Week 2: Three little words
I stole my first voice when I was twenty. As I walked down the street, a man in a suit shouted a long string of words into his BlackBerry about how important he thought he was. I silently repeated his words, mocking him and yearning for his power of speech at the same time. But then, the sound from one of his phrases bounced off a nearby building and flew into my mouth, giving noise to the movements of my lips: “-deadline is tomorrow-”
The echo ended. The businessman’s voice sounded quieter. Only then did I realize that I had spoken. I touched my lips and tried to say something. Hello. Testing. No sound came out. Had the echo been my imagination? Or had I found a way to speak again?
I hunted echoes. I started my search near the same set of buildings where I had echoed the businessman. Then, I learned that the silence of the public library combined with the construction of the walls created the perfect breeding ground for echoes. With practice, I taught myself the trick of sharply drawing in my breath at just the right moment so that the echo would bounce into my mouth and sound would come from my throat. I took the echoes of clear-voiced, high-pitched children; the low, gravelly tones of old men; and every echo in between. But each echo that came from my mouth sounded like the person who had originally spoken it. Would any of them sound like me? If they did, how would I know?
I had not heard the sound of my own voice for several years. I lost it when it withered and died from disuse. A teacher warned me once that I would lose my voice if I did not use it. I tried to heed her advice, but precious few people wanted to hear what a weird girl like me had to say. The best among them exchanged looks among themselves when I spoke, an unspoken commentary on my strangeness, then returned to their former conversation as if I had said nothing. Others took time out of their conversations to mock my patterns of speech or ask me to perform my odd pronunciations for them. As my friendless childhood wore on and my fear grew, my voice dwindled to a whisper even when I felt I was screaming. When the day came that no sound came out of my mouth, no one noticed at all.
No, I did not want my own voice back, even if I could have it. But I wanted the power of speech again. If I could transfer my knowledge of echoes to the spoken words at their source, then I could have it back. So I chose a crowded street, the kind where I could be invisible without a second thought, and listened for a voice that sounded like it could spring from a young woman’s throat. On the end of a sentence, I took my breath, caught the voice, and brought it into my throat.
What would I say with the stranger’s voice, now that I had it?
“I am alive.”
The echo ended. The businessman’s voice sounded quieter. Only then did I realize that I had spoken. I touched my lips and tried to say something. Hello. Testing. No sound came out. Had the echo been my imagination? Or had I found a way to speak again?
I hunted echoes. I started my search near the same set of buildings where I had echoed the businessman. Then, I learned that the silence of the public library combined with the construction of the walls created the perfect breeding ground for echoes. With practice, I taught myself the trick of sharply drawing in my breath at just the right moment so that the echo would bounce into my mouth and sound would come from my throat. I took the echoes of clear-voiced, high-pitched children; the low, gravelly tones of old men; and every echo in between. But each echo that came from my mouth sounded like the person who had originally spoken it. Would any of them sound like me? If they did, how would I know?
I had not heard the sound of my own voice for several years. I lost it when it withered and died from disuse. A teacher warned me once that I would lose my voice if I did not use it. I tried to heed her advice, but precious few people wanted to hear what a weird girl like me had to say. The best among them exchanged looks among themselves when I spoke, an unspoken commentary on my strangeness, then returned to their former conversation as if I had said nothing. Others took time out of their conversations to mock my patterns of speech or ask me to perform my odd pronunciations for them. As my friendless childhood wore on and my fear grew, my voice dwindled to a whisper even when I felt I was screaming. When the day came that no sound came out of my mouth, no one noticed at all.
No, I did not want my own voice back, even if I could have it. But I wanted the power of speech again. If I could transfer my knowledge of echoes to the spoken words at their source, then I could have it back. So I chose a crowded street, the kind where I could be invisible without a second thought, and listened for a voice that sounded like it could spring from a young woman’s throat. On the end of a sentence, I took my breath, caught the voice, and brought it into my throat.
What would I say with the stranger’s voice, now that I had it?
“I am alive.”