"Perhaps too, like many girls, I was learning from the fairy tales. Take
care of others but wait to be rescued. Perhaps it was as Sue Patton Thoele
said in The Woman's Book of Courage, "Although we are usually strong for
others, we often feel weak and victimized while attempting to set realistic
limits that respect us as individuals."
My Voice
By Neena Maiya
T
he first time I raised my voice to defend someone, I was five years old.
The village schoolteacher had called on Seeta to answer a question. Seeta
was my best friend, a gentle child, pale and vulnerable with an
uncontrollable stutter. I made it my duty to protect her.
When the teacher picked on her I was horrified - everybody knew about
Seeta's inability to be semi-articulate under pressure. As she stood next
to me, struggling to get the few words out, I watched her cheeks redden with
shame and her eyes fill with tears. And the teacher? She waited like a
dummy in front of the class as my friend stuttered on. I could feel my
anger frothing, foaming, about to burst from me. Suddenly, I jumped up.
"Leave she alone, no? Look how she suffering. Leave she alone!" I yelled.
The teacher told her to sit.and never bothered her again.
Despite this willingness to defend my friend there were three occasions
when, somewhere between the ages of six and nine, I remained silent.
Our neighbour in the country village, Mr. Walli across the road, used to
pinch my arm, wringing the flesh until it burned. The next silence happened
when my Math teacher in my new school in town lacerated my scrawny hand with
a cane every Monday for failing the Math test. Then Miss Sita, another
schoolteacher, pinched me the way Mr. Walli did. I did not protest or tell
my parents. I was willing to speak up for others but not for myself.
Perhaps I was being taught that little girls must stay silent. One year
after defending Seeta, the new teacher in another classroom punished me for
talking too much with my little gal pals. He made me kneel on the sandy,
wooden floor, and when that did not work, he tried to shame me by putting me
to sit next to a boy. The boy ended up being my new best friend, and he
talked more than I did. The teacher never punished him.
Perhaps too, like many girls, I was learning from the fairy tales. Take
care of others but wait to be rescued. Perhaps it was as Sue Patton Thoele
said in The Woman's Book of Courage, "Although we are usually strong for
others, we often feel weak and victimized while attempting to set realistic
limits that respect us as individuals."
The problem, though, is that I never could shut up.I never did learn to shut
up. I grew up in a noisy household where music blared, brothers read out
loud from books; father lectured, "Take your education, once you have you
education, nobody can't that from you," and mother repeated, "Nobody is
better than you." Family and friends aired views nonstop; if you did not
speak up, holler back, your voice would disappear in the din.
But, I've discovered, speaking your mind does not make life easier. It can,
actually, have unpleasant consequences. Amongst the educated and middle
classes here, one has to tiptoe through a minefield of insecurities -
stepping out with an opinion that's different can cause someone to blow up
at you. We have not yet mastered the art of discussion. Thoughts and ideas
are still replaced by insults.or "a cuss down" as we call it. This is the
only country I know of (perhaps there are others) where a journalist is
allowed to label people as "fools" because they have a different political
opinion from his. As a Guyanese woman living here, the unspoken message I
hear is, "keep your trap shut, you fool."
My trap, of course, refuses to stay shut. The few times I decided to keep
it shut in ex-relationships my words piled up in my throat and choked me; I
became depressed. I have no choice but to speak up. There simply is too
much I wish to.no.need to talk about - women, men betraying themselves, each
other, their children; bullies and cowards; loss of self; grief, hate,
malice, revenge. Yet I do not want to linger on the ugly. It would be like
having a sore that can't heal because we keep digging at the scab. I want
to write about the healing also.
©2006 Guyana-Gyal.
Of East Indian heritage, Neena Maiya lives in Guyana South, America wheree she's still talking and writing about life. You can visit her webpage where she writes in Creole at sapodilla.blogspot.com.
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Inner Voices
