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OPENING YOUR MOUTH CAN BE HARDER THAN YOU THINK

My mother’s calloused hands clenched my small fingers as we walked briskly to my elementary school every morning. Nothing but whispers of wind and her hushed voice spoiled my open-eyed slumber. Worry created deep-set lines around her downturned mouth; a lack of parental supervision for six full hours inspired her urgency to warn me of all the evil that could corrupt me if I allowed it. 

Every morning was a new demand: ‘do not talk to boys’ because I would grow up to commit ‘sinful acts,’ ‘do not talk about our life at home’ because I should not air our dirty laundry to the world, ‘do not talk too loud’ because I would draw unnecessary attention to myself, etc. She urged me to be conscious of what I said to others, not in terms of being sensitive to others’ experiences, but rather what she perceived to be the proper etiquette for a young Muslim girl going to school in the dangerous and influential America.

I was not blind to her fear, even at a young age. More so than her religious intentions, she knew Americans to be ruthless and impatient about English linguistic ability. Even with her best English—sentences she’d practice muttered repeatedly under her breath—too often was she shamed for her mismatched wording and her unwilling, though heavy accent. Having witnessed the maltreatment she so often endured because of her voice, I could easily see why she feared talking to strangers in this country. Despite not sharing her accent, I could subconsciously feel the truth of her dread when using her voice; I could not help but internalize it.  

For the first few years of my education, I resented being super shy. My throat would unnaturally clog when I had to introduce myself. When I stood up for presentations, I could barely choke out an apology before rushing back to my seat. I made a friend or two, but they never lasted. It was not very long before my lack of speech became a sort of production. The slight parting of my mouth would cause someone to cackle and point, “is she finally going to speak?!” Though hardly out of malicious intent, those jabs so often spiked my anxiety until it became a permanent feeling. My teachers would demand that I “speak up” and “participate more” at the risk of my grades. A mixture of 3s and 4s filled my report cards, but a stark, hostile “1” for participation stole my focus. This constant criticism fueled my desire to retreat; the more I was told to speak, the further I would withdraw until I was all swallows and shuffles away.

It became much uglier once I masochistically began to relish my damaging silence. All my words became wrong and unworthy. If I could barely bring myself to speak, and when I did talk, embarrass myself—what was the point? I felt a quiet relief in my silence; no opportunity to say something wrong or humiliate myself. I sought to please others by not being a bother—by not sharing my experiences or opinions even when I felt I had something to say. When I was made fun of, I would stay quiet and take it. I felt as though I deserved mockery and ridicule. Something was sadly satisfying about this verbal retreat; I could live a life, perhaps not full, and never leave an impression behind. 

This masochism could only last so long. Soon, I began to suffocate in my silence—wasting my life away. I was hindering my grabs at happiness because I let my anxiety, shyness, and fear of using my voice to stop me from doing things to be able to enjoy myself. I could not make friends; I could not present my assignments; I could not laugh out loud. Quite the silent and lone tragedy.

There was a sort of freedom to my desperate epiphany: I was holding myself back, and I could finally recognize it. Far from as simple as it sounds, I decided it was time for me to help myself. I would force my hand into the air, continue speaking even if my voice broke, maybe even allow the corner of my mouth to turn up, and possibly introduce myself to someone. 

Middle school was a fresh start for me. I no longer felt daunted by people knowing me as that shy kid—no longer was made fun of for it. I could be as loud or as mellow as I pleased as long as I did not fear my voice. I could find out who I was without being forced within the confines of my mind—a delightfully pleasant feeling. I found freedom in my stutters and my malapropisms. I found them amusing and a bit brave. My mother had silenced herself because of her verbal imperfections. It became too much for her to deal with because no matter how hard she tried, she was never “American” enough. I could no longer follow in her footsteps, but would never leave her behind. By my bravery, I hoped to inspire her and show that being different is nothing to apologize for. I made mistakes in my speech, but so what? At least, you know, I was speaking.

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