My family left America when I was 7.
I couldn’t speak to strangers. Everyone was a stranger.
Went to public school in Germany, became fluent, stayed pretty quiet.
My mom would pull me out from my hiding place behind her skirt and my dad would tell me to show myself friendly. For years I couldn’t say my Rs, so I’d introduce myself as “Debowah” in a raspy, trembling voice and weird American accent.
Found a theatre, hid silently curled within the heavy curtains watching people speak to the back wall.
They believed these stories so much they could tell them from the inside out.
The words of scripts, scripture, and sonnets came to life in me; they bubbled up out of me with an important boldness.
It’s like actors were hiding in plain sight, but with the luxury of vulnerability.
Moved back to America, joined a homeschool chess club, grew out my choppy mess and hid behind my hair. Figured if you didn’t ask for it, they wouldn’t be mean.
Went back to public school and learned that they will always be mean.
IQ testing declared me ‘genius’ but isn’t easier to hear the loud, lazy, entitled, ignorant voices?
Happy Friday, people. Guard your words this weekend, be careful and wise, and don’t be afraid of your voice… metered in a stutter,
softened in a tremble,
impediment
or accent
but speak.
You’ve so much to say.