The first time I Found My Voice was when I was in high school. Having grown up in a verbally and emotionally abusive household, my opinions were not valued. My thoughts were not valued. My voice was shut out. I remember being frequently frustrated to the point of tears, thinking ‘This isn’t right! My opinion counts. What I have to say matters.‘ But, it didn’t.
As I got older, 16ish, I started to imagine more and more frequently what it would be like to be heard. What it would be like to stand up to my father, share what was in my mind and in my heart, and not crumble, not end up in tears. To share a thought on a particular subject and, when my father tried to shut me down, I would stand tall right in front of him, eyes wide and dry, heart and breathing calm and say ‘This is my opinion. It can’t be wrong. It’s just how I feel about something. I have a right to my opinion.’
In my house, even if you were discussing light switches, traffic, or your favorite color, somehow you were always wrong. You would be told you shouldn’t feel that way, didn’t have the right of it, didn’t know what you were talking about. I remember once at dinner time, a most volatile and unhappy of places, making a passing comment about lunch time at school. That was always the trap for me. I would think I was talking about something so innocuous, so removed from ‘rights and wrongs’, ‘do’s and don’t’s’ that I would think that I was safe, the subject was safe. Much like a land mine, the sad fact is there were no safe subjects in my house. Any topic could be a hazard, any could lead down the path to shouting, accusations, berating and tears.
This particular dastardly dinner hour, I started talking about club meetings in my school during the lunch hour. I don’t remember the exact point of the conversation but the place I got tripped up was when I told my father that the entire school had lunch at the same time. It was called Unit Lunch. Now, it’s important to note that I attended a school of close to 2000 students, a relatively large school at the time. It was an innovative school of the ’70’s that tried all kinds of creative things. The concept of the Unit Lunch was that clubs could meet during lunch and not interfere with after school sports. We had lunch just about anywhere; the halls, the classrooms, the gym...anywhere. We had an abundance of clubs. Kids could find their niche, their group and eat together, with a teacher/advisor for lunch. It really was great.
Where could I go wrong. First of all, it was My school, a place I sometimes spent as much as 9 hours a day, 5 days a week. Second, I was making a side note, an off-handed remark about a club meeting space...not even the club! Again, My school. My club.
My father proceeded to tell me that I was ridiculous to think that the entire school had lunch at the same time. There was no way this was possible. There had to be kids in classes during my lunch time. I just wasn’t aware of it. But, they were definitely there.
Taken aback, I defended my position. I’d been going to that school for 3 years. I’m pretty sure I would know if classes were being held. I’d have to be quiet, I explained, parts of the building would be closed off. I knew this to be true. There were no classes at lunch.
As an adult I now understand this tactic was where I always made my mistake. The more I protested the angrier my father always got. But, to my very logical brain it just didn’t make sense. I always thought, 'if I just explain logically he'll listen. He'll understand.' After all, in this instance, I was positive what was taking place in my own school? He’d rarely even been there! Of course, as always, he ended up yelling. I ended up in tears.
The next day I went to the school principal and asked him to write a letter to my father stating that the entire school had lunch at the same time. At dinner that night, stomach in my throat, I handed the letter to my father, all folded and neat, like an official document. I looked him in the eye when I gave it to him. I didn’t need to say anything. There wasn’t anything to be said. I knew what I knew, and I needed him to know it as well.
He didn’t say anything, acknowledging that he was wrong was never his strong suit. But, I didn’t need to hear it. Surprisingly, he also didn’t yell.
That was the first glimpse I had of how it felt to hold my own against him. It was terrifying. He was loud and intense, and he scared me when he was angry. But, the power I felt standing up to him was heady stuff. It gave me the strength I needed to begin to forge my way out, to push back, to strive to be heard.
I was always a scrappy thing. Small in stature, big in beliefs and purpose. I know I challenged my father’s authority more than any of my other siblings, because I pushed back. I know the power I gained from this interaction was the beginning of the long road to liberation. It started with one small act, taking a stand about an insignificant incident. But, it had to start somewhere. You reap the reward of your courage, even if that is all that comes of the situation, knowing you were courageous enough to look fear in the eye and say ‘You can’t have me. I won’t fold.‘ Many times, that’s all you get out of standing up to your oppressor, the knowledge that you did it. And, the knowledge that you can find the courage to do it again.
Do you have a story about holding your ground, finding the courage to face your oppressor. Please share, as others will gain insight an courage from your story. And, we can applaud your efforts in liberation.
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