A Different LifeSilence came in seventh grade. It was in seventh grade that I began the first of six years at a private school.
In those six years I realized that it was not only I who had lost their voice; I was one among many who were denied the opportunity to speak. I distinctly remember the first time they betrayed me and informed me that my voice was invalid. A close friend of mine from elementary school wanted to attend and I was telling others about him- telling them how neat he was. The three people whom I had felt I could trust- the headmaster, academic dean, and dean of students- cornered me and attacked me for things that I had supposedly said. They did not believe me when I pleaded my case, saying, “He is my friend.
Why would I say such horrible things?” They three looked at each other, stuck their noses in the air and simply explained that it sounded like the kind of thing I would do. They did not know me. They had accepted a rumor as truth. They attacked me and disregarded my testimony. Unfortunately, this moment was merely the beginning of the silencing.
It continued until the day I graduated. They condemned me for being curious and outspoken and lively. They shut me down for every brilliant idea I proposed, telling me that it was against the rules. I lived, quite literally, in this silence.
I could not win by being myself, so I engulfed myself in obtaining their approval through silence and obedience. And I remember exactly what he said to me when I left. On June 4, 1999 my headmaster said to me, “Saint James has really changed you. You’ve really calmed down a lot. You’ve become a real lady. ” I finally gained his approval, but at what cost? Even then, when I was leaving, I could not find the voice to scream at him and tell him how deeply he had hurt me.
I did not have the voice to tell him about all the pain he had brought me. I did not have the voice to tell him that I would have forfeited all of the “ladiness” I had gained over six years if I could have my voice back. Saint James taught me to bottle my emotions, because whenever I was open with them I would get in trouble. Adults of thirty-five condemned me for being thirteen and having questions. They not only condemned me for having questions, but they condemned me for being angry and hurt and sorrowful and confused. They didn’t help me deal with or process my emotions; they taught me that it was better to conceal my emotions, because then I wouldn’t get in trouble for having them.
So, conceal them I did. I shoved them back into the recesses of my mind and heart and would tell myself to keep going. I would tell myself not to cry. I would tell myself that if I cried, they would ask what was wrong and then I would get in trouble for being honest and angry. I didn’t want them to see how deeply they were hurting me. I did not want their pity.
And so it slowly became that every emotion- wonderful and bad alike- got caught in my throat. I slowly stopped crying when I was upset. I locked myself in my room and yelled at them in my mind when I was angry. And when I fell in love for the first time, I couldn’t even tell him that I loved him. I lost all ability to vocalize my emotions.
I lost my voice as a person first, a woman second. I was silenced for being the person I was before I was ever told that “ladies” didn’t act that way. No one had ever informed me that I was the wrong type of lady. No woman or man I had known before seventh grade had ever told me that being “me” was wrong. “Ladies” didn’t speak out.
“Ladies” didn’t express their anger. “Ladies” were quiet and flowery and gentle. The boys were allowed to be crude and raucous and
