I’m finding my voice and learning to share it.

Pretty early in Life I was taught not to speak out. My reports cards were crisp, neat rows of A’s for Writing, Reading, Math, and Spelling that rudely bottomed out as a C- in “Conduct.” The Comments section was a variation of the not-so-subtle message: “Brooks talks too much in class.” (Which actually meant that Brooks talks in class. In my school any talking was too much.)

I got the message. Speaking up meant failure; to be quiet was to be liked, accepted, safe. After a few years of more sticks than carrots, I stopped talking and was rewarded with all A’s. Silence is good.

Letters Man. Jaume Plensa. NOMA Sculpture Garden.

Growing up gay in rural Arkansas in the 70s and 80s, speaking out meant being exposed, judged, and hurt. A smart kid, I learned quickly. I hid my voice. Fear of death will do that. As an adult, I’m learning that silence is death.

I’m finding my voice and learning how and when to share it. I would like to say that this has been an easy process and that I’m always met with encouragement in my journey to be a more authentic and whole person. But it’s not, and I don’t. People don’t always agree with my opinions. That’s OK. We all have a right to our opinions and to voice those opinions. We don’t have any obligation to agree. But some people would would prefer I stay silent because my silence is comfortable for them, less threatening, more expected. That’s not OK.

I need my voice. I need to share it. I hope that I share it respectfully and with compassion, but sometimes it won’t be that way. That’s OK too. Perfection is paralyzing; I want to move, walk, and eventually run in this Life. That means I do my best to learn from the moments of pride and accomplishment as well as the stumbles and falls. I can’t stop moving.

I remind myself that for every person who is uncomfortable there will be others who value and benefit from what I have to say. Some may need to feel uncomfortable. Maybe that’s their path. In any case, I need this. Authenticity and good self-care require me to speak out.

Maya Angelou also grew up silenced in rural Arkansas. At age 8 she was raped and testified in court against her attacker. The man was sentenced but before he served his sentence he was killed by Maya’s uncle. Maya believed her words had caused his death, so she didn’t utter another one for almost 5 years.

In “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” she writes about a woman she met, Mrs. Flowers, who cared for and taught her. Mrs. Flowers told her “Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes a human voice to infuse them with the deeper shades of meaning.” Mrs. Flowers taught Maya that speaking out mattered. She showed her that she was loved and respected for who she was; that it didn’t matter as much what she said, but that she said it.

So she spoke. And so will I.