This Voice

By Harriet May Savitz
                   As with many women my age, I was unaware of the power,  the potential of my woman's voice.  As a young girl, I was taught to adjust it so that this voice did not express ideas too harsh for those around me.  And so, when I heard it speak to me from parts no one else could hear, I hushed it.
             "Be still," I said.  "Behave," I cautioned this voice when its opinions begged to be heard.  When I ached to put into words what I felt, yet feared the repercussions.   I noticed even when young, that men were expected to let their voices shout and behave quite freely.  The world seemed eager to receive their ideas, and their passions.  Mine waited behind the curtain of obedience.
             This voice of mine did not take orders easily.  Nor did it accept what others thought should be its behavior.  Now and then it burst out from its hiding place.  In spite of everything it had been told.  In spite of what it was expected to be.  This woman's voice.  "How long do  you intend to keep me locked inside?" she whispered.  "Eventually, you know, I will escape."
             I did not know then about the other women's voices begging to be heard.  Political voices.  Medical voices.   Artists and writer's voices.  Executive voices.  I did not know that those voices were also frustrated, also waiting for their opportunity.  I did not realize their pain was mine.  Their battle mine, also.  They had their women stories to tell, their women's ideas to share, their women's discoveries, each of them.  I did not know then there was another way.
             I thought this woman's voice  would grow tired.  She had been at work inside my head for many years. But instead of growing weaker, she gained strength.  Occasionally, I let her be heard, but when she grew out of control or seemed to shock those around me, I stilled her.  "Quiet," I would tell this voice as I pushed it into the background.  "Do not upset everyone around you.  You are a woman's voice.  And you should not behave this way."
             As I grew older, this voice grew braver.  It did not seem to care what I thought or what I feared.  It spoke, sometimes  irreverently, of anything it chose.  I would hear  words come out of my mouth that shocked even me.  Words I was forbidden to repeat.  Words that were not spoken by a lady.  Words written on bathroom walls.  This voice of mine introduced me to people who were behaving in a similar manner. Daring.  Experimenting. Choosing to be honest.  Real.  And when necessary, demanding.
             And there was more.  This voice had something to say about the clothes I wore, the songs I sang.  It even had an opinion about my friends, old and new.   "Was this friendship working?" it asked me.  Could another work better?   Whatever I did,  wherever I traveled, the voice joined me.  Taunted me.  Challenged me.  "What are you waiting for?" it asked.  "At this time in your life, I could be your sword and your shield.  Let me show you what we can do together."      
             "Enough," I warned. 
             "More," this voice insisted.
             Sometimes it spoke with wisdom and amazed me.  Often, experience shaped its opinions.  It had vision when I did not and courage when I faltered.  If this woman's voice was frightened, she did not let fear suppress her message.
             What more does it want of me, I question at this time in my life?  Why does it persist?   What could I, at this older age, still have to say that must be heard?  Or shared.  Or understood. 
              And yet I know I cannot control her any longer, nor demand her silence.  This woman's voice has grown stronger than I am.  She no longer takes orders. 
             From anyone.