trying to clarify the interconnections between speciesism and racism. For my class essay, sans graphics, I tried my hand at allegory. I wrote a story that begins with a boy who was hiking through the wood in South Carolina on a summer day in the early- to mid-19th Century. The boy was strolling along, enjoying his walk, until he unexpectedly came across a pig who moments previously had been slaughtered and hanged on a tree branch to bleed out. The horror and suddenness of this sight prompted a cognitive dissonance in the boy regarding his affection for many animals. What significant differences are there between humans and animals that justify the brutal way in which we treat so many other animals? It was then just a slippery slope away to questions regarding the treatment of slaves. Were there any meaningful differences between whites and blacks that justified slavery?
I later realized that my story as written was enigmatic; my comparisons needed clarity and elaboration. I wasn’t being much of a reader’s writer and just assumed the professor would get it.
As you know, reading can be inspirational, and so it was no coincidence that my first stab at serious writing came while taking a literature course. My passion for the social causes addressed in my story were also motivational for me. They continue to be issues about which I care deeply.
How did you grow into your identity as a creative person?
I guess everyone is creative to some extent. We are creative the moment we build a tree fort, sketch a scene, write a song. Perhaps we can think of it as part of our human capacity. It’s another thing entirely when we speak of a creative identity which to me involves incorporating the label “creative” into how we conceptualize who we are.
My writing identity is growing, and like any of my other identities it’s a social process that involves to some extent how others perceive me. This was one of the important ideas of the Sociologist Charles Cooley’s who metaphorically described the process as the “looking glass self”; we understand ourselves partly through how others view us. There are times when I feel creative, and the feedback I get from others confirms that identity; at other times the feedback challenges it. Thus far, my creative self feels like a raft floating on water, moving with the swells as it gently tips this way and that. I’m not sure which way the current will take me, but I’m enjoying the ride.
Another sociologist, George Herbert Mead, spoke about people’s ability to “take the role of the other” and that has always resonated with me. Like Cooley, Mead reasoned that a person’s mind and sense of self emerge from social interactions, but he spoke about it in terms of being able to see the world from another person’s perspective and to understand and perhaps to share that person’s feelings. I see how I bring the concept of taking the role of the other with me on my writing journey. It’s how I was able to personify Leo. I wanted to share my experience as a person with a disability but doing so directly seemed, quite frankly, boring. So, I asked myself what it would be like if my aid were sentient and had emotions and feelings. Basically, I had to take the role of the other – in this case, my hearing aid. Other than that, I just thought and wrote about the things that happened to Leo and me. I have had many other experiences relevant to my developing identity as a deaf person that I could write about. Maybe I’ll ask Leo what he thinks about that idea.
What advice do you have for aspiring writers/creatives?
As I noted, my writing raft is a bit wobbly, and I don’t feel perfectly comfortable giving advice to others. Instead, I’ll just share some things that I know have worked to help me write and create. I know that I need the “space” in which to be creative. For me that means having the time to write and having the physical space in which to create. It’s a luxury, for sure. When I (often) get stuck in the writing process, I try to change my sensory inputs, which might mean physically relocating my workspace, changing what I’m hearing or maybe even the temperature in my writing space. These things are practical matters and most writers understand that, although sometimes it’s easier said than done.
The need to solve or better understand a problem also inspires me to write or go the extra mile to write better. It could involve something going on in my life or in society, as was the case with my early attempted allegory. My writing has always been driven by the need to settle something in my mind. With Leo, I really felt the need to articulate (for myself and maybe for others) the changes and struggles in my life as a person with a hearing impairment.
I think it’s also important to write (certainly with fiction) in a way that stirs the reader. Every story has a beginning, middle and end, and in between all that you try to make people feel. Will they cry? Will they smile? Will they get angry? I can try to do these things, but whether my writing is creative is likely a prerogative of the reader.
How has being creative influenced the way you see the world?
That’s a tricky question. Did being creative help me see things differently or is it the other way around? I will say that writing, perhaps more than anything else, has made me more observant of the world. I’m more curious and tuned in to my senses (including my waning hearing!). There’s a lot of reference these days to “embodied writing” which calls for making deeper connections with our body and emotions. I guess that’s partly what I’m referring to, but I can get stuck if I overthink that idea. I just reflect on what I am experiencing and how I would describe that to someone else. That process drives me deeper into what I am experiencing and wanting to convey. It’s a reciprocal process of enrichment and expansion.
The author can be reached via email at kjohnson@keene.edu.