Last week, I caught a particularly annoying cold and lost my voice. As I showed up to class armed with masks and copious quantities of hand sanitizer, I noticed that I wasn’t raising my hand during lectures nearly as much as I usually do. I wasn’t asking my professors questions or answering theirs because of my voice; I didn’t bother trying to speak because I knew it wouldn’t work. Its silencing effect was annoying, and it was particularly irksome because this wasn't the first time my voice had held me back.
Growing up in Argentina, I struggled to roll my R’s. Beyond that barrier, I could speak, read and write just fine. However, I was missing a crucial element of Spanish speech, something that I only gained after speech therapy and vocal training; to this day, I still recall the “arararararar” exercises I would practice in the mirror each morning.
When I moved to Florida in elementary school, I was one of few students in my Spanish class who could roll my R’s, which became a fun little trick to teach my friends. Quickly losing my accent, I spoke to my American classmates in fluent English and enjoyed reading and writing. But even without the language barrier, my friends couldn’t always understand me. I spoke incredibly softly and, especially when nervous or excited, talked so quickly that my enunciation went out the window. My words slurred together, sometimes becoming all but unintelligible to my close friends and family. Once again, speaking had become a barrier to sharing my ideas.
I sang in my middle-school chorus, and I remember being taught to “throw my voice to the wall” and “elongate my vowels” during class. This dramatized version of loudness and enunciation helped me gain some competency in talking, but, around that time, I began getting “stuck” on words, especially when speaking Spanish. The stutter-like result ashamed me, and my voice shrank down again.
In high school, though, I was given a large platform on which to speak. The prospect of a speech was intimidating, but I wanted to share my ideas. So, I practiced. I rehearsed my speech to anyone and anything (including my dog) that would listen. And when I gave the speech, it was far from perfect, but it was out there. With time, I began speaking more and more and holding back less and less.
This process of gaining confidence in talking has been a strange journey of personal growth. It has entailed recognizing that some of the things I have to say deserve to be heard and that it is worth working towards gaining that voice. It has been a matter of overriding the anxiety that makes me want to rush through my words, of taking that internal deep breath and realizing that I’m not going to get anywhere if I can’t be understood.
It has also been a journey of patience. I am used to having to repeat myself a few times to be understood, and I am grateful whenever someone else also has the patience to give me multiple attempts at a phrase. But it has also been a journey of patience with myself — of giving myself the space to mess up and be okay with trying again. Over time, I have been able to focus less on the process of getting sound out and more on the words I want to share, and that has been a privilege.
Today, I’ve given successful speeches to international audiences. These have entailed ridiculously cool opportunities, and I am beyond grateful to the organizations that have given me a platform. But I am also grateful to the family, friends and teachers who not only heard me but understood me when I tried to speak. As I progress through college, I hope to keep talking, not only professionally but on a daily basis — even if I lose my voice every so often, and even if I still can’t get the “g” in “gracias” right.
Sara Kaufman is a sophomore from Fort Lauderdale, Fla. majoring in Biomedical Engineering. Her column focuses on the experiences she has had and lessons she has learned outside the classroom.
