Audre Lorde’s essay, “The Transformation of Silence Into Language and Action” hits home like nothing I've ever read before. Since I was a young girl, I remember wanting—needing—to speak my mind, but I was oft met by deaf ears or hardened hearts. Or at least it felt that way. I did not (and still don’t) expect for people to listen to me.

It was around 12-13 years of age that I learned to silence myself. My mother’s youngest sister just died, and it was the morning of her funeral. The family was sitting down to eat breakfast; however, I was the last one to take a shower, so I was getting dressed in the back of the house. For a reason I’m still unsure of, my father felt I was taking too long and kept shouting my name. I remember the lukewarm water running down my back as I hurried to get out of the shower. I was frustrated, because my father yelling and shouting was not an unfamiliar thing, and was usually uncalled for; he just liked to exercise his patriarchal ‘rights’.

When I arrived at the breakfast table, my father went on another rant, telling me that I was taking too long. I waited until he paused, and attempted to explain that I had been helping my mother with something, so I ended up being the last one to get ready. He cut me off, exploding into another tirade. My mother then stepped in to defend me, and he interrupted her. I can’t remember the words he used, but they were a verbal slap to my face and the faces of my sisters and mother. My body is almost shaking remembering the impact of his words. They were so harsh that I deemed them disrespectful to her as his wife, and felt the need to come to her defense.

Instead of speaking right then, I decided to write a letter to my father. I began it something like, “To My Dearest Father” and told him how he had wounded my spirit and the spirit of my mother by disrespecting her with his words. I quoted scripture. I repeated the words he spoke every so often from the pulpit about loving your wife as Christ loves the church. I told him that I was losing respect for him as a father and pastor because of the way he had been treating my mother. I told him I wanted to mend the breach that increased every time he tried to stifle our voices.

The closing salutation? “Your Namesake.” I thought that would hit him in his heart and let him see that I was trying to be as open and honest with him as possible about the way his children were receiving him. When or how I gave him the letter, I can’t quite remember. Perhaps I slid it under their bedroom door, or placed in his dresser drawer. But what I do remember is that weeks passed without a response from him. Eventually, I asked my mother if he read it or if he’d even received it.

She told me that he’d read it,

“But he threw it away, because he thought your older sister had written it.”

I was devastated. Not only for myself, but for my sisters and mother as well.
Even more, I realized that the feelings, words, and opinions of the women in our house were not important. They did not matter. And if I expected them to I would be met with disappointment after disappointment.

So, I shut the hell up. I respected my elders. I held my place as a future woman, and focused on minding the men in my life. When I had something to say I let my sisters say it, if we agreed. They seemed to have stronger hearts than I did. Or I wrote in my journals for hours and hours until my hands weakened and I couldn’t write anymore. I kept silent.

The result?

Not exercising my voice, so when I do have something to say, I sound unsure of myself; almost like I haven’t thought whatever it is that I’m saying all the way through. I prefer the written word, because it feels safe and is habit. I’m given the courage to speak my mind in ways I never could verbally. I can creatively craft a letter that reflects in no uncertain words how I feel. And if someone responds, I can take the time to build up my resolve, and stand my ground. That usually doesn't go so well face-to-face.

The primary goals I set for myself this year are to practice vulnerability and transform my silence into language. The reason why vulnerability comes first is because I cannot build up the courage to say what it is I have to say without being willing to be authentic with those around me. Once I open up to vulnerability and being true about how I feel, what I think, what I believe, and who I am, I can then open my mouth to break the silence that I thought protected me for so long.

“Your silence will not protect you.” –Audre Lorde

By keeping my mouth closed, and more specifically my writings private, I thought I was protecting myself from “The Patriarchy” and its demeaning and demoralizing gaze. What I didn't realize is that my silence was empowering its hold on my life. Instead of strengthening, I was weakening. During times when I should have spoken up and caused change around me, I shrunk, thinking I could hide myself and keep my soul out of harm’s way. And then the times that I wanted—needed—to speak; to express myself, I couldn't. My lips were sealed and my creative soul hidden. Almost like the parents of Adam Weber from “Blast from the Past.” Thinking I was destined to remain underground for the terror above, when all it took was a step outside my comfort zone to empower me towards reaching my life’s potential.

My silence has kept the cycle of patriarchy going. And I’m saying “Hell, no!”

I’m ready to speak up. I’m ready to break the silence. I don’t know how to do it other than to open my mouth and say whatever comes.

I've tried being strategic about it, but that only works for so long. At some point, candidness is going to be required of me and I’ll just have to say

“This is me. This is how I feel, think, and believe, regardless of your approval.”

Will you break the silence, too?