Excuse Me, I Can See Your Silence
“Silence is not the answer to your pain.” - Cleo Wade
I grew up in a house that bred silence as the golden rule. The less you said, the better off you’d be in surviving in staying sane. It was the unspoken (no pun intended) law of the land and most of the time, you learned through the hard way. Speak out against mom and you’ll reap regrettable consequences (most of the time in the form of physical striking). And if I said that to any other child of immigrant parents, they’d all agree that that was their family rule, too. Because it was culture and heritage that seeded this idea of silence as the ultimate luxury. Your internal will to hold yourself silent and absorb the world around you as you complied with the long withstanding pillars of cultural dogmas and honored traditions meant you were rightfully respecting the culture that will always take care of you. As in, the more silent you were, the more you stayed in your lane, the more freely you were to exist on the right side of things and good things will happen to you. I was 0 when I first learned silence was a practice.
I think about how I navigated most of my childhood as a silent child. In order to fit in, I kept my mouth shut and followed what the other kids did. In order to be the perfect daughter, I’d listen to what adults told me to do and I’d just do it without questioning. In order to be the model citizen, I’d camouflage to my surroundings so I wouldn’t be ostracized or humiliated. Speaking out was for those who weren’t taught better or educated enough, my mom would say. But I remember in fourth grade, I had this horrible white male teacher who would pick on me because he knew I was the quietest student. He’d ask the class a question, everyone’s hands would shoot up with his answer, he’d scan the room, and I could feel his eyes land straight on me as I looked down to avoid being noticed or seen. But he always picked on me. Even when it was clear I didn’t know the answer to the point where the kid sitting across me would have to mouth the answer to me to save me from the embarrassment (my crush nonetheless). I couldn’t tell what was worse: being openly humiliated or pitied by my peers. No, actually, what was worse was thinking I was just too dumb. I was 9 when I first learned silence was not on my side.
Once I entered my adolescent years, I became much more outspoken, especially standing up to my mom. I recognized that I was being emotionally abused and I was developing darker parts within myself that I was constantly at battle with everyday. But fighting with my mom was a whole other battle in itself. Each moment I thought I’d finally stand up for myself and defend my honest character, I immediately regretted my boldness because if it wasn’t my mom’s words, it’d be my thoughts that tortured me. I only needed to survive in this house, not really live in it, I’d tell myself. So I had two choices: continue fighting to defend myself knowing there was no end and I’d reach a point of implosion as she scowled over me or combat her with silence, holding in every ounce of anger boiling inside as she broke me down until I was safe enough and alone to finally let my anger out. In either case, I would end up hurt. Worse, I’d end up harming myself. I was 13 when I first learned silence was a gamble.
I once competed in a pageant where I had the opportunity to represent my Vietnamese heritage. I was among 10 other girls who were also of Vietnamese backgrounds and we’d participate in this pageantry together—perfecting runway walks, rehearsing speeches, cycling through interviews, and ultimately, lots of fluff. But it was a chance to showcase who I was at that time, in public and out loud—something I was too afraid to do because I was too comfortable with moving through life in silence. So I let my costumes speak for me, I let my first time singing to the crowd speak for me, I let my memorized Vietnamese speak for me, I let my big smile and genuine energy speak for me. I thought, if I could show who I am through the series of choices I made to represent myself on stage, then I didn’t need to say anything more to prove my worth. The night of the pageant, after being dolled up and hyped up for one of the most nerve-wracking but milestone moments in my life, I went on stage for the interview portion and froze when it was time to answer in Vietnamese. What felt like at least 5 whole minutes of silence as I stood there in front of a crowd, praying to any god to zap me with memory again, all I could hear was the faint laughter coming from my mom. I went home that night with so much humiliation in my stomach but mostly disappointment in myself. I was 16 when I first learned silence could define me.
Recently, my friends told me that my constant passion and bravery in speaking up for the things I believed in, the current events and social issues occurring, and for anything I cared about, inspired them and challenged them to be better as well. Up until then, I always thought I was this nuisance of a friend, “that friend” in the group, that was incessant in pushing political views and social debates when everyone else just wanted to chill. I thought I wasn’t being a good friend to each of them individually, but rather just a loud speaker that worked her way into the group. But I learned that these very qualities—my outspokenness and fervor—were actually some of their favorite things about me. I realized my gift was in fact my voice and my unique skill was in fact using it to empower others. I am 27 when I finally learned silence has never been my superpower.
So here we are, 20-something years of holding silence on our tongues like it was the only language we knew how to taste properly, and yet we are now thrown in a world where bad things are happening, lives are being murdered, injustice is spreading like wildfire, and voices aren’t being heard. Silence—this deeply engraved conditioning from the moment I came out of the womb and befriended throughout my life—is now the biggest undoing I must learn, and learn quickly. I don’t mean that I will unlearn silence entirely because it still helps when I need it to, and I don’t mean undoing it to dissolve it, but what I mean is undoing the way it’s been portrayed and has dictated my life. The thing is, silence is a choice. Every moment you choose to be silent is the choice you’re making to pick a side. Sometimes, it’s the better side and that’s when it is strength, but in some cases, especially in the case where people are now being murdered unjustly, not for the words they are or aren’t saying, but for the very skin they wear, silence is a chosen weapon.
With everything going on, you must feel pain and if you can feel anger, you can listen to it, too. There's no denying what is happening around us, within us, against us, and there's no turning away from the reality in front of us. Yes, the helplessness can feel so overbearing that we feel useless or feel like we're not doing enough. But taking action doesn’t always have to be physical. Taking action is using the resources and tools we currently have and being smart about it to help others. It's using what is available around us and making do with it to be of support and of empowerment. You have a phone. You have a voice. You have people to talk to. Every outlet is an opportunity to be better. This is your choice.
As we’re all stuck and safe at home, we watch the world around us slowly crumbling. It’s maddening not to be able to get out there and fight for what’s just but right now, more than ever, our voice is our biggest armor right now. Don’t deny that right to use it to bolster our people. And especially don’t deny the truth we’re facing in reality right now; a non-use of it is the biggest slap in the face to humanity and dishonor to our own existence.
So the real question we must ask ourselves here is, would you rather be seen or be heard? Because you’re still seen if you don’t say a word.
