Default: Quiet

Kali Henke

Can’t you speak?

My roommate smashes little buttons on a controller, the sound seeming to echo throughout the small dorm. Outside our door, our suitemates laugh loudly at some poor joke one of them made. Underneath the crescendo of voices, I can hear the small hum of the radiator heating our shared space. Outside rain gently taps our windows, and cars drive past, their engines the music of the street. Even in the quiet library, you can hear little taps of keyboards, and stifled laughter from the whispering students. No matter where you look or where you turn, there is no place where you can find absolute silence.

What? Did you say something? Talk.

Bodies move against one another as I stand close to the wall. Music thrums loudly, my heart replicating the thunderous beat. Cheeks flushed and slight heavy breathing, I stand with a water bottle tightly clutched in my hands. The boy who tried to talk to me earlier standing a few feet away from me sending me strange glances. I avoided his eyes the best I could, trying to rid the sour taste from my mouth that the conversation left. The loud music caused a throbbing pain in the back of my head, but I ignored it. I swallowed my pain and moved to the rhythm of the music side to side. My tongue filled with heavy lead. The room around me screaming, but I was silent.

Don’t you have a voice?

A group of girls stared at me wide-eyed, their heads tilted slightly in question. Anxiously, I tug my sweatshirt sleeves down over my hands and keep my eyes on the ground as they start to fire off questions. Boom, boom, boom, one after the other, the bullet-like questions lodged themselves into my head but my lips remained shut. My tired tongue remained still as the air was heavy with anticipation, as I subconsciously gnawed on my lip.  The girls shared a glance. The silence was the only thing we shared as I waited for them to leave— they did.

Do you not have vocal cords?

I have never seen a bird not sing or an artist not doodle on a sheet. I have never watched an actor not cry on command or a slow-fingered pianist. Each thing in this world has a place, on a stage, in a notebook, or inside someone’s memory. But where does silence belong? Tongue heavy and anxiety-ridden habits force my lips shut, silence seeping from me. An anomaly, a voiceless stranger who wants nothing more than to scream but her heartbeat quickens threatening a heart attack. The sound of my heart like a drum, be-be-beating ever so quickly, my lips hanging slightly opening, but nothing coming out. Silence. Where do I belong? Too quiet for a stage, too plain for a notebook, and too forgettable for a memory. I’m an apology with no meaning, a fading tart taste on a tongue that stings but quickly fades. I fade too quickly to be remembered, not there long enough to even be forgotten, just ignored.

Louder. Use your voice.

I am. I swear, I am. My silence louder than the public’s chorused voices. My silence says everything I can’t, only to those who choose to listen. My eyes, my body language, all tell a story I can’t relate with noise. A safe haven for all things silent. Thoughts, memories, and art. Silence has become a forgotten art form, there. Existing— Belonging. Silence belongs here, surrounding me and my unmoving lips, as my roommate smashes little buttons and laughter fills the room outside my door. Quiet, a choice I made from the moment I could. Silence—my default.

I can’t ever hear you.

From the day we are born, we enter this world screaming. Our throats aching with a type of rawness that seems to never fully heal. As children, we grow into wanting attention that increases into unsatiable cravings. The idea of sitting quietly and alone becoming our worst fear. A voice — their voice becomes a constant reassurance that they exist. Those who choose to be loud, turn to others who replicate their fears, desires, and loudness. They match their laughter and pity those who whisper. For, if you are not heard are you really alive? No one has fully heard my anxious worries or doubts, but I exist, contrary to what others believe. My own throat swallowing the burn, choking back my voice, letting it sit in my stomach—burning into a fire. My fire erupts and flourishes on pages, it becomes burned into the memories of those who take the time to read and understand it. My voice may not fill the world to the brim and I may not contribute to laughs or the whispers but I’m heard. I’m loud in a different way because everyone has a default, everyone has their own way of having their voice heard and that’s okay.

Numb

Brianna Allen

They speak of all kinds of numb here in the North. The been outside for five hours and the snow has soaked through my layers numb; the wood stove went out again numb; ice fishing all day long in 30 mph winds numb. There are many types of numb we all know, love to hate, and discuss here in the North. No one talks about the emotional numb that we may come across in our lifetime, however. The sitting in silence, not feeling the earth beneath you, staring at the floor numbness. The hole in your chest, static in your brain numb. The numbness of losing a loved one, your best friend, or even yourself. Everyone talks lightly about the harsh winter numbness we all experience, but no one prepares you for the detrimental numbness of your soul that comes with tragedy.

When I was just eight years old, I first experienced this soul withering numbness. My step father was introduced to me when I was three, was diagnosed with cancer when I was six, and was harshly taken from me and my family when I was eight. May 9th, 2006 started as a normal school day for me and my four siblings, until we were all called out of school, told that today was the day we were to go say goodbye to our father and step-father. I will spare the gory details of the two prior years, how we watched this man, who had help raise us, wither away, death knocking on the door he sat in front of, waiting to take him away. When we got to the hospital my mother was sitting on his left side, holding his limp hand, telling us that even though he couldn’t respond, he could hear us, and we should tell him anything that is on our minds and in our hearts. To look at one of your family members as they lay in a bed with tubes coming out of every orifice, is terrifying; but to eight-year old me, this was just the moment my brain stopped working. I gave the half-assed goodbye, telling my comatose step-father that I love him and will miss him. Each one of us went in the room by ourselves, while the others sat in the linked family room through a solid wooden door. I sat in that room for what seemed like days, as each of my siblings said goodbye. That room still comes to me in my dreams sometimes – the pale blue walls with dark wood trim and dark blue stiff, plastic couches. The huge television wardrobe that held a 32” television, wood matching the trim. I sat in that room for hours in silence, eyes fixated on the dark blue carpet with red texture. I sat in that room for hours with ears that did not work, everything sounding like it came from a mile away. I sat in that room in silence for hours, thinking I was going deaf, until the loud screeches of my mother hit my ear, like she was screaming right in my ear.

A numbness hit my chest in this moment, as if my heart had left with my step father’s soul. Minutes, hours, days may have passed. At one point the preacher came in and said a prayer, but, to this day, I’m not sure a single person in that room could have told you what he said. At some point we must have gone home, and some point the day must have turned into the next, which turned into the next, which eventually turned into the day of the funeral. The day of the funeral was dreary. The skies cried cold, early May rain, mimicking my step father’s loved ones as they stood around his six-foot-deep home in the ground. They said their goodbyes in silence, sending their hearts to the sky, as I stood there, paralyzed, unable to feel what the people around me felt.

No one warns you about the numbness that overcomes you when tragedy strikes – how your heart may leave your body for days, months, or even years. Everyone is ready to tell you of the good that will come of it one day – how you will be stronger, wiser, happier even. Everyone hands out advice to look to the future, while only some have the capacity to hold your cold hand through the hurt. It’s hard to see the lighter side of numbness, to laugh at your own temporary inability to feel. I turned a blind eye to the light, letting numbness make a home inside my carcass. Until one day I felt, like the tingling of a foot waking up feels, I felt. I felt all of the pain that had built up for years, and I cried. I cried for six years, until I had let it all out. And then I rose up, tall and strong, like a sunflower fully grown to stand in the light. I grew from my tragedy; I grew strong, happy, and proud of who I am and what raised me. Nobody warns you of the numbness that life can bring to you. We don’t talk about it like the weather. But, just like the winters of the North come and go, so do the seasons of our hearts and grief. June comes around and brings flowers and sunshine, just as life will bring light after a cold, dark winter.

Five Paces

Jennifer Gauvreau

Step back five paces. That was the rule. I was told as a young girl to stand at least five paces away from paintings, in order to really take them in and enjoy them. My parents were both active members of the arts community, and a result, my exposure to the arts was deeper than that of my peers. It was always my inclination to move very close to a painting. As a youth I really wished to experience art (and all of the things in my world) with all five senses. Of course, this notion is absolutely ludicrous, as it would not be fitting for a little girl to be wandering the halls of the Art Gallery of Algoma licking paintings and running sticky fingers along the ridges of wild oil paint. So, very early in life, five paces away became the rule.

Growing up, I found it to be needlessly inhibiting and contradictory, the five paces rule. The hippies who ran the kids’ art programs in the teaching room were all about freedom and joy, reckless abandon, oddity for inspiration. When we created art, it was of absolute importance that we felt free to do what we wanted, how we wanted. Yet, a few feet away in the gallery, we were to be silent, reverent, and distant.

When you move in real close to a painting, you see more than a content image. Go ahead, look closer. Don’t be afraid to look— on the tongues of Medusa’s snakes lie a thousand fables and lessons. Look closer and you’ll find the passion of a painter: brushes blitzing, complexions colliding, oils oozing, tint tenting to form piles of pigment and scraped down valleys. You’ll find the clockwork of colour, and the tempo of tempera. Does this view enhance or diminish the humanity of the painter, the craftsman, bent over his work, trying with every brush stroke to reach across the void?

Now, step back. Make it five paces. Take it all in, allowing your eyes to dance across the canvas. Maybe this is a more comfortable view. Do you understand more, or is it less from here? The painter is now traveling through time and space to touch your very soul. They are creating poetry in paint- humanity on display, essence expressed. Upon meeting your eyes, the craftsman’s reach across the void becomes an artist’s embrace, encircling you with all that it is to be a part of the human condition.

For a long time, I was stuck in the binary viewpoint. I thought I had to choose between openness and inhibition, experience and appreciation, immersion and altitude. The longer I consider point of view, the more sure I become that both ways of experiencing art, and life, are vital to the human experience. Moderation in moderation. Wildness in waves. Five paces be damned.

 

Glossy

Caitlin Crum

 

When I was a kid, taking my picture was a hassle. The flash was too bright, and smiling made my cheeks hurt. There are quite a few photos, mostly hanging in my childhood home, where I look as if I’ve just eaten a lemon, eyes squinted, pained by the thought of having to look presentable. Why on God’s green earth would anyone need a picture of me, when they could see my face every day? Certainly there must have been better ways to save the memories from when I was small than to force me into a lace dress and set me on top of a giant number 2 and make me smile like I was the happiest child in the world, when really it was just the photographer looking ridiculous with a stuffed dog on top of his bald head.

School pictures were even worse. Nobody ever looked nice enough, and parading 700 students in and out of the band room probably didn’t give those photographers the inspiration to make all of us look nicer. Out of thirteen years of over-posed, inconsistent photos I only like the ones I took my senior year of high school. My school allowed us to submit our own photos, so I took them all over town—in places I cared about, places I loved more than anything—instead of sitting up straight on a stool in front of a green screen, with over-combed hair and a fake-as-anything smile on my face. I never understood why my family wanted so badly to keep those untrue photos, to spread them to my kin like some kind of glossy-paper plague. They were ugly; they were hideous; I was hideous.

In 2014, I was sitting at my desk, in a too-small dorm working on some assignment that probably has no bearing on life now. My dad called and I picked up the phone like always, expecting the similar dance of conversation. He asked me how classes were, if I hated my roommate yet and how much coffee I was drinking to stay alive. There was a long pause, followed by a “There’s something you need to know” and a drop in my stomach like a fall from an eight story building. It was then that I understood why they kept all those ugly, worn-out, touched-up photos: they froze time. We lost my mom to brain cancer four months after that phone call, and in that time, I printed more pictures of her than I’ve ever printed in my life. I hung them up around my room, like a shrine to who she was. They hung on every wall, door, flat and vertical surface I could find because I wanted the photos to remember her. The photos don’t remember her puffy face, or her hospital visits, or her incoherent babbling; those things weren’t my mom. They remember her love for coyotes, us singing in the kitchen before dinner, her glasses and long fingernails. In those photos, she is glossy.

There is one in my bedroom, printed and framed, of her clad in a red sweatshirt, holding me, a toddler with a bowl haircut and a flashing grin on my face. I don’t remember the photo being taken, but there it sits, asking to be looked at. It was a sunny Saturday in September. My family was on Mackinac Island, visiting, and I was three years old. I’m being held by my mother because I never wanted to take the photo in the first place; I am facing backwards in pure protest. It’s funny, when I think about it, that picture I don’t remember taking—and didn’t want to be in—holds so tightly a grip on my memory. It’s a piece of frozen time for me to hold in my hands like a hundreds-of-years-old document of who we were on September 17th, 1999, softly lit by sunlight sprawling through orange-brown trees. She holds me tightly, like nothing could possibly happen that might tear us away from each other, our matching outfits a reminder that we are just carbon copies of the same stubbornness, the same quick wit, the same too-loud voice. I don’t remember the photo, but the photo remembers me, and I remember my mom because of it; I am warmed by her eyes, encouraged by her smile and transfixed by the way I look just like her now, like I instead am the piece of frozen time that keeps her here.

Passion Runs Wild

Sydney Smith

 

A horse can gallop across a field in a matter of seconds, due to its 1,200 pounds of pure muscle, a vehicle for power and strength. Man broke the horse, and with that came a connection unmatched by anything else. People all around have depended on the horse for centuries, and rode them like the wind. Hundreds of hooves pounded the earth in unison as horse and rider flew to their anticipated destinations with eagerness and pride, or no destination whatsoever. For some, the horse is just a mode of transportation or business, but for others, it is a source of the purest moments of bliss that are given with the mere sound of a snort or a whinny.

When I was younger, I would pull out any excuse in the book to be allowed to meander down the dusty, tree-lined lane that led to my aunt’s barn. Whenever someone said they were walking down there, I was at their side, waiting to be asked if I wanted to ride, do chores, or simply sit and appreciate the view. I would spend hours upon hours sitting on old, wooden tack boxes, letting the hairy lips of my favorite four-legged friends nibble away at the red and white striped peppermints that rested in the palm of my hand. I would walk up and down the aisle with a well-used broom, sweeping away every little speck of dirt from every little crevice in the stone floor, just so I would not have to leave. The barn still has the same effects on me today that it did back in those days of childhood innocence. Now, I am a more mature version of that little girl who fell in love with horses, but the spark is still there.

When I hit the dirt road and hear the gravel crunch beneath the tires of my car, I know I am minutes away from the barn coming into view. Putting my car in park, my mind relaxes, while the horses show their enthusiasm, tossing their heads, the hair of their manes flying wildly. I take a deep breath in. The calm rushes over me, but the excitement of that little girl at heart will always be there, just itching to burst out. The barn, small and comforting, is my favorite place to wonder off to. I would be content with life if it was the only place I was expected every day.

Like clockwork, I pull on my grey and white polka-dot rain boots and unhook the gate that leads into the sloppy pasture. As if I expect anything else, my favorite red gelding comes trotting up, his entire being caked in mud. I give him a quick stroke down his beautifully slim face, throw on his leather halter, and we make our way back to the barn, traversing the small lakes that the rain likes to test me with every so often. The dust goes flying, as if on its own little mission, as soon as I bring the curry comb out and start running it in circles down his muscled back and withers. The muddy nuisance finds its way into his forelock and rabbit-like ears, every time. It does not bother him one bit, though. Delight springs into his eyes when the crinkle of a peppermint wrapper is heard; it is something that will never change even as the years pass by, and we both grow in age and experience.

We never truly outgrow our childhood passions, the things that consume us and make our hearts beam. We pretend like we can live without them. We struggle every day to convince ourselves that we are on the correct path. The righteous path. The path that will make everyone else proud of what we have devoted our lives to. We have to set aside our childhood dreams and aim for something more realistic, if we are to do what society expects of us. We put on our makeup, and we slip into dresses or suits or lab coats, and we pretend that it is what we truly want in life. We lie to ourselves every day.

It is only when we allow ourselves those moments of freedom, moments where nothing is expected from us and we can just be, that we remember where our hearts actually lie. Close your eyes and image where you would be in life if the restrictions, the pressures, the stressors, and the judgement all vanished. It is something that people talk about all of the time, but never actually pursue—reaching for the heart’s true desire. The point of life fades if you are not doing what makes you happy. For some of us, the point of life is not getting all dressed up to go to a sophisticated job, our lives revolving around the flow of money into our bank accounts. Some of us are perfectly happy just slipping on mud boots to go catch a 1,200 pound animal, and that choice—the choice of undying love and passion over superiority and refinement—is something beautiful that should not be looked down on.