Lost-Found-Lost

I found and lost my voice this week. I found it while gassing up my car at the slowest pump ever. When I saw another car pull up at the pump across from mine, I didn’t think much of it. I noticed a man get out of the car, but I still didn’t think much of it. I had lots of thoughts however when I saw that man approach me. He made eye contact with me, which I tried to avoid so I returned his look with my best “I’m unapproachable” look; the one I often employed on public transit. He ignored it and continued to approach me, which made me nervous because M was in the car.

He did indeed approach me, getting way too close to me, reeking of alcohol, and staring at my breasts. What scared me was he used his body to trap me between my car and the gas pump limiting my exit options to getting showered in gasoline or fighting my way out. He also made me incredibly angry. How dare he assume he has the right to get intimately close to me without my consent? How dare he think he can get what he wants by physical intimidation? Without telegraphing too much, I maneuvered my keys between my fingers because I’m a mama bear.

He thrusts an object into my face, offering to sell it to me. Barely comprehending the words let alone the object I assume he’s selling for more alcohol because he reeks of it, I respond from somewhere deep in my body with a clear ‘no, thank you’. I did not speak loudly, but there was a force behind it that felt like it was packed with every fiber of my being. I surprised myself, but his reaction was just as interesting: he backed up, putting his hands up a bit and walking off without a word. I watched him as he repeated this dance with all the other patrons at the gas station. All the others were white men like him so it didn’t seem threatening as it did with me, just awkward.

I lost my voice the following day or rather it was taken from me, at the #writeourdemocracy event in Lubbock. My essay “Detangling” was chosen to be read aloud, one of the proud few. I was elated when I received the news, but my elation deflated as I learned that someone else was going to read my essay. I understood. On one hand, this saves someone the trouble of speaking in public if it’s not their cup of tea, it streamlines the program preventing the organizer from having to keep track of multiple people, and it makes the event look like a unified whole. On the other, who is telling my story and why can’t it be me? This became a real concern for me when I learned the speaker was a white male. (Who is a great person, but that’s not the point.) Visuals matter. How does the message shift when the audience sees a white man tells a black woman’s story? My essay was well received with lots of applause, but I wondered if the audience applauded because they heard and empathized with my story or did they applaud the (benevolent white) people who ‘gave a voice’ to my story?

Another thing that did not sit well with me was just how often the event organizer reminded me, via email and in person, how much an honor it was that my essay was chosen because not all were chosen. As if I didn’t know that. As if I needed constant reminders to express nothing but gratitude to the organizers for selecting my work. It was/is an honor and I was/am incredibly grateful and appreciative of the external validation, but I am also proud of my work and considered the courage it took to submit my work success. The rest is extra.

I find it interesting and disheartening to discover that the world around me prefers me to be silent and invisible. Many women I call mentors say that when they turned 40, they felt free to speak their minds, but I still find myself in situations in which someone either asserts a narrative on me or feels they need to speak for me. Maybe I have it wrong. Maybe my mentors weren’t given a platform to speak, but built their own platform with their bare hands. I do love hand-crafts!