The cost of speaking your truth
Is far less than staying silent
There are times I come home from a dinner party or work event and crumble at my kitchen table as I consider the words that come out of my mouth. I know I’m not supposed to say them, in the way I say them, in my outside voice with hands raised in the air. I know people don’t like it. They think I’m extra, and not in a good way. I’m the woman they warn you about. The one so many say they would never be.
And yet I keep doing it.
I could work harder at not annoying or making people uncomfortable. I could command my Kenyan voice more often (I switch so people understand me when I’m in their country; American accents are too harsh for Kenyan ears). I could not speak about genocide or how patriarchy fucks all of us or capitalism is a broken system created by humans so we could choose to do it all differently. I could temper my statements with “not all men” or “I know she didn’t mean it, but“ or “I’m not sure” or any other handful of words cobbled together that would have me on my back.
I could talk about my remodel or that holiday I just took. The food was amazing. But you must go in September when the tourists have left and you have it all to yourself. I can’t wait to finish the bathroom in the guest bedroom. I’m going with a matte ecru to match my mood.
I could be quiet and let everyone else do the talking. What if I can’t prove my point with facts that challenge their opinions?
I’m quite confident that if I spoke in the way people (read: primarily white people, men and women both, although women a bit more because I’m not the woman they wanted me to be and men still want to fuck me even if they are intimated of/don’t like me, also I realize I’m an equal opportunity offender so not just white people) wanted me to, I’d have more. I’d have more customers, more speaking engagements, more fans, more money, more casual conversations.
I’d also have less. Less integrity, less self-worth, less of a let’s-get-this-fucking-done-the-world-depends-on-it attitude. I’d be less me because I’d be trying to be someone I’m not. I would be less of the human I was meant to be.
I don’t know if we’ve ever lived in a time where the cost of being silent is far greater than speaking out. All I know is I’m alive now, witnessing what’s happening around us. There is no reason not to be screaming from the rooftops, marching through the streets, demanding better, challenging everything, refusing what we’ve been told to accept. And yet we stay silent simply not to offend. Simply because we don’t want to give anything up.
I’m prepared for the consequences, the grief of who and what I’ll lose. The grief of being misunderstood. The grief of self-doubt and what-if’s and I-told-you-so’s.
It’s not lost on me that my consequences don’t include imprisonment, death, or exile (yet). I’m grateful and aware of the privilege I have as a white, educated, middle-class, American woman. And that’s precisely why I continue to be nothing else but me.
