I. Third grade
I’m sitting at my desk as the teacher hands out end-of-the-year awards. Most likely to excel, class clown, teacher’s helper, perfect attendance, math whiz, etc. have all come and gone.
And then I hear her say, “And the Miss Chatty Cathy Award goes to…Dani.” My cheeks immediately burn. My throat tightens. Everything slows. Tension spreads until my shoulders feel heavy, my hands feel like immovable iron, and my chest constricts. Breathing becomes difficult.
Then the laughter of my classmates cuts through. Time resumes. I force myself to breathe.
I walk up to the front of the class to the soundtrack of giggles and whispers. My cheeks are still flushed, to the point of being painful. I take another deep breath and smile.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing the smile to grow bigger and lighter, and then sit down.
“What award did you get?” my mom asks as I get into the car at the end of the day. I pass it to her silently, not saying a word.
II. Fourth Grade
It’s the end of the soccer season, and once again awards are being handed out. Each of us has received a bundle to unwrap to discover what award the team mom has given us. Most committed. Over-achiever. Team player. And then it’s finally my turn. I pull the string off the package and excitedly tear open the package and discover a package of red cinnamon Altoids.
I hear laughter. Confusion sets in. Why would I get mints? What joke am I missing?
“Maybe the burn of the cinnamon will help keep you quiet,” the team mom says.
Everything stills. Ah! I get it now. I’m the joke.
I feel the familiar burning of my cheeks, the tightening of my shoulders, the spreading tension, and the difficulty in finding my breath.
The soundtrack of giggles and whispers plays louder and louder.
I breathe. I force my head up. I smile as big as I can.
“Miss Chatty Cathy Award,” I hear.
“Thank you,” I say with as big of a smile as I can muster. This will be the last time I get this award, I vow.
III. Seventh Grade
“I bet you never win the silent game, Dani,” she says.
My shoulders tighten. This is a track I know well. “Why?” I ask anyway.
“Because you talk too much.”
And right then I’m committed, and the rules of the game are set. Unless a teacher calls on me, I won’t say a word at school. Not one. My friends bet I won’t make it more than an hour.
One day goes by. “Okay, Dani, we get it. You’ve won.”
Two days go by. For some reason, I feel the need to keep this going. To punish them somehow.
Three days go by. Maybe, it’s better if you’re silent after all, I think.
Four days in. “Come on, it’s been long enough.”
I inhale and exhale deeply. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I say with a levity I don’t really feel. But I hear the echo still. Maybe it’s better if you’re silent after all.
IV. Eighth grade
I receive a note. The words blur, but one thought is clear. Nobody wants to hear from you. Nobody cares what you have to say.
Maybe, they’re right, I think. People have been telling me as much for years after all. Maybe it’s time to give them what they want. That thought plays in a never-ending loop.
V. Sophomore Year College
The teacher calls my name and asks me to chime in. I do so reluctantly. I’m met with snickers. Then disbelief. Then anger. They don’t agree with what I said. They don’t like it.
I stare at the woman next to me. Both of us try to speak. And then a man next to us points and starts whispering to his friend next to him. We catch enough to know we are being told to shut up. Nobody wants to hear you. The old, familiar reprise continues to play.
I hear the men’s voices grow louder and louder drowning out what I said, what she said. The anger grows more palpable with each comment.
She raises her hand. She isn’t called on. She lowers her hand. She meets my gaze. She lowers her head and stares at her desk. I sink lower in my seat.
Nobody wants to hear us.
VI. Italy
“We’ve heard too much from you,” she tells me. Nobody wants to hear you.
VII. Summer First Year Law School
This is what I want you to say. This is how I want you to talk. I don’t like when you say things like that, he says.
I’ve heard that before, I think.
He’s confident I’ll say only what he wants me to, when he wants me to, and how he wants me to. I want to tell him that he’s wrong. I want to tell him my voice matters; only to realize I’ve long since stopped believing that it does.
VII. Summer First Year Law School
You are nothing. You are too much. Nobody wants to hear from you. Nothing you say matters. Nobody. Wants. To. Hear. From. You. It’s the harmony of different voices and different people over the years crystalizing into one overwhelming crescendo.
Stop! My internal scream leaves everything silent. My own thoughts deaden. The crescendo abruptly halts.
I matter. My voice matters. It’s barely a whisper, almost subaudible. But I latch onto it anyway.
I matter. My voice matters. And for the first time in years, I wonder if that small whisper might contain more truth than the deafening crescendo of voices.
VIII. Second Year of Law School
I speak quietly and carefully. I speak with a faltering voice. I speak in bits and pieces. I echo words I don’t believe, but I speak. It’s unnerving, but I force myself to speak anyway. I don’t always get it right. I get a lot wrong, but I speak.
IX. Third Year of Law School and Dilley, Texas
I don’t like how you speak. I don’t like what you’re saying. You’re not speaking how I want you to speak. It’s challenging. It’s threatening. It’s too much. Stop speaking, he says.
If you don’t like how I speak, then you don’t have to listen, I think.
X. Now
I speak. And some don’t like it.
I speak. And some say it’s too much.
I speak. And some ask me to speak differently.
I speak anyway.
Photo courtesy of Kristina Flour on Unsplash
Note: I wouldn’t quite call this a final draft as it’s more of a work in progress, but I thought I’d share it here regardless.
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