My parents were not raised in traditional American households. My father was second generation from an eastern European country. His first language was the language of his parents. My mother was an immigrant from an Asian nation. She came to America very much couched in the ways of her people. Us, their children, were raised in kaleidoscope of the differing traditions with one exception, religion. The cultures of both of my parents were steeped in The Church.

In our religion, children were to be seen and not heard. It is hard to see where the line between the traditions were nationalistic or doctrinal. Was that particular practice handed down because that was always the way, or was it something instilled by the clergy? Ultimately, it may not matter where the idea originated. The only thing that really matters is how one grows from it.

The silencing of children shuts off a vital path to cohesive thought. If children are discouraged from finding their voice, they can’t grasp the concept of clear thinking. The physical act of speaking slows the mind. A slower mind develops lays down the track for a train of thought. Just watch a child who is not given the opportunity to figure out what it is they want to say. You will see the frustration that leads to incomplete thought process that devolves into incoherent rambling or heart breaking tears.

It took me many years to break the spiraling thought process brought on by being silenced. There was a long period of darkness brought on by poverty. Years of trauma that left deep scars that weren’t really scars but open wounds covered by the bandage of time. Were it not having to learn the skill of essay writing, I would still be trapped in a world without words.

Finding the right words to explain my point of view about whatever subject was assigned by my English teacher was the cornerstone to sorting through my own thoughts and creating a process. Writing is the touchstone that pushes me past the obstacles of a dark past. The years of wearing hand me downs from strangers, wondering not what’s for dinner but if they will be a dinner. Stealing whatever could be hidden underneath my clothes to quiet to the growl of insufficiency. The hollowness of knowing that relief is not self made.

I am now living in a world of plenty. Of sometimes too much. But I understand now that the years living in darkened life informed the choices I made to bring myself into the light. The finding of my voice wasn’t as important as finding the words that defined the light. I used words to redefine the trauma of not having enough into a lesson in how to have more.