Last Word

A blank page. I have so much to say.

Ever since I was a child, it was always my greatest desire in life to be heard. My mom tells this story often. Before I was born, she purchased a journal and promised to write every word her baby said in the journal. However, as soon as I began talking (which was quite young), she gave up on it. I just said way too much. Videos from my childhood show a young girl with lots of personality, always begging to see herself in the camera (“I see lana. I see lana.”), and always with something to say. Luckily for me, my parents loved to listen. Few are blessed with parents as amazing as mine—just last night, I called them, only to go on and talk for an hour about everything going on in my life, how overwhelmed I felt, the minute problems I had to solve each day. They listened. They always have. They never asked me to stop talking.

It wasn’t their fault I learned too young that nobody likes a woman who speaks. I don’t remember when I accepted this about myself, but I discovered early that I was (the dreaded) annoying. I would play back videos of myself, disgusted by the whiny tones of my voice and irritated that I talked so loudly. It’s still a knee jerk reaction for me to cringe at the thought of myself in middle and high school. Always yelling, it felt like—my shrill voice penetrating the minds of everyone in earshot. With my crazy, curly hair and my height that towered over the girls and the boys, I constantly fought the feeling that I wasn’t who I should be. I should be quieter. I should be smaller.

I can’t pinpoint who taught me these beliefs about myself, or where I picked them up. I can’t recall a comment from a classmate or an elementary school teacher. It was like I understood something secret about the world that no one wanted to admit. I was unexplainably, fundamentally, wrong. There was something wrong with me. I wasn’t what a woman should be, because a woman should be quiet and small. She shouldn’t take up space or speak unless spoken to. She should keep her opinions to herself.

I lived a life of constant conflict. Conflict about who I was, who I was supposed to be. Shame when I was too loud, shame when I wasn’t loud enough. It all came to a head my junior year of high school, in boarding academy, where I stood before a board of men and women who, politely, told me to shut up. They said sometimes, even when you’re treated unfairly, it’s better not to cause a fuss. Learn from your mistakes and grow, quietly. That is what smart and successful women like you should do.

Growing up, I loved reading. I was the kind of kid whose parents punished her by taking her books away. One of my favorite books was Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women,” a tale of four daughters and their different paths in life. I always wanted to be a Meg or an Amy (once she grew up). They were the picture of femininity: soft, quiet, pretty. Amy spent hours listening to Laurie, hoping for him, and being there for him. She wasn’t loud, rowdy, and opinionated like Jo. The truth is, though, I’ve always been a Jo March. I’m just not ashamed of it anymore.

I fell into a deep depression during my senior year of high school. I was quiet, sleepy. I went to class and stayed in my room during my free time. I avoided people, proclaiming that I hated everyone and just had to survive. I gave up trying to talk so much. It was exhausting. The shame I had carried around for years about being too loud lifted. After all, I wasn’t saying much of anything.

Ironically, I think 2020 saved my life. I was back home with my family overnight, and suddenly, I didn’t have to worry about talking too much. I had hours of time to catch up on my favorite shows, meet with my therapist, and do some deep introspection. I changed out my entire closet. I practically remade myself, shedding the trauma of the last few years and accepting myself as I was.

Now, I write a weekly column for the Student Movement. Students, professors, and coworkers read my words—words I’m not afraid to say anymore; opinions I can share openly and freely. I’ve learned how to distill my words into something more palatable. I’ve learned when to speak and when to be quiet. When to feel ashamed of speaking and when to speak through the shame. You see, each person’s words matter. Their stories, their opinions, their feelings. In Dr. Stacie Hatfield’s class “What is Other,” I learned about Gayatri Spivak's term subaltern. The subaltern describes a group of oppressed people, Other, minority, or disadvantaged, that are essentially unable to speak for themselves in the existing structures of power. Their stories are never told in the annals of history and their opinions are never heard in the here and now. Those missing stories are the pieces of the puzzle that allow our life experiences to be defined by those in power. The teachers at my high school told the stories, set the tone, and asked generation after generation of young women to keep quiet.

But that is only because they understand the truth: that the quieter you are, the less ripples you make, the more you follow blindly, and the less likely you are to be recorded as a person, with equal footing to those doing all the talking. I’ll admit, I’ve learned the value of shutting up. There is a time to speak and a time to be silent, and both help you be the best version of yourself. But I’ve learned never to let the shame and fear of how you will be perceived keep you quiet. Troublemakers have always been those to sway the tides of society.

These days, I speak and speak and speak until I can’t speak anymore. I speak to anyone who listens: my family, my coworkers, my friends, my partner. I don’t care about keeping quiet or taking up space. I was born with a voice and I will be using it.