Lower your voice.

I can’t bear the sound of my voice. It’s loud and booming as I beckon my brother to come help with the dishes. It’s proud and unrelenting when I assign tasks to the members of my group. But I love that about it. I hate what it becomes when a beautiful man is standing in front of me, when a young woman crosses her legs on a couch, when a douche is blocking my way. I simply stand there as the words come out of my mouth — the voice sweet and heavenly but unfamiliar. The first time it happened my friend walked up to me and asked, “Why were you talking like that?” And I did not know at the time even though I did. It was a reflex almost. “Lower your voice, you’re a lady. Speak softly you’re a woman” had been repeated to me all my life. My voice reminds me of the lady I long to be but am not.



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NYU 2017. I want to write and design. And write, and design, and fight for social justice. But I am currently doing none of the following in college so in the midst of an identity crisis.

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