By Michelle Hensley
Sometimes…
She says in her tiny voice
She whimpers, then cries and screams, searching out anyone within earshot, longing for basic human compassion.
But there is no one to hear her.
Sometimes …
She says in her bit bigger voice
The voice that is starting to feel autonomous, the one questioning her place on a much more intimate level, knowing she looks and feels different. This is the voice who suspects, but is not allowed to question, the one who ponders the randomness of it all, but has learned not to rock the boat.
This voice cracks even when she whispers, barely heard or acknowledged.
Sometimes….
She starts again.
This voice is stronger, it has knowledge, experience, willpower. Her curiosity has opened a plethora of feelings, and there is no safe set of ears to hear her words. Things are so confusing that she feels she leads two lives. She carefully weighs her responses, juggles her emotions, learns how to act the role, so as not to alarm or lose the last tangible link of normalcy, between the now and the
What if I…?
A select few listen, but she is still not heard.
SOMETIMES….
She speaks out, and her voice is steady.
The words come quickly now, randomly jumbled as she begins relating to others like her, those who know.
She types these words into her phone for later, an endless bullet point document that should be titled “and another thing!”
This time, she can speak it out loud, she can inflict tone, and add pause, for effect. There are adjectives with fervor, there are adverbs spoken so eloquently that you can almost predict the shiver of visceral effect.
There is eye contact, subtle but steady at first. It switches to more direct pointed gazes at those deemed visually offensive and judgmental.
The harshest glares are saved for those who are especially ignorant and opinionated, and love to flaunt their savior complex.
THIS IS THE VOICE SHE SPEAKS WITH NOW.
It has substance, truth, spirit, faith, and love. This voice is the loudest. It has been boosted by the words, the acts of kindness, acceptance, and genuine support from those who show up to hear her speak. She has found fellow chorus members, allies, and comrades.
The chorus has a unique sound, a melody, a song….
She has never heard such a lovely sound before. These are the voices she longed to hear, the ones who FINALLY LISTENED, the ones who met her where she was, and gave her the bass she needed. This sound, the sound of kinship, could finally drown out the demons, the gaslighters, the ones with closed minds and cold hearts.
This symphony, the music, the lyrics—as only her mother tongue could express, are the exact tone, pitch, staccato, rhythm, and diction her ears need to hear, her heart needs to feel, so she can finally speak her truth.
She soars, giddy with the lift of new flighty high notes and arias. She feels seen, validated, and acknowledged for her voice and her feelings. She is heard.
She is finally heard.
Sometimes
Even after all this time, the tiny voices of her past still try to speak up for attention.
Other times they furiously scurry and hide from delivering an opening line.
Sometimes, without warning, the voices all fall silent, carefully and deliberately choosing not a single form of expression. There is incredible power in their silence.
The voices are not scared, they are tired of speaking to those who cannot or will not hear.
She has learned that she can choose those she wants to give her words, her time, her love, and her spirit. She has found her audience and they will hold her safe, even if she still needs to cry
Sometimes.
