I am an Irish American. My people talk. At any given moment in my childhood home, at least seven conversations were going on at once, all of us darting easily in and out of each one like hummingbirds at bergamot. I adore chatting with strangers at the bus stop; shy children love me because I blather on and on without demanding anything in return. I have been asked, on more than one occasion, to kindly shut up.
So, with the help of laryngitis, I did.
The first day was maddening. I scribbled furiously on pads of paper, adding insult to injury because my handwriting is illegible. I went through the day with no stories, no jokes, no wry undertoned wisecracks at office meetings. I felt as if my personality had been surgically removed.
By the end of the first day, I was depressed. This is what women used to feel like, I said to myself mournfully. This is what women mean when they say they feel silenced. I cannot express myself. I cannot defend myself against the clever barbs of coworkers. (I am one to really dish it out, and for three days I was the one to take it.) This is what it feels like to have no vote, no land, no fair hearing in court. (Of course I understood nothing of the kind. But I was crabby.)
I couldn’t even coo back at Éiden, although he didn’t seem bothered by my silence. His big brother Arie was angry. He demanded that I talk to him; he took advantage of my silence by being as naughty as he possibly could; he hit me and he pouted.
That evening, Jan took over my usual practice of bedtime stories and songs. I have always joked that as the wife of a stay-at-home dad I am the parenthetical parent, but in this case I really did feel parenthetical. Why am I even here, I thought sadly as I heard Jan reading Where The Wild Things Are animatedly upstairs. All I’m good for is washing the dishes. I didn’t even enjoy getting out of the nightly Idon’twannagotobed negotiations, so deep was my self-pity.
The next day of silence, I became very Zen. I began to enjoy not answering the phone, being excused from exchanging inane blather with coworkers, and getting some real work done. A friend with a problem came to talk to me about it, and all I could do was nod, smile, or shake my head sympathetically. Unable to interrupt with endless advice (which is my usual m.o.), I did what all the experts tell you to do. I listened.
“Wow,” she said, as we parted. “I feel as if you’ve given me all of this really great advice. You’re wise now, Haddayr. You’re wise.”
I stroked my chin wisely.
When I came home that night, Arie—accustomed now to his silent mother—did something he has never done. He told me about his day. Generally, he will only allow a guarded “good,” when asked about his day. That night, I got to hear all about the game of Chutes and Ladders he played, the leaf sculpture art project he created and the vigorous argument he had with his best friend Jack. Confident of an audience, Arie talked and talked and talked.
His dad didn’t. Opposites attract, and my taciturn New Englander of a husband was unnerved by my silence and unable to step into it with his own voice.
Because of this, I was immensely relieved when my voice returned, moving from a husky come-hither whisper (more enjoyable to others than to myself) to its normal full-volume, full-speed ahead operation. But for a while, I was reminded of how important it is to let other people tell their stories, too.
One of our failings as Americans is our inability to understand people in other countries. We lecture, and we bully. We are so sure that our way is the right way—even when we’re trying to be charming, or trying to help. Especially when we are trying to influence elections and economies we know little about.
Wouldn’t it have been interesting if, at the recent Summit of the Americas, both George Bush and Commerce Secretary Gutierrez had suddenly found themselves struck mute? Unable to make speeches, they would have had the same experience I just did: deprived of my American swaggering bluster, for three days I could do nothing but listen. And I learned an awful lot.
Haddayr Copley-Woods, a writer and graphic designer, works and lives in Minneapolis’ Powderhorn Park neighborhood.
Reader Comments
Posted: Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Article comment by:
Jason
Being Italian, I connected with the humorous pain of not being able to speak. I had a similar experience with laryngitus and it was wonderful to read this thoughtful extrapolation of a personal experience related to our national identity. This article was the starting fuel for an animated conversation among my friends. Thanks.
