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This morning, I received my third rejection for an Op-Ed article I can feel in my bones. Killer alto. Too musical theater. Not the right fit.
I have spent a lot of my life using my voice to take up space. I have also spent a lot of my life silencing my voice in the corner of my body. The room. The world. Feeling silenced by people or things who told me I wasn’t enough.
Some days, I think I know exactly how to use her, my voice. Grind my booming belt at the end of “Honey Bun” even after Mrs. Marx told me not to. I call that protest; telling the naysayers to bugger off; you cannot silence my song.
Other days, I muffle myself backstage. Shut the fuck up, I say, no one wants to hear.
But ultimately, I find myself airing towards carnage. He didn’t just say alto. I said that it was “killer.” And so I dig to the depths of the most swollen part of my faith and tell myself to keep going. I will find another place to sing.
ha ha! I don't believe this.
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