The Power of Voice--

For the past week while running, I have been listening to Ta-Nehisi Coates' new book Between the World and Me.  It's not an easy book to listen to; in fact, I have restarted it numerous times because I need to hear and hear again what the author is saying.  It is powerful and emotional. I love hearing the book in the author's own voice, but I also realize I need to see it, so I've ordered it.

On Thanksgiving I was running, listening to it yet again. I guess because his book is a letter to his 15 year old son, I started thinking about my own 15 year old. My mind then jumped to comments I hear from others about her--"she is so funny," "she is kind", and even the criticism, "Why do you let her say the things she does?"(Does anyone who knows her really think I can control her?) "Why do you think she's funny?" (Because she is)"Do you find her disrespectful?" (Sometimes)

Perhaps I have to restart books because my mind goes all over the place connecting dots that no one (read no sane person) would ever connect...

Anyway, I went back to thinking about the book and how Coates talks about "body"--owning your own body, the control of others when it come to your body--remember I haven't read/listened very far because I keep starting over so I know there's more.  But what I do know he says (because I looked it up on kindle sample while waiting for my hard copy) is, "You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body." (location 101 of 107) Coates is teaching his son from his experience of the world.

And suddenly I had the answer to all those questions about Caroline.  I knew why I "let" her say the things she says. While you could even say I encourage her. Memories I had long forgotten came flooding, and I do mean flooding into my mind. I was overcome with emotion and tears sprang up and began flowing down my face. I had to slow down as I started shaking.  It wasn't memories about my body or body image (although there are plenty of those that aren't pleasant either), but rather about my voice.

Being reared in the deep south in the 70's and 80's, I learned early on you don't talk about religion, politics or money.  Those weren't appropriate--(and now my vocation drives me to talk about all three!)  I was taught that nice girls don't curse and to never question anyone in authority.  These lessons were part of my upbringing; they weren't new to me; they had become part of my DNA. But other memories  came into my mind with techno color vividness and I was unwillingly transported back in time...

First I thought of a night one fall, when I was 9.  I can remember exactly where I was standing and what I was wearing.  It was dusk and we had yet to turn on the kitchen light. My mother was getting butter out of the refrigerator; I could see her profile by the light of the open refrigerator door, and I asked her, "Why does that song say 'Screw me until the sun comes up?'" (Okay someone else please tell me they also misunderstood Fleetwood Mac's lyrics in "Say you Love Me.") Anyway, she looked at me with shock, her eyelids fluttered as they did when she was beyond angry, and she said, "That is disgusting.  Don't you ever talk like that again. Do not be a dirty girl." And in that moment I learned not to ask questions and specifically not to ask questions about relationships or sex. I learned it wasn't safe.

Memory flash forward--7th grade.  I had written an essay.  I don't remember it entirely except for it was about a weeping willow and how the tree expressed emotion. I remember writing it at the round, white kitchen table and reading it to my Daddy. I remember it was somewhat vulnerable.

During my study hall I was taking a vocabulary quiz in the English teacher's room and I heard him say, "This is the best essay I have ever read by a 7th grader. I'm giving it an A +++"  He began reading; I kept my head down as I realized it was mine. Suddenly he stopped; I could feel the heat in my face. He crumbled it and threw it on the ground.  I barely lifted my head but I could see how red his face was as he said, "Sentence fragment = F." And in that moment I learned what I had to say was only important if I could say it with exact precision.  I learned mechanics matter more than thoughts. And I learned one mistake made you a failure. I
learned never to be vulnerable.

The final memory came in that same English class.  We had just taken a vocabulary quiz; as I turned to exchange papers to grade with a friend I said, "I'm not sure I got all the words right but I know I got the bonus." A week or so later I found myself with no friends (or so I thought).  I summoned the courage to ask one girl why everyone was mad at me.  I remember I was wearing a yellow button down and white knee socks that day, and we were standing in the stairwell of the odd building. To her credit she didn't lie. She said, "We think you're stuck up and brag too much." and she used the vocabulary quiz as an example. I was shocked. I hadn't meant for that to sound conceited; I thought I was just making a statement. And in that moment I learned to hide --I learned not to ever disclose intellect or knowledge.  Over time I learned to doubt my own intelligence.  I learned I could easily be misunderstood: I learned not to trust myself; I learned not to be authentic, I learned not to be myself--that it wasn't safe to be myself, that I would be misunderstood and it would cost me dearly.

I couldn't believe how vivid these memories were or how intense the emotions surrounding them. But I knew in an instant these memories and probably (absolutely) other experiences piled on over the years taught me not to use my voice, not to be myself, and not to trust I would be understood.  I thought about my CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) final project which was entitled, "Does that Make Sense?" because every time I spoke in group I would finish a thought with, "Does that Make Sense?"

I thought about many times in public I would be sharing a story, an experience only to be interrupted by my mother to correct details (no you were wearing a yellow shirt not a red), and I learned the details, the facts were more important than the experience.  I learned not to trust myself and my memory and not to share anything unless it was 100% factually accurate. It has taken me a long time and a lot of faith to learn the difference between fact and truth.

I have spent years reclaiming my voice; I'm better at it now, but I still have lots of fear and insecurity. I still get details wrong, and I still feel shame and humiliation when it's pointed out to me. I still worry I'll be misunderstood to the point I lose friends and colleagues--therapy helps, writing helps. But it's been hard and painful. So, I guess I let Caroline say the things she does because I don't want her to have the same struggle. I don't want her to lose her voice, to lose who she is.  Is she inappropriate at times? yes  Is she disrespectful at times" yes, but I believe life and maturity will help curb those impulses.  But losing one's voice, losing the power of one's voice, just like losing the power of one's body is far worse.


Disclaimers: 
Seventh grade girls, myself included, are mean and insecure. I suspect there was more to that story...

I in no way want to equate my experience with Coates'.  His book was the launching of my story, that is all. We all have stories...

I don't think any of these incidents were meant to be cruel. Makes me recognize the power of experience...