Thursday, April 9, 2015

My Voice

I have a voice. I have a voice. I HAVE A VOICE.

This is my new mantra. It replaces several tried and true ones including, but not limited to, Put Down That Cookie and Fifty Is The New Twenty.  I have a platform through this and other blogs that I have played with, never giving much thought to the power of words. My words.  I do not dare imply that I will suddenly have an audience in the tens, waiting not so patiently for my next instalment, but I have the power to reach people. Or person, depending on how savvy I become.

I gave up my first go at Cleopatrasparachute out of sheer fatigue. It takes discipline  to sit down every day and type out a missive that is entertaining, or provocative or insightful. Some days I found my mind  filled with my own internal Charlie Brown teacher voice wah wahing out any hope of a creative nibble.  Some days all I really wanted to do was watch some mind numbing re-run on some obscure cable network.

My second blog, A Pocket Full of Wry,  was started as a way to keep my family and friends up to date on our transition to all things English. I wrote tantalizingly amusing anecdotes for the benefit of a small but loyal audience. That particular audience forgave readily my complete lack of humility and modesty. I wrote about our adventures and our trials as we schlepped across the big pond from the US to England. I wrote about homesickness and the things I miss. I quit that particular blog  abruptly after unknowingly and unwittingly upsetting an old friend. My memories did not quite match theirs. I felt deflated and defeated.

I am quite settled in England now, and have moved away from Rye, making my achingly clever blog title a bit obsolete. I am still on the south coast of England, but live closer to my husband's job. I have had plenty of time to reflect, and ponder, and mope and wonder. Even if I offended the absolute crap out of someone, I still made an impact. My words meant something. I had a voice.

I had a voice, and I stilled it out of fear of upset, and  because I am from the Deep South in America where you are taught politeness trumps EVERYTHING, and because I respect so much this particular person, and because I was afraid. I was afraid of the power of this voice. If my one seemingly insignificant post could have the power to upset the cosmic order of my very southern upbringing, then I must use this power for the good of the people. Or something a little less pageant interview question response-y.

I am not advocating starting some sort of blog coup, whereabouts I endeavour to offend or belittle or cause general mayhem and upset. Quite the contrary. I would rather try to educate, or enlighten, or elucidate.  Perhaps if all else fails,  at the very minimum I could incite a riot of laughter, or provide a natural alternative to pharmaceutical cures for insomnia.

I have a voice. I have a voice where I can speak to the injustices I see or experience or hear about. I can join my voice with other voices decrying behaviour less than human or less than loving. I can honour my past while still recognising its imperfections. I have a voice.  I have a voice. I HAVE A VOICE.

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