"Hello, darkness, my old friend..."

Well….you may not have noticed, but I’ve been silent for a couple of weeks. Life’s been kicking me in the you-know-what, and I’ve had little motivation to do much more than sit in my misery and moan in the dark. (I’m good at moaning - turns out I excel at this unappreciated skill.) And it hasn’t escaped my notice that my misery began with the end of daylight savings time.

Hubby has ridden the misery rollercoaster with me - not voluntarily, mind you - but he’s been a good sport. He’s buckled in for the ride, and periodically gives me an appropriate “sorry, babe” glance as he looks up from the Spurs basketball game. I think he really means it.

I’ve been listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s hit song from the 1960s this week, The Sound of Silence. It was the recurring theme song of my childhood in 1960s Alabama, right alongside the Civil Rights’ protests and Vietnam War images tattooed across the decade.

Although I have wonderful memories of growing up in the South, there was a sadness in that time, a palatable heaviness that never seemed to lift. Even as a young child, I remember asking my mother to let me know the minute The War (as I called it) was over. I went to bed at night, hoping and wishing and praying that The War would magically be resolved by the time I woke.

The War loomed over me like a dark cloud graying out the colors of my childhood. Even in the early 70s, living in upstate New York, I was moved to tears watching POWs step off planes as they touched American soil for the first time in years. It was only later that I discovered my Dad barely missed being an active participant in The War by about seven days. Seven days, and The War could have been lived out through letters and official notices instead of through a television screen.

One national crisis wasn’t enough for the 60s. Let’s throw a much-needed Civil Rights Movement right smack-dab in the South where I currently lived. As a young child, I was confused why people fought each other over “race”, a concept I didn’t understand at the time. Weren’t all people just…people? Why fight wars across the ocean AND wars down the street. None of it made sense to my 5, 6, 7 year-old brain.

I remember being harassed by teenagers because I carried my baby doll of a different color into the grocery store. I remember rocks being thrown at our VW Bug because I disobeyed my mom when she said to hide the doll in the car, instead of leaving it on the back dash in full view. Often I was called names because one of my good friends looked different than the other kids in our neighborhood. And I remember feeling the weight of silence when obvious racial prejudice was thrown about the room like a hot potato.

My experience during this tumultuous decade was unique in that I lived on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Because of my dad’s job, we hopped back and forth from Alabama to New York every other year - six months here, a year there; and then switched - a year here, and six months there. We moved off and on like this for seven years, and I experienced prejudice and ignorance on both sides of the Civil Rights divide.

I remember standing in my New York 4th grade classroom reciting my multiplication tables and being called all kinds of derogatory names just because I came from the South. I couldn’t understand how me being labeled a “cowardly Rebel” and them being proud “Yankees” had anything to do with math. Reading, yes, because New York schools at the time loved their Sight-Reading Methods, while us “cowards” enjoyed downhome, good ol’ Southern comfort Phonics. But Math? Wasn’t math the same everywhere?

As I stood there many times in the same spot, in front of the same chalkboard, hearing the same insults, I kept silent. I just kept repeating four times two equals eight, four times three equals twelve, and so forth, wondering why no one realized we weren’t in 1864 anymore.

Silence for me was a tool for survival, and as the decades flipped on top of each other I continued to keep silent. Not just about hot potato topics like war, prejudice and politics, but about experiences much closer to home - divorce, neglect, and abandonment. I kept silent for decades because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. What I had been trained to do.

Until March 2023 when suddenly I found my voice.

It didn’t go as planned. I hoped that finally breaking the sound barrier would result in some cosmic change. But as I sat across from leaders who chose to silence people instead of dignify them with curiosity and compassion, and who chose to protect systems and shepherds instead of wounded sheep, I learned the truth of Paul Simon’s lyrics:

“People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening…

…but my words, like silent raindrops, fell and echoed in the wells of silence.”

Despite making no inroads for change or even one small step for mankind, I have not been deterred. Just because people refuse to hear truth doesn’t mean I quit speaking it. I’ve now seen the value of speech that balances dignity and truth in equal measure, and is willing to hear from both sides of the dividing line. It’s taken a long time for me to see that my voice has value, even if it’s only so that my integrity can sleep at night.

And I’ll keep speaking up, even if my words are only heard and understood by the One who holds all injustice in his hand for future vindication.

The Sound of Silence Isn't What You Think It Is
     You mean to silence
     me, not knowing your efforts
     only send out the
     alert for heaven's
     emergency response team.
     Silencer, beware.