From Silence to Story
A Revolution in Ink
A foreigner since birth—whether with my mom, the foster home, or my grandparents—I’d never belonged in their lands. I wasn’t a citizen in their country. I shared some of their DNA and lived the same experiences they all had lived—mothers leaving daughters leaving mothers. Grandfathers touching daughters, touching granddaughters. I existed as an alien and chose to seek asylum in more welcoming spaces.
Safety arrived when I crossed literary borders and buried myself in books and characters. Ramona the Pest’s father didn’t die when she was four. Charlie’s grandpa always demonstrated support and love, even while the whole family lived in poverty. Billy’s hard-earned coon hounds loved him unconditionally. Huck Finn and Big Jim took care of each other in hard times, despite their differences. There were no unsafe touches in Terabithia.
As a welcome refugee in the land of my favorite authors, I survived on their stories—a balm for my wounded soul. Written words can heal what spoken ones have broken.
“You smell like a French whorehouse,” my grandmother yelled at me when I spilled the perfume on the bed. At six years old, I didn’t know what a French whorehouse was, but I took the moment to cloak myself in another garment of shame.
“Don’t sing at the table.” My grandfather shouted, glaring at me over his glasses. “Woodruff’s can’t sing.”
“Shut up and clean your plate.”
“Don’t speak until spoken to.”
“Don’t backtalk me, young lady.”
“Your mother didn’t want you, anyway.”
“Don’t you go out of the house looking like a goddamn slut.”
“Don’t tell anyone or they will blame you.”
“It’s your fault.”
“You asked for it.”
“Be quiet.”
“Be quiet.”
“Be fucking quiet.”
So, I silenced myself.
I was taught that little girls should be sugar and spice and everything nice. Guess what? I discovered big girls can refuse to stay silent.
I learned from Maya Angelou, that other caged birds learned to fly by tapping into the power of the written word.
When Celie stood up to Mister, Alice Walker taught me I could break the cycle of abuse and fight for myself.
Ellen Bass and Laura Davis mapped out the journey, giving me the courage to heal.
Brené wrote about vulnerability and shame, and I learned to find connection by sharing my story.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes shared the importance of trusting my intuition and finding my wolf pack.
When
wrote about inspiring women, I felt free to channel my inner badass bitch.Books are magic. Words heal.
First, I read to survive, then I wrote myself back into existence. Into welcoming lands.
No longer the foreigner, no longer the silent girl in the corner—I’ve become the author of my own story. Each word I read and each truth I tell stitches me back together, a patchwork of pain and power, silence and song.
I found my voice in the margins, in the pages, in the women who roared before me.
Now, I speak—not in whispers, but in whole volumes.
This is my home. This is my healing. This is my revolution.
I am no longer quiet.
Do you know what small acts make huge impact to me and my writing? Subscribing for a free weekly essay; taking a minute to leave a comment and/or provide feedback; clicking the ♥ (like) and restacking (if you use the Substack app); and by sharing it with others via email and/or social media. These small things help me so much.
Thank you to
for her Story Revolution class that continues to inspire and motivate me to dig deeper every time we meet.
I’m glad you are no longer quiet.♥️