thoughts on silence
Audre Lorde scared me this morning. Her essay shook me to my senses.
What is the point of staying silent, when I have so much to say? This is a disservice to myself, and to the world. She was right about what’s holding me back: fear of criticism, or worse, recognition. After four months of not being on social media, I’ve gotten used to not having to share my opinions and thoughts with thousands of people every day. And it is such a huge relief. Back in December, I didn’t realize how much I would relish anonymity, and the un-accountability that comes with not letting my thoughts and feelings be heard by strangers.
And so much of this is good. I am now able to truly exist in the present moment with no thought of how I will post about it. My mind is never on pictures but only on what is before me. I have a lot more time to be with myself and people I care about, my shoulders are not in a perpetual knot, I don’t feel beholden to digital devices, and never get sucked into a 5 hour rabbit hole of watching tiktok videos. It’s safe to say that digital minimalism has overwhelmingly improved my life, and at this point I can’t even remember how it is that I used to function before I read that book.
But now that I feel pretty securely settled into being a digital minimalist (though far from perfect), it is time to address what to do with the gift that I’ve been given. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer talks about each of us being given a unique, irreplaceable gift that we can share with the world and with others. I have been given the ability to write, to speak and express myself, and most strangely: the gift of many people who want to hear what I have to say. Why or how I was given this gift is still a mystery to me, but I no longer want to shirk the responsibility that comes with it.
I do have a lot to say. About shaved heads. Queerness. Conversations with ninth graders about police brutality and racism over Zoom. The lemon tree outside of my new apartment. The girl who kissed me in an empty field yesterday surrounded by tiny frogs and stacks of our favorite books. Body politics and weight stigma. The wisdom of rabbis, now and back then. Solitude. Grieving. Healing. God. I have so much to learn, but I have also learned so much. And I’m keeping it within my own mind and my own journal, holding what should be shared wisdom as secrets close to my heart. This silence is a luxury, but it is born out of fear.
Because often these days, my brain works against me. Why should I, of all people, be one to speak? What authority do I have to say anything about this world? I did not think this way before college, In high school I was brave and made up stories all the time, I could write a ten page essay about the sound of a microwave. But over the years I have begun to understand how little I truly know, and that makes me afraid to write anything definitive about anything. Because what if someone disagrees? What if what I say is completely un-relatable? Or worse, what if it’s so universal it becomes cliche? And the article — the article that got published and everyone freaked out about it — has paralyzed me. My imposter syndrome tells me it was a fluke. I can’t remember how I was able to write it so quickly, how it came out so well and I can’t imagine I could do something like that again. That is silly. And I hate when my brilliant, accomplished friends experience imposter syndrome, but for some reason it’s far more difficult to talk myself out of it.
And what if what we write isn’t perfect? And what if our words don’t immediately change the world and solve every crises and blow everyone’s mind? And what if some people *gasp* disagree with what we say? Maybe these fears are used to contain us. Instead of being controlled by the outside, we hold ourselves back, control ourselves. But I think that every voice, every perspective, in and of itself, is valuable. And that means that I must believe mine is too.
In Untamed, Glennon Doyle returns again and again to the concept of self-abandonment. Women are conditioned to abandon ourselves, to put everyone else’s needs before our own. I am always eager to abandon myself. To put aside alone time to solve others’ problems, to lose myself in the lives of those around me. I schedule time to write, or sing, or think, and then toss it to the wind as soon as there’s a chance to focus my attention on someone else. This is the way I avoid sitting with my thoughts and feelings, because what could be more admirable than giving my time to others? Glennon points out that the highest praise a woman can get in our society is: “she is so selfless”. The highest praise you can get as a woman is that you have completely abandoned yourself. I don’t want to abandon myself anymore.
Lorde talks about the pain of staying silent. Her daughter describes it as the “‘little piece inside you that wants to be spoken out, and if you keep ignoring it, it gets madder and madder and hotter and hotter, and if you don’t speak it out one day it will just up and punch you in the mouth from the inside,’” (Transformation of Silence). I feel this maddening, this heating up inside, but I often push it down and numb it. There are so many ways to ignore this bubbling feeling that urges us to express our truths. And these methods are easy, soothing, in the moment, but ultimately I don’t think anything can get rid of the little piece inside us that wants to be heard. That knows we have something to say, to create, to express.
Lorde writes: “That visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which is also the source of our greatest strength”. This is so striking to me: that vulnerability is connected to strength. What are we holding inside, what do we mask and cover up, simply because we don’t want to be vulnerable?
I don’t know what to write at this moment, or how. But I have a hunch that many of us stay quiet, keeping stories in our hearts and throats, because of fear of being seen, or being imperfect, or being scrutinized, or judged. But I think I would rather say things that are judged and hated than not say anything at all. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
