Session 1 | Assignment 1 |  Exploring the Roots of Repression and the Liberating Act of Speaking One's Truth

Nice to meet you all.

Hello! I don't see the link to The Silence of Neto. Is it possible to get it tonight? Thank you!

Found it! No need to reply.

I watch the news when I wake up first thing before I leave home, knowing that what is happening in the country and in my community is a contributing factor to what I will be seeing and hearing in my therapy sessions with clients. Like the young man who has a small construction company who's employees (two Mexican men) where taken off the job by ICE and sent to detention. The man had all the papers/permits, and the men had proper IDs, but ICE agents refused to acknowledge what the men said, what the employer did. Then there's the grandmother who has been having nightmares about her grandchildren being kidnapped by ICE because they have dark hair and dark skin. Her children think she's overly alarmed~" paranoid" they said~ and that's how we came to work together.

The daily news, both broadcasted and whispered, is filled with painful stories of unheard vulnerable people~ migrants, survivors of SA, children who fear for their friends and classmates, etc. And their stories are listened to in small rooms like my office, because despite the daily stories of injustice and brutality, it feels like not enough people really listen. For many of my clients, there is a fear that if they speak out, they will be shunned, punished, or, like that grandmother, told they are "paranoid".

Luis, so many of my clients are demonstrating what we might call "symptoms" (anxiety, panic, depression, sleep disturbance, etc) in response to the onslaught of threats/warnings that we wake up to every day. For many of these clients, the "symptoms" are their bodies preparing them to figure out "safe passage" through these menacing cultural conditions. Much of my work is acknowledging their body's intelligence, and supporting a "practice of courage" specific to their particular circumstance. For example, a trans client chose to work on creating a web of support at work, as he was experiencing some mistreatment and hostility from one of his bosses. It was courageous to "break silence" and share his vulnerability with the trusted co-workers. I am very fortunate to be able to bear witness to the everyday displays of courage that happen when a person resists efforts to diminish their humanity.

Janice's phrase "The silence of being safe is suffocating my soul." Deserves a conversation. What is the answer.I immediately say: "liberate your soul." However, the concerns you mention about the repercussions of your actions on your young grandchildren and of your son. However, it is important, as you note, that your attitude and actions are an example for them.

Linda, your mentioning  the symptoms (anxiety, panic, depression, sleep disturbance, etc) of your clients in response to the onslaught of threats/warnings that we wake up to every day and your work  supporting their "practice of courage" specific to their particular circumstance is something I would love to learn more about.

The topic of silence has been a complex one for me, as it relates to my upbringing, and has caused me to reflect more deeply, in some ways painfully, on the intersection of silence, which has often riddled our culture and our inner spirit with paralysis. It is also possible that the silence maintained in us can become combustible and propel us into a purposeful life.

In my childhood home, between my parents, there was very little silence. For the children in our home, silence became a way of protection between  "us" and our parents. "Speak only when spoken to..." was a popular refrain imposed upon us. Yet my parents were anything but silent in their dynamics.

In our home, behind closed doors, there was no topic, person or experience that was not laid out like your Sunday clothes for scrutiny, and what seemed, as a child, like boisterous, harsh, negative critique. It is true that, in our culture, as Jamaican immigrants to the United States, there is little obscurity in communication style. The way we feel about anything in front of us is very difficult to hide. The word is extra: extra bodily gestures– a waving of hands, kissing of teeth, "turn up face" as we say,  sudden throwing down of towels, extra detail to patois art-ti-cu-la-tion, extra time to the topic suspended by their attention–without cease. As the doors of our home opened, a particular quiet would take hold of the roars that were alive in our home, in my parents', unless in the presence of other Jamaican counterparts, providing a thin cushion of safety.

I, on the other hand, was incredibly shy and heady. During one of our class discussions, I pointed out that I was incredibly shy as a child. Being the youngest, shiest child, I found comfort with my siblings. I could play and be myself with them to a point. They could articulate their thoughts clearly without hesitation, similar to my parents. My admiration and respect for my older siblings, who all seemed to know so much more than I did, precluded me to quiet thoughts in my head. Learning how to take space with my voice has been a challenge for me.  To this day, I will try to cut off my whole train of oratorical thought when I feel like I have been speaking too long. This discomfort often leads to miscommunication; it happened in class last week as well. I was trying to condense my thoughts and ended up communicating the wrong idea.

While my shyness was evident, I now recognize how some of the conflict was developing in me. Two ideologies existed: Being raised by very extroverted, opinionated people who had a view of the world and everything in sight. I was also this girl, but I was also being taught to be silent. "Speak, only when spoken to." And, possibly equally pervasive is another chant imparted upon us. "We came to America so you could have a better life than we did. Learn as much as you can, but do not become like them (Americans). Keep to yourself, get a good education, and work hard. If you cause any problems, they will deport you." In other words, keep your head down and do not challenge anything or anyone who could potentially jeopardize your opportunity or bring shame to the family.

This intersection created a long-standing conflict within me. The voiceless freedom fighter in me who seeks justice, who loves in totality, desiring the best for everyone– a fight that began with my love for my siblings vs. the shy girl that was on full display. I was shocked as an adult when my mother revealed in a story a different version of this little girl. My mother jovially replayed my journey to America. "You sang and danced up and down the aisle, entertaining everyone on the plane. Everyone loved you." How soon after did I become this quiet, shy little girl who struggled to hear her own voice in class when the teacher called her name? The answer is complicated, but, layer upon layer, her voice slowly buffered into silence; meanwhile, she was ablaze on the inside, fighting to come out. 

I also now understand that being shy made me silent, but that didn't mean I didn't have something to say. I had a lot to say, and my words grew inside of me in every season of life, until my body could not contain them.

The Silence on Neto provided me with an opportunity to look back at the ways we are silenced in life, long before we learn how to speak and be our full selves. It allowed me not only to reflect on myself but also on my siblings. While I became shy and quiet, my brother actually became silent. As he grew into a teenager, he barely spoke to anyone at home. Yet, when he left home, he became a street warrior, a Guardian Angel fighting (literally) for justice and violence reduction–safety in some of the most violent communities.

Silenced; Thinking of my journey to becoming a community advocate, hosting town halls, lobbying for the community with assemblymembers, senators, congress, even our previous vice president, building multi-generational, multi-faith, diverse and inclusive communities, up and down the state and around the country,  thinking of my brother and his journey from silence to activism.

I acknowledge the dualities and shades of gray that I am. 

While also trying to dismiss labels and behaviors that do not fully capitalize my identity. I still struggle with my shy, sometimes awkward, sometimes too quiet, introverted ways of being, and I long ago released it from keeping me from being present; from calling myself into the room when my voice begins to roar and outpace my body in its shyness. I am really grateful that the silence did not smother the passionate, determined fire burning inside my brother and me. The silence did not win.

I reflect on one of the most powerful lines from the movie for me; there were many, but this one was intimate.

"Silence like this is not good. It is ingrained in us from the time we are born, but it is up to us to tear it out from inside ourselves

Not until then are we able to breathe."

The topic of silence has been a complex one for me, as it relates to my upbringing, and has caused me to reflect more deeply, in some ways painfully, on the intersection of silence, which has often riddled our culture and our inner spirit with paralysis. It is also possible that the silence maintained in us can become combustible and propel us into a purposeful life.

In my childhood home, between my parents, there was very little silence. For the children in our home, silence became a way of protection between  "us" and our parents. "Speak only when spoken to..." was a popular refrain imposed upon us. Yet my parents were anything but silent in their dynamics.

In our home, behind closed doors, there was no topic, person or experience that was not laid out like your Sunday clothes for scrutiny, and what seemed, as a child, like boisterous, harsh, negative critique. It is true that, in our culture, as Jamaican immigrants to the United States, there is little obscurity in communication style. The way we feel about anything in front of us is very difficult to hide. The word is extra: extra bodily gestures– a waving of hands, kissing of teeth, "turn up face" as we say,  sudden throwing down of towels, extra detail to patois art-ti-cu-la-tion, extra time to the topic suspended by their attention–without cease. As the doors of our home opened, a particular quiet would take hold of the roars that were alive in our home, in my parents', unless in the presence of other Jamaican counterparts, providing a thin cushion of safety.

I, on the other hand, was incredibly shy and heady. During one of our class discussions, I pointed out that I was incredibly shy as a child. Being the youngest, shiest child, I found comfort with my siblings. I could play and be myself with them to a point. They could articulate their thoughts clearly without hesitation, similar to my parents. My admiration and respect for my older siblings, who all seemed to know so much more than I did, precluded me to quiet thoughts in my head. Learning how to take space with my voice has been a challenge for me.  To this day, I will try to cut off my whole train of oratorical thought when I feel like I have been speaking too long. This discomfort often leads to miscommunication; it happened in class last week as well. I was trying to condense my thoughts and ended up communicating the wrong idea.

While my shyness was evident, I now recognize how some of the conflict was developing in me. Two ideologies existed: Being raised by very extroverted, opinionated people who had a view of the world and everything in sight. I was also this girl, but I was also being taught to be silent. "Speak, only when spoken to." And, possibly equally pervasive is another chant imparted upon us. "We came to America so you could have a better life than we did. Learn as much as you can, but do not become like them (Americans). Keep to yourself, get a good education, and work hard. If you cause any problems, they will deport you." In other words, keep your head down and do not challenge anything or anyone who could potentially jeopardize your opportunity or bring shame to the family.

This intersection created a long-standing conflict within me. The voiceless freedom fighter in me who seeks justice, who loves in totality, desiring the best for everyone– a fight that began with my love for my siblings vs. the shy girl that was on full display. I was shocked as an adult when my mother revealed in a story a different version of this little girl. My mother jovially replayed my journey to America. "You sang and danced up and down the aisle, entertaining everyone on the plane. Everyone loved you." How soon after did I become this quiet, shy little girl who struggled to hear her own voice in class when the teacher called her name? The answer is complicated, but, layer upon layer, her voice slowly buffered into silence; meanwhile, she was ablaze on the inside, fighting to come out. 

I also now understand that being shy made me silent, but that didn't mean I didn't have something to say. I had a lot to say, and my words grew inside of me in every season of life, until my body could not contain them.

The Silence on Neto provided me with an opportunity to look back at the ways we are silenced in life, long before we learn how to speak and be our full selves. It allowed me not only to reflect on myself but also on my siblings. While I became shy and quiet, my brother actually became silent. As he grew into a teenager, he barely spoke to anyone at home. Yet, when he left home, he became a street warrior, a Guardian Angel fighting (literally) for justice and violence reduction–safety in some of the most violent communities.

Silenced; Thinking of my journey to becoming a community advocate, hosting town halls, lobbying for the community with assemblymembers, senators, congress, even our previous vice president, building multi-generational, multi-faith, diverse and inclusive communities, up and down the state and around the country,  thinking of my brother and his journey from silence to activism.

I acknowledge the dualities and shades of gray that I am. 

While also trying to dismiss labels and behaviors that do not fully capitalize my identity. I still struggle with my shy, sometimes awkward, sometimes too quiet, introverted ways of being, and I long ago released it from keeping me from being present; from calling myself into the room when my voice begins to roar and outpace my body in its shyness. I am really grateful that the silence did not smother the passionate, determined fire burning inside my brother and me. The silence did not win.

I reflect on one of the most powerful lines from the movie for me; there were many, but this one was intimate.

"Silence like this is not good. It is ingrained in us from the time we are born, but it is up to us to tear it out from inside ourselves

Not until then are we able to breathe."