This is Part 2 of a series of personal stories on the topic of my voice - how the theme of my voice - or lack thereof - has woven itself throughout my life. I’m currently in the process of claiming it in all its glory by embracing a new and completely unexpected way to voice my voice into the world…
Read Part 1 of this series here.
Once a time a time, I actually believed…
if I could avoid saying the words “we’re moving,” that magically, we wouldn’t.
The whole concept was such a nightmare scenario that it couldn’t possibly be happening to me. I couldn’t wrap my 13-year-old mind around leaving my home; the home Dad had built with his own hands, the home all my siblings grew up in and launched from. I outright lied to a friend when she told me at school that my mom had told her mom about our upcoming “relocation.” I flat out denied that it was true. Nonetheless, seventh grade ended with me knowing it was my last day ever at St Anthony’s School and that I wouldn’t be graduating next year and heading off to high school with my friends and classmates, many of whom I’d known since kindergarten or first grade.
Once summer arrived, two of my sisters visited daily to help pack up (and heartlessly dispose of some of) the contents of 35 years of my family’s life. I felt like nothing was safe from their purge and I lived in fear of the things I’d grown up with and around disappearing before my eyes. In the process of digging out the family “stuff” so it could be assessed as “move-worthy” or “dispose-worthy,” a treasure trove of unknown-to-me items were unearthed from the depths of the basement. Among them, a victrola and collection of 78rpm records. I sifted through the pile and found what turned out to be my salvation for the summer: the South Pacific soundtrack with Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza.
Aside… I had loved Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals because The Sound of Music LP was played frequently when I was a youngster; so frequently, in fact, that when my sister took me to see the movie when I was five, I knew all the words and felt compelled to sing along - loudly - in the theater. I can still feel her hand literally clapped against my mouth to silence me.
I couldn’t wait to listen to this hidden gem! I bounded up the basement stairs to the dining room stereo console. I was familiar with the movie version, but this was from the original Broadway cast, so the same, but different (and to this day I contend, better). Upon listening, I was enchanted, transported, mesmerized. I played those records multiple times every day all summer long, feeling I had found a new friend. It was a companion who understood how sad and scared I was; who delighted me with the strains of Cockeyed Optimist and A Wonderful Guy. It felt nice to experience delight again, though it would prove short-lived. Eventually a sister had gotten around to packing my stuff and was merciless about what I could bring and what would be distributed to nieces and nephews or sold/donated. In a panic when she was otherwise engaged, I hid the records under my bed hoping she wouldn’t see them among my possessions. Once I snuck them safely into a moving box, I was relieved that my new friend would be coming with me to Colorado; I felt like I took back a little power with that wily move. August arrived too soon and the station wagon with Mom, Dad, my brother and me towing the camper pulled out of the driveway for the last time, Colorado-bound.
Once we arrived, there was too much to do to register my sadness or overwhelm. Moving in, unpacking, settling into the new house occupied every waking thought. Within a couple weeks, it was time to get ready for eighth grade in junior high school. The most critical thing was to get me some proper public school clothes… I’d only ever worn a uniform to St Anthony’s. The only clothing choices heretofore were at-home/play clothes, Sunday clothes and my uniform. It was a surreal experience buying “civies” to wear to school. I’d never made decisions about what to wear and I didn’t know what kids wore to school - so what should have been a fun day at the department store was remarkably stressful. My first days were marked by constant reminders of the things that were different in this new environment - as well as how I differed from my classmates. I’d never changed classrooms before - all our classes were in the same room and occasionally the teacher changed. I’d never gone to a school with a cafeteria - we all brought our lunches. I’d never ridden a bus to school - I’d always walked.
My classmates often looked at me like I was a weirdo for carrying a pocketbook (which I quickly learned is called a purse in Colorado) which was a common practice in New Jersey; and using an umbrella when it rained - apparently Colorado kids are waterproof? I sat next to a girl in Math class and we became friendly (and I helped her with her work a lot...). We also had Home Ec together and one day as we chatted entering the classroom, I happened to say the word “orange.” That’s the day I completely lost my voice - or more accurately, my confidence in my literal voice. I had pronounced the word like it is said where I was born, “are-nge.” It was at this point in the conversation that my new “friend” stopped in her tracks and mocked my pronunciation, replying that the word is pronounced “or-nge!” I was already self-conscious about my wardrobe, my choice in accessories, my overall unfamiliarity with my surroundings and the expectations upon me… now even my accent - the way I spoke - didn’t fit in!!! I was absolutely mortified… Needless to say, I set about forthwith training as much of that New Jersey right the hell out of my speech pattern! That was something I could do to “fit in” and feel less like a pariah in my new environment. Sure it was denying my authentic self, but at that point in my life, my priority was not to be considered “weird.”
The invisibility cloak is donned
That awkward little pre-teen who was a bad birthday party guest still dwelled inside - age had done nothing to boot her out. My natural way of being in the world coupled with general anxiety, self-consciousness and a lack of belongingness made for a rough two years to the end of junior high. I had turned inward big time, still feeling deeply betrayed by the move and believing I was the only one I could trust to not hurt me. My strategy at this point for getting through the rest of my life was to do my best to be invisible. I’m sure people sensed that wall I’d erected around myself, making me unapproachable friend material. The few people I was friendly with really hardly registered as friends and by the end of ninth grade we’d gone our separate ways.
On the last day of ninth grade, the student council (or some other equally cliquish assemblage of the “in crowd”) held an “Awards” Ceremony in the gym. In typical teen fashion, the awards were for silly things like, “Kissingest Couple,” “Most Likely to Get Lost on the Way to Algebra II,” or “Best Student Imitator.” These prizes were handed out to other members of the clique as a tongue-in-cheek goof. The last award of the presentation was called “Quietest Student.” Then they called my name.
I was stunned. WHAT?! I wasn’t part of this game they were playing! Everyone was looking around the gym because practically no one knew who I was. And the laughter! I felt sick. What’s more traumatic than modified? That. I was that. Now I had to find my feet that were shaking with fear and embarrassment (along with the rest of me), stand up from the bleachers, walk in front of the entire student body to accept my “award, “ turn around and slink back to where I’d been sitting, wishing I really was invisible. My “award” was a magazine with a piece of white paper taped over the cover on which was written, “Talking in 5 Easy Steps.” Nice. Even when I try to hide I get hurt and humiliated…
Aside… The magazine was an issue of Tiger Beat prominently featuring Shaun Cassidy. I proceeded to develop a heavy crush that lasted at least the next two years. I got lost in “all things Shaun,” a pastime that truly helped me feel like I was finally alive again with something just for me.
My high school years were unremarkable. I excelled in anything that required writing and I took every literature class I could. I briefly considered English as my college major, but writing was beginning to feel like something I wanted to do for myself (or at least on my own terms) - so I focused elsewhere scholastically. I continued to do the invisible thing without consciously meaning to. It still felt safe to be a loner so it never occurred to me to do anything else. I was known as “that smart quiet girl.” I was okay with that reputation, although it did hurt when one day a boy asked me about a problem for calculus class; I was not in calculus. See, I did such an effective job of making myself invisible, people didn’t even expect to see me. I really enjoyed the end of my senior year because I only had classes until 12:30 and I could go home and be visible again.
I helped Mom with her in-home babysitting service after graduation and started college the next fall. It was there that I gained glimpses of an identity, a voice that felt authentic and aligned with who I was becoming; and that lasted all of three months…
More to come in my next post in this series.
Ok well now I need the rest! Oh Gina. As a military kid I was with you through all the highs and lows of trying to fit it, it felt anxiety for the little version of you. Thank you for sharing this authentic and vulnerable piece, I loved it.