Being heard above all the noise

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 16/06/2023 (1176 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

What does it mean to have a voice and to be invited to speak? How do we decide who to make room for at the podium?

Often, we concede to the loudest voice or the one who speaks with a certain authority, earned or not. The quieter voices need our ears too; they need us to hush the others and advocate for them. “This one wants to speak. Quiet everyone, quiet now.”

Giving the quieter voice a space to speak means the rest of us must work so they may be heard.

We are all essential, in our silence, to ensure the small voice is lifted up.

We are all essential, in our silence, to ensure the small voice is lifted up.

As the youngest child in my family, I know what it is to be the small voice. I’m used to being talked over, interrupted and dismissed, always a few steps behind, always encountering things for the first time that my older brothers already knew well.

This has had an effect on how I have moved through the world and how much I assume people care about what I have to say (or not). Often I find myself waiting for the crowd to quiet down before I speak. Often, it never does, and I never do.

As a child, this would mean inventing long stories told only to myself, or disappearing into books for long periods of time. I was lucky in that I had extraordinary teachers who saw value in writing, allowed me to express myself in this way and told me I was good at it.

We can write without someone interrupting, with no one at the ready to incorrectly finish our sentences.

This is one beauty and privilege of written words: the gift to expose, develop, play with and resolve an idea without knowledge of any assumptions of where you might be going with it. I won’t know if your attention has drifted by this point or that. On the page, I have no reason to doubt you will hear me out.

When my step-daughter was in her teens, we had a literal soapbox, a wooden crate, in the hallway. Whenever any family member really needed to be heard, to be allowed to rage and persuade without interruption, that was their podium.

My husband and I, both youngest children in our families, know what it is to need to be granted space, not to simply claim it. We all have taken turns on the soapbox.

Now, as a parent to three young children, I rarely finish a thought, let alone a coherent sentence. Their wants and constant crises are easily drowned out by adult needs, but I try to hush the competing voices of my own thoughts so theirs can be heard and heeded.

The soapbox is still around, and there’s no doubt their teen years will call it back into service.

More recently, social media has given space and volume to many voices. The message has to be short, concise, pointed. There is no time to explore an idea in full, but unlimited space is given to small bursts of commentary and response.

The form is made for incessant interruptions and arguments. There is no need to hear someone out, as there is no opportunity to say much more than a few sentences.

But social media has also been a solace to people like me. A place for a small voice to share a thought or an issue, and perhaps be heard by others.

Over time, these interactions have begun to convince me that those long stories I told to myself may have a broader audience. Words of encouragement drift my way and I find my voice being amplified and encouraged by others. Given my lifetime of interruptions, this is most unexpected.

I am a little sister, a fierce mother and step-mother, an overwhelmed parent and spouse in a fixer-upper, a Métis landholder, a shusher of the loud voices and celebrator of the small.

It was through social media the Free Press heard my small voice. Hushing out the barrage of hot takes and trolls, editors felt I have something to say that people want to hear.

These people, our neighbours, collectors and curators of the voices of our city, have asked me to raise mine with them and be part of the collective story of this place we call home.

I am a little sister, a fierce mother and step-mother, an overwhelmed parent and spouse in a fixer-upper, a Métis landholder, a shusher of the loud voices and celebrator of the small.

I am honoured to have been asked to contribute to the 150 years of telling the story of this place. I hope you will hear me out.