My Voices

The voice I write with and the voice I speak with are very separate entities. As a child I was never afraid to speak. My mother says that I spoke clearly from the moment I began with my first word, ‘uh oh’(Not really a word, but it's all I've been given). I can sense her pride (in herself) when she tells me how well I spoke at a young age. She claims it was because she refused to use ‘baby talk’ when speaking to me. I have to say I appreciate the hell out of that. Growing up I never felt like I was being talked down to, not in tone at least. 

I was an overly curious child, listening in on every adult conversation I could, and always voiced my opinion and thoughts, never afraid of being wrong, rude, or out of place. Which I often was. This is the little girl who asked the Reverend if she could get him a beer when he came over to discuss my baby sister's baptism. And told her mother she was going to 'kick her ass' for a reason no one can remember. Sure it was verbatim of the talk I would hear at Grandmas, but I still had the guts to say it, and so it was the day I learned what dish soap tastes like. 

It wasn't just the words I said, but also the volume that got me into trouble. I'd been told a million times to use my indoor voice, and that day at lunch in first grade was no different. I was the line leader that day, it was also my birthday and a large yellow crown of paper sat on my head. I was in a great mood and unfortunately the lunch ladies never were. I chatted with David, the poor sap who sat across from me. Once Ms. M came over to hush us, and then twice when my frantic energy hadn't simmered. At this point in lunch she had already given the entire cafeteria a yellow card, one color away from silence for the rest of the time there. The third time she came over was the last, I put up a fight, pointing to what I though was a clear sign of exemption from punishment on my head. But no, me and my loud mouth were dragged to the principal's office, and I tucked my crown underneath the office chair, embarrassment reddening my cheeks.

As an adult I still speak unwarrantedly, a rebuttal always waiting on my lips. My mother still encourages me to 'just take the LSTAT's for fun!!' convinced my one true calling is to be a lawyer. I loathe the idea. So I have a quick wit, sue me. Doesn't mean I'll make it in a court room with stuffy men and a gavel banging judge. If anything I'd be the judge, making the final decisions and speaking the least (Don't tell my mother this is highly hypothetical). I'm much to blunt and sarcastic and I've been told I speak in a monotone, especially when disinterested or annoyed. I honestly hate my voice. I want to die when I hear it recorded and I try not to think about the fact that everyone I know has to listen to it. 

The voice I do like it my writing voice. It needs tweaking and sometimes I can't always get my words to flow, but it's where I'm comfortable. I can't trip over my words and I have a delete button when I misspeak. There's so much pressure in speaking because once it's said you can't take it back. Writing is different. Secret are kept between you and the ink, the paper is delighted to receive your words and doesn't judge. Somewhere along the line I lost confidence in my speaking voice. I no longer trust the things it comes up with to say, over-excitement, anxiety, drinking, causes the words to spill and never stop spilling. I try to catch them with paper and ink, reassemble them into poetry and prose, bind them in notebooks; this is my craft and no one can tell me to hush here.