When I Ceased to be Heard*

 

When I Ceased to Be Heard

I never truly realized how much my family set me aside until Mom was gone. I never needed them to hear me because she was always there to listen. I knew no one could ever take her place, and I didn’t want anyone to. However, as time passes, you start to understand just how much a person filled you up in ways you never even knew and, in some respects, never appreciated. That was my mom—always there to listen.

I want to create a space where my words matter, even if they sometimes go unvalidated. Even when I said something I shouldn’t have or made mistakes, she was the person in my life who, if I exclaimed, “The sky is red!” would look up and know it was blue but still say, “You are right, the sky IS red!” She had limitless empathy and love for everyone.

For a long time after she passed away, I wouldn’t talk to anyone unless it was necessary—whether it was a coworker, classmate, or even the person at the cash register. I mainly avoided speaking to my family. I felt unreachable.

Deep down, I always knew that my mom was the only one who saw me as something more than the proverbial "black sheep" of the family. She recognized my potential and believed that I could achieve more. This realization saddens me because the one person who always believed in me will not be there to see me walk across that stage to receive my degree in May.

My mom was the only one who truly listened when I spoke. She heard the pain in my voice when my ex-husband verbally abused me, and she remained supportive of whatever decisions I made. She was my dear, sweet mom, the only person who would listen to my stories about friends who talked behind my back or gossiped about me and then let me share my plans for revenge.

After spending ten years working in various administrative jobs, I finally decided to pursue my dream of working with animals, even if it meant taking a job that paid virtually minimum wage. I knew I wouldn’t receive support from anyone except my strong-willed mom, who always had my back. She did, and she was incredibly proud when I got my first job in veterinary medicine. She visited often, always encouraging me and never disapproving.

My mom was the only person who genuinely showed me what it felt like to be heard.

I am left with my well-educated, strong-opinionated father, my siblings, and their significant others—a group of immediate family members who are nothing like my mom. They do not share her warmth toward me and show none of her compassion or understanding of my uniqueness. While they have all pursued traditional paths in life, achieving high levels of education, good jobs, nice houses, and sound life choices, I have taken a different route. 

They have often corrected me when I was unaware of the latest politically correct terms. For instance, one sibling, a Latin American Studies major, is quick to point out discrepancies in my language, making it clear that I should avoid mistakes like confusing "Latina" and "Latino." They do not want to engage with me; I feel pushed aside and avoided. 

I am the person they only contact out of obligation, often when they want something or are “about to be at the store,” giving me just a minute of their time. They seem unwilling to truly listen to what I have to say. I have been labeled as negative and obsessive. I am frequently excluded when they plan to visit each other in their respective cities. One sibling recently canceled plans with me to be with another family member. 

When I try to join political conversations, they dominate the discussion, forcing me into silence. As a result, I have learned how to navigate their behavior: I no longer call them, make plans, and join in when asked. When I am with them, I choose to remain silent.

I find myself in a unique position, walking the line between two different worlds, a place I've inhabited for as long as I can remember. I grew up in a specific way, but I've always connected with people from diverse backgrounds. I don't feel the need to limit my friendships to those who share my upbringing—middle-class, white, and unfamiliar with hunger, violence, or the struggles of navigating a family without college-educated parents.

In my job in the service industry, I work alongside many individuals with little to no higher education. It would be wrong to assume that this lack of formal education implies a lack of intelligence. As I did before returning to school, they might think they fall into the same category I once did—perhaps out of touch with the latest political jargon or unaware of the differences between the Spanish spoken in Mexico and South America. I've noticed some coworkers become silent when I converse about school with others in college. They don't have to say anything—I understand the reason for their silence. They might feel they can't be heard in our discussions, so they remain quiet.

However, they assume I would never make them feel unheard, as I have often felt throughout my life, especially in recent years. This is why last year, I decided to spend the holidays with friends who either have no family, have strained relationships with their families, or are distant from them. We humorously dubbed our gatherings “Friendsgiving” and “Festivus for the Rest of Us.” Those holidays were some of the most joyful I can remember in many years. 

It saddens me that I now identify more with people who lack family connections than with those who do, as I grow tired of being silenced to the point of feeling completely unnoticed. We have created a perfect symphony of people in this strange, marginalized category.

While writing this paper on the experience of being silenced, I have uncovered more than I expected. One realization is that silence is not always what you think it is or expect it to be. Sometimes, I find silence in the gaps of conversations. Other times, it arises from my refusal to speak due to fear of being corrected. There are also moments when the people I am conversing with are silent, likely out of their worries or confusion. 

I have come to understand that being silenced and unheard is different. Being silenced means being talked over or slandered, while being unheard means that what I say doesn’t matter, is brushed aside, or ignored due to ignorance. I have learned to cherish those who take the time to listen and care about what I have to say, and I strive to respect that in return. 

Additionally, I’ve realized that family is not always defined by blood; sometimes, you can create your own family with like-minded individuals who show you care and compassion in return. If you have a voice, do not let those who wish to silence it succeed; some people want to hear what you have to say and will not trivialize it, whether your words are personal or part of a professional agenda. Often, our voice is all we have. 

Most importantly, take the time to listen to the words, the noises, or the pauses that occur when it seems quiet all around you—even if it’s just the voice inside your head. You should listen to yourself and follow your heart because it often tells the most important story.