Raise your hand if you have something to say 🫁
“Quiet down” my teacher reminds the class. I can see that she’s nervous as the boy with the T-rex tee terrorizes the class by leaving his seat and speaking out of turn (sigh) yet again. That night in our parent teacher conference she gently urges me to “speak up”. “She never raises her hand” she reports to my parents, while encouraging me to befriend the other “shy girl” in the class. I’m angry inside, because she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t understand:
It hurts to be quiet.
It hurts to speak up.
Trapped between a rock and a hard place,
I haven’t quite decided if I take up too much space.
The lyrics of Three Floors, Three Doors stand out to me now, as I’m haunted by the amount of participation points I lost for not being able to raise my hand. When the 8th grade history teacher starts class by announcing that we must raise our hand at least once to get 10/10 participation points, my heart sinks as I take the loss. I have perfect grades, yet this will be my academic demise.
To raise my hand will be the death of me. My heart races, sending sharp shockwaves like needles through my nervous system. Speaking is asking to be acknowledged – to be looked at. Speaking will suggest I have something important enough to say. I know that once I raise my shaking hand I’ll forget what I have to say. Everyone will see the blush run to my cheeks and my tears begin to swell. It’s all in my head. I’m exhausted and defeated without even lifting a finger, let alone five. If I speak they might just hear me! And then what!? Either I’m uncomfortable or they’re uncomfortable, so I’ll stay small.
In fifth grade, my friends and I practiced backflips spotted by “the duty”. She was an energetic woman in her 30’s hired to supervise us at recess. We were honored to have her give us such one on one attention and support our dreams of becoming future cheerleaders. By this point in time, my heart only pounded three times compared to the thirty painful beats leading up to my first assisted backflip. I was barely even nervous. 😏💅🏻 I got into position and the idea ran through my head, back handsprings were “hotter” than backflips, so I wanted to try one.
As I sprung upwards, the spotter grabbed my ankles, pushing them over my head to complete my flip. My full body weight assisted by her added momentum bolted through my hands and into the ground. In the exact same moment of girlish pride, I felt a small twinge of pain, followed by an even deeper ache through my arm. My left wrist had taken the brunt of the blow.
The aide had no prior knowledge that I’d decided to try my first back handspring. At that moment, I hadn’t thought to let her know. I stood there grimacing as my friends realized that I was in pain. Concerned, they rushed to my side to ask if I was ok.
“Can you move it?”, one of them inquired. With hesitation and obvious pain in my voice, I responded, “I think so...”
The ache in my wrist was getting more intense, yet almost drowned out by my whole body feeling like it was going to explode.
Don’t make a big deal of it.
Don’t be dramatic.
Don’t let anyone see you cry.
Don’t speak.
I repeated these over and over again in my head as the conversations around me blurred. Then the bell rang, concluding afternoon recess. I headed inside pulling off my best performance yet. No tears yet, following the crowd of kids inside for two and a half more hours of school. My sweet friends asked again if I was alright. I nodded my head as I recognized the feeling of I’m about to burst out crying and held it in. Before I knew it, class begun.
There’s no way it’s broken. I’d say something if it was broken, I reassured myself inside. Only two more hours… Two more hours!?! Was I really going to listen to American history for two more hours while my wrist swelled and my head nearly burst with tears!? The verdict — I don’t want them to see me cry, so I’ll stay here. I’ll stay quiet.
The sweet release of the school bell couldn’t come soon enough. After what seemed to be both ages and only minutes, the bell rang and I started my daily walk home from school. I waited until I was out of sight to let the tears break through. Admitting that I was in pain made it worse. It made it real. If I admit that to myself I’d have to say something.
I wish that was the last time something of those sorts happened. Several public vomitings, faintings, and pant-wetting near misses have taught me through the years that speaking up continues to be a difficult task for me, even in dire circumstances.
Something I value now that I haven’t always, is using my voice. Speaking up is hard, but being quiet when I have something to say is also painful. I realize I’m putting one of the grandest lessons of my life all into a silly story about breaking my wrist in fifth grade, yet this story seems to be the best way to relay my experience.
To be able to express myself best I need room to speak and be silent. There are times to speak up and times to quiet down. Often I prefer writing to speaking. I find that what is difficult to put into words is more easily put into writing. Reflecting on my years as “the shy girl”, I often think to myself:
Is it enough now?
Have you felt enough pain?
Did you need to hold out until you were desperate enough to say something about it?
It’s not a badge of honor to sit and suffer the most. You don't get a prize for showing the least vulnerability. Raise your hand if you have something to say!
