Self Reflection: Voice


1.     I’m taking time to consider my anxieties. I think everyone has a place where their emotional pain is physically localized. That particular pain, the one with a haunting familiarity about it, like a shadow at dusk that may or may not belong to you. You can sense it, place it, and even without identifying who or what it is, you can feel it (hard). It thickens—

and as it thickens—it becomes less and less clear whether or not that identification is something you should be scared of.

You peer over your shoulder (press your hand to your stomach, heart, head), you think: what the fuck is that. For me, this emotional congestion is almost always placed in my throat: the fifth chakra of expression and creative manifestation, symbolized by the color blue.

2.     I believe that emotional maladies have an inevitable way of manifesting physically. For example, I was diagnosed with Vocal Chord Dysfunction (VCD) after my dad died in high school. Often referred to as paradoxical vocal fold movement, VCD is an anxiety induced condition that occurs when one’s voice box does not open correctly. The chords tighten, and it becomes difficult, often impossible, to take in air during particularly stressful situations. It forces my voice to rasp and throat to sore; breath to wheeze and neck to flex.

3.     One might call it ironic, then, that my creative passions are so directly rooted in communication, so critically dependent on voice: singing, writing, linguistics.

4.     I see the irony, but I’d argue it fate. You see, VCD was not the initial, but rather the climactic confrontation with my throat chakra. And the way I see it, my journey since has been one of epic healing. Each hurdle more painful and more cathartic than the last.

5.     My father was a drug addict. This means that, despite tremendous efforts by my angelic mother and loved ones, I spent a large part of my childhood feeling dismissed, silenced, cautious. Because drug addiction is extremely stigmatized, I was advised not to discuss home matters among my peers. Not to mention, I’m not sure how much support my fellow 8-year-olds could have really offered at the time.

I learned to slap my hand across the mouth that dared say things hurt. 

I learned.

Over and 

over and 

over 

again--

--until it became instinct. 

I recall waking up to confessional phone calls from my dad, then heading to school, testing how long I could blink back tears in class before seeking refuge in the bathroom. There was also a fear that if I expressed my pain, hurt, anger to my father, it would only worsen the problem. He messed up because he hurt, I understood, and I understood that he loved me. What if I told him how I hurt and he just couldn’t bear it? Torn between my innate empathy for his journey and my own needs, I swallowed the pain. And with a throat full of hurt there was little space for sound to sneak out.

6.     Early on, I learned to cope, finding temporary solace in non-verbal expression: writing in private, reading, photography, dancing. But these activities reap only a masturbatory high, not satisfying that which I really want: intimate dialogue, a shared experience of creative expression, an emotional exchange.

7.     I’ve always wanted to sing and be heard, speak and be understood, write and share. For a long time, one of my most sacred outlets was musical theater, but frankly, the last time I felt comfortable at an audition was the fall before my father’s death. I really don’t think I’ve found that confidence since.

8.     But I’m looking for it.

9.     That same year my writing was also put on blast. My beloved creative writing teacher, Ms. Matthews, managed to put on a show: my pieces were to be performed at a community theater in New York. At the time, however, my anxiety was so violent I had nearly no ability to see this not as a threat—but an opportunity. My vulnerabilities went from Page to Stage (the name of the event). By impulse, my hand rose and struck my mouth (hard), but this time I couldn’t shut it up. What should have been a moment of pride and joy and gratitude turned, quite literally, into a slap across the face—I cowered.

10.  Since then, I feel that I have found my voice as a writer. I spent a few weeks in Ireland that summer on a writing expedition with National Geographic. We read Bluets by Maggie Nelson, a lyrical essay about grief through analysis of the color blue. It spoke to me, I spoke to it, over and over again, louder and louder—it listened. Proof of my growth is the fact that right now I am pouring my heart on a page for a public blog. My successful journey with sharing my writing gives me hope for singing and speaking. I know I can work through this emotional congestion! Now I would like to talk about singing.

11.  It’s possible that my love for music was inherited by my father’s. In any case, I’ve experienced his life through song. I’ve always connected his relationships with his loved ones to the song River by Leon Bridges:

Been traveling these wide roads for so long
My heart’s been far from you
Ten-thousand miles gone

Oh, I wanna come near and give ya
Every part of me
But there's blood on my hands
And my lips aren’t clean

In my darkness I remember
Momma’s words reoccur to me
"Surrender to the good Lord
And he’ll wipe your slate clean"

Take me to your river
I wanna go
Oh, go on
Take me to your river
I wanna know

It also was he who noticed my voice early on and encouraged me to take lessons. As I’ve matured I’ve realized how especially powerful music is for me, as a vocalist and a writer, because it is where word meets sound.

12.  I know that breaking through my performance anxiety will be the epitome of my healing because my physical condition allows singing to be an all too telling indicator of my mental state: when I feel anxious, my voice box suffers in an extreme and tangible way. It is a sort of vocal yoga—demanding as much peace as much as it offers. Bringing to light joy as easily as pain—it denotes the place where the physical meets the emotional. And in that place, one could not be any more vulnerable.

13.  During a particularly difficult month my freshman year of college, I had a dream. My father visited me in New Orleans. He said he said he hadn't been gone, only healing beneath the river. And although not physically, I sensed as he said: he is here now. More here now than ever before (maangi fi). We walked toward the river bend and gazed across the Mississippi, paying careful attention to where its ripples flattened to meet the blue sky, after which he named me 18 years before. 

      He's okay, I thought, and I thought I could be, too.

14.  “229. I am writing all this down in blue ink, so as to remember that all words, not just some, are written in water.” 
― 
Maggie Nelson, Bluets

15.  It makes sense, then, that when my mom saw a medium a few weeks after this dream, my father asked her to let me know that he hears me when I sing.

16.  So, in an effort to communicate not just with him but with the world, I set out to face my performance anxiety last year and this summer. I auditioned for and was placed in a jazz combo at school. I did an open mic every Sunday and frequented a jam session at a local jazz club where I occasionally got to sing. Most days felt heavy, thick in the throat. On those days it took an incredible amount of energy just to get out of bed. Put on my cowgirl boots and my lipstick and try not to slap it off before locking the front door behind me. But among those days, there were the ones I felt dazzling, shiny, and brave. I am trying not to discount those.

17.  “Sometimes you have to play a long time to be able to play like yourself.” 
― 
Miles Davis

18.  At my last high school choir concert, my cherished voice teacher, Mrs. Melito, said a little something about each of the seniors. Before my solo she said, “What I admire most about Kiera is the way she never stops looking for her voice. I’m not just talking about singing.”

19.  This trip has forced me to tap into that voice, not the singing one. In the past, I’ve managed to avoid speaking French in class. The prospect of not having the utility to say what I mean is just another layer anxiety on top of the already present fear of saying it in the first place. For this reason, despite my near fluency on paper, my pronunciation is extremely under-developed. This is particularly stressful here, in Senegal, because French is already the second language. Although some of my friends have at least one English speaker in the house, I do not (perhaps another act of fate?). It’s crazy, honestly, it feels like a rebirth of sorts: I am learning at once and all over again how to talk. But more importantly, 

      I am unlearning the instinct to shut up.

20.  I think life looks less complicated when we’re able to see ourselves as big kids working through our troubled childhoods. Wanting and needing and still stomping our feet. Still playing dress up—yes—because costumes are pretty. But also because maybe we’re a little bit scared of ourselves.

21.  I mean, fuck. I wore my cowgirl hat like 3 days a week this summer. On particularly hard days, I broke out my silky blue bubblegum princess dress and pink heart-shaped hair clip. And I’m 20 now!!!!!!

22.  That said, while in Dakar, I am working through my troubled throat chakra by greeting my inner child (she’s probably hiding deep within the costume bin). And when I find her, I will tell her she deserves to be heard (loud). She has great things to say and sweet things to hum (clear). I will tell her that the cool part about being a grown up is that grown ups don’t have to take whatever they’re given like kids do. Grown ups can (should) ask for what they want. Demand what they need. Say it louder for the people in the back if nobody responds. They can even go out and get it themselves!! I will invite her up for air, brush her hair from her blue eyes, and tuck it behind her tiara. Then I will hug tighter than her throat feels. She rocks! And it’s really not so scary out here—certainly, it is easier to breathe.

23.  I am confronting the shadow and seeing myself. Pressing my hand to my throat and feeling it soften. I am talking about it a whole fucking lot.

24.  In the meantime please pardon my French J

Comments

  1. Keep letting your voice be heard, Kiera Sky...don't ever hold a hand over your your mouth again ! I love you

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