Speaking Up For My Silenced Self

In my small-town, Midwestern high school, my film teacher makes a homophobic joke about my project. The principal is sitting in on class today. Maybe my teacher feels the breath on the back of his neck. Maybe he doesn’t think about it at all.

In Government, we stand at either end of the classroom, depending on our opinions on a given topic. I stand at one end to signify that I believe gay marriage should be legal. Twenty pairs of eyes stare back at me from across the room.

My Economics teacher suddenly shouts at me in the middle of class for wearing earbuds. “Disrespectful, inconsiderate,” he yells. Somehow, he’s forgotten I need hearing aids.

Five minutes before taking the practice SAT, a faculty member taps me on the shoulder and tells me I won’t be permitted to wear my earplugs. When I ask why, I am told I do not have a “real disability”.

The chair in the counselor’s office is hard and uncomfortable. She leans across the desk and hands back the application essay I have written, telling me colleges will not accept me if my essay is about being queer. “They don’t want that,” she says. That, of course, meaning you.

Whenever I open my mouth to respond, the words always stick in my throat, like a blood clot. Silently, I swallow them.

In towns like these, most don’t feel the need to watch their step. They wear heavy steel-toed boots, tap shoes— They don’t need to fear announcing their presence. But people like me have closets filled with ballet shoes, bedroom slippers. We learn to tiptoe in our sock feet, to walk on eggshells. We stand en pointe for days on end. Our legs ache, our ballet slippers fill with blood— Still, we do not make a sound. I am so tired of swallowing my words, of holding my breath. Just once, I want to know what it is to scream.

“Don’t talk about these kinds of things. No one wants to hear them.” Phrased as if for my own protection, but the true message rings loud enough. It’s just another way of silencing anyone they don’t want to be heard. There’s a state essay competition coming up, and suddenly I don’t feel like tip-toeing around how people treat me anymore. I strap on a pair of steel-toed boots and start kicking up earth. I tell the story of every person in this town who’s ever done me wrong, and I tap dance over their graves. This is every word I’ve ever swallowed, shrieking at full volume. It’s a scream on paper, and it wins first place.

The winner gets to read their essay aloud to a crowd of two thousand people at the state university. This was what I really entered for—the chance to reclaim my voice, to say my piece as I was unable to all those times—though I have doubts over being able to do it properly. I’ve always been a nervous public speaker: My body shakes, my voice stutters. Sometimes I have to stop and quit entirely.

But on the day of, standing onstage in front of the microphone and a sea of expectant eyes, the memories of all the times they tried to silence me come flooding back, and all at once I know what is about to happen. There will be no shaking, no stutters today. I did not come here to whimper. I came here to scream. I feel it as the words flow out of me of their own volition, clear and steady for the first time in my life: Something inside of me is finally demanding the right to be heard.

After a moment of silence, two thousand bodies stand in unison and fill the room with deafening applause.

I receive medals, certificates, invitations to speak at schools, official accolades from a state senator. My essay is published in the newspaper, and a few months later, I submit it to a dozen colleges. I am accepted.

It turns out that counselor was wrong. They did want me: The me who had the courage to speak up, finally, as my true self.