Intergenerational Trauma in our Narrative Lives Mikayah Monique Parsons

I’m going to talk to you about my experience being mute. I erased the line, feeling immense anger as I toiled over the right way to tell my story without sounding fraudulent or, worse, inept. The task should have been a simple one, talking about some life-altering event, but I found myself floundering, suddenly incapable of a task so seemingly blatant. You would think the loss of voice would constitute a story worth telling. The more I wrote, however, the less sincere I felt.

I tried again. I’m going to talk to you about my experience being mute. I threw my pencil at the wall, proceeded to blush profusely with embarrassment, apologized to the pencil, and tried again. I’m going to–.

I groaned into my pillow, pulling my journal from beneath and flipping through the pages to find some form of inspiration. Creative writing evoked in me a sense of comfort and security to turn to in times of need. I was able to assume the name of someone other than myself while still taking on my own identity.

I laughed as I coursed through page after page of word vomit and stream-of-consciousness thoughts. The reason I had gone mute in the first place was my fear of my own mind. My community had always been astoundingly supportive of me and my...