Silence was not only golden in the house I grew up in; it was an absolute requirement. I was raised on a saying that was repeated to me an awful lot: Children should be seen and not heard. This was a rule, not a recommendation. That meant no asking questions during adult conversations, no opinions about the family, and most decisively, no correcting elders, no matter their mistakes. She would teach respect that way.
As kid, I was always asking questions. Curious and watchful, I kept my unspoken thoughts to myself. I’d hear something in family discussions and I’d want to be like, That’s not quite right, but I held my tongue. I remember once, when I was not yet 10, having corrected an uncle who garbled a quotation (I can no longer recall the context; it may indeed have been … but never mind), I was a tiny one and he was explaining something to me in words I couldn’t grasp and he had got it wrong, he wasn’t even quoting himself, and somehow I knew, and somebody said, “But what does it matter?” I can still feel the eyes heavy on me. Later, my mother told me in private, Even if you’re right, you don’t talk back to adults. It’s rude.
That stuck with me for decades.
I was the girl questioning herself every single step of the way. I’d write down ideas in notebooks I never shared. I might even allow children to sound off in group discussions at school until the topic changed. It wasn’t just a timidity; it was a terror of being “rude” or talking too much. That fear of cake never entirely went away with adulthood.
But something changed when I got online. At first, I used a pen name. The distance gave me courage. I could actually speak without checking my back. I wrote about feelings, about injustice, about becoming who you are. And to my surprise, people connected. Strangers encouraged me. Friends told me, I didn’t realize you had that much to say.
And that was when I knew: that silence was never my nature. It was an inherited tradition to which I was programmed. And, also like many traditions, it began with the best of intentions as an attempt to teach kids about how to show respect but became harmful when taken too far.
And it was when I finally let myself tell the truth as ugly and dirty as it was even if it was only on paper, that I began to have a breath. I did not see tradition as law any more. I thought about it somewhat dispassionately: what serves, I’ll keep; what stifles, I’ll let loose.
Now, when I hear the phrase Children should be seen and not heard, I pause. I get where it is coming from, but I also know the sting of the attack. I want my future children to talk to question, to opine, to participate. Respectfully, yes. But boldly. So because a voice is not disrespectful. It’s a sign of life.
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