“You are so loud that I can barely understand what you say”.
Yeah, I’ve heard that a lot. One of the things I can recall being called of the most in life it’s certainly “a loud person”. Talking loud and fast is a trait that has grown in me while having a lot to say, living in a world full of poor listeners. But even though there is a consciousness around it, I used to take that “loud label” very hard. I mean, it is in fact something that I cannot always manage, but being raised by a controlling parent can make you feel guilty over things you can’t quite explain. And yet, this ‘noisy’ trait is entirely imprinted in my personality. A great part of the environment where I was brought up is ruled by the “survival of the loudest”. It was not about the strongest or the one with the most interesting stories or conversations: it was and it has always been about the one who speaks the loudest. Over the years, I have developed a bit of an ease to take up this tag over myself, but more than accepting the label, it has made me reflect upon the true meaning of being loud.
I guess it all started as a baby: she cried for anything and everything. If she woke up and no one was around, she’d cry. Not like most of other babies do, it was a painful shout. Hungry, sad, desperate, afraid. she’d crawl her way out around the house, mouth wide open, tears running down and a big crave for comfort. The issue was that this so needed comfort was not always there. There were many complaints about her crying and it ended up being a reason for laughter among the adults around her. Apparently, the episode was so constant that a picture was taken to make the scene permanent and that could and was constantly shown during family gatherings. You might think that maybe I should’ve just laughed along or that I shouldn’t take it so hard. Yes, I used to think that too. I told her that too, eventually. The thing is that this laughter, this negligence to her feelings as a toddler has grown bigger than simply a “child’s trait”. This need for comfort, this crave for a safety which would soften her soul and release her from despair grew into a great fear of abandonment which, until fully acknowledged, damaged both relations and friendships. Later in life, when I came into the picture, she was no longer alone and she could always rest her head on me. But as a kid, there was no comfort, no joy and no one to take her into adult arms and put an end on her sorrow. She was annoying, they said. But as an adult, we were needy.
After long years of self-doubt and excessive uncomfortable comments, I decided to embrace the label and take it into the heart. Our loudness, however, appeared to have already developed its own identity. With the big curls all over the place and her lungs screaming for warmth, she was an early speaker. In fact, she was an early everything. She talked before she walked, both before twelve months old, skipped a year in kindergarten for being too smart -or too loud, who knows-, and had always opinions ahead of her own time and age. To be loud is the one thing that I have always known about her since her birth and that it speaks out in the way I present myself to the world. Our loudness is part of what makes us complete. The adolescence as “one of the guys”, holding up strong vocals and a firm voice, and walking up straight with a posture of a powerful female were my trademarks. Our loudness is what stamped our presence on the sidewalk, and made and transformed us in the purple duck among the white swans. Together, we are the sweetness inside the daredevil.
While growing up, there was a lot to be loud about. Rage, power, justice. In the absence of those comforting arms which should have held her as a child, we found comfort in heavy metal, parties and drugs. The escape valve worked flawlessly for years, but eventually it clogged and stopped within seconds. I used to think that it would be there forever, but suddenly everything lost sense and I was no longer loud. It was one of those moments in life when the doubts you’ve always used as a shield become certainties and unveil the truths you are never ready for. In my case, it happened when I learned that the toddler, the baby back then who had nothing but her tears to ask for comfort was left alone by choice. That the absence of solace was a conscious parental choice. And on that moment, everything stopped.
Silence prevailed for a moment. The certainties, the methods and the strategies failed. Worse than that, we had no voice at all.
That was then. The silence prevailed for long and it was indeed crucial to make sense of its revelations, but now it was gone. The strategies have changed and the coping method is different. There is no longer a need for comfort or to crave for company. Consolations are no longer place. Instead, there is a hunger for noise, for speaking up instead of hiding. Now, our valves are no longer developed to escape, but to return to the beginning, to handpick the signs and to be loud in the way that no one has ever been before.
