Voicelessness

I was speechless when Bic Runga left our table. I wanted to cry. Partly because I’m what Randy Newman calls – “a real emotional girl”, partly, because I simply couldn’t speak. I was made acutely aware of my internal emotional landscape when vocally silent for three and a half weeks following surgery to remove a cyst from my vocal folds. A very simple op, but, for a professional singer and full-time singing teacher, this was a crash course in learning how to ‘teach yourself what you most need to learn’ and a ‘trust exercise’ of the ‘nth’ degree. Aren’t singers always suffering vocal injury? Oh yes, nodules, hemorrhaged vocal cords and polyps are common as muck: Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Adele? You name ‘em – they’ve had ‘em. I had ‘nodes’ too, in the early 90s and consequently coach singers how to avoid damage and strain allowing these conditions to abate with good voice use. But, that ‘little cysta’ of mine, she was different. She felt and affected my voice differently. My voice disappeared. Like the nightmares where you open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out? I was told that she must be surgically removed! No singer likes the idea of a scalpel-happy surgeon diggin’ around in their soft squidgy bits – no matter how skilled they might be. Most ENT specialists and speech pathologists ‘moralistically’ waggle their fingers at singers presuming that all damage is due to incorrect use. But this cyst came – as cysts do – as a result of ‘vocal’ and (unsurprisingly) ‘emotional’ trauma. A series of events and setbacks mid year included a nasty bout of laryngitis that I couldn’t shake. Shirley Manson from Garbage had a cyst and didn’t sing for a year. A fellow voice-teacher, who didn’t sing for two years post operatively compounded my fear by claiming her voice was ‘different’. Sadly, unlike the endless commentary about sports injury on Sportstalk Radio, singers don’t seem to want publicity surrounding these supposed ‘weaknesses’ or injury for fear of ‘loss of face’ or work. It wasn’t until the excruciating pain the day after singing to a dying man, that I knew I had to throw myself at the mercy of the public health system. Bruce passed away within hours of this surprise living-room concert. Sadly, I was too sick to sing at his funeral. As we both sat in the Acupuncturist’s waiting room, Jennifer Ward-Lealand, clearly concerned for my two centimeter-long, adjustable vibrating ligaments, said “But Caitlin, they’re your income!”. Well yes…… and no. A voice is not just a reflection of personality, a window to your soul, a means of artistic expression, the primary communicator, a comforter and soother and an emotional barometer – a voice is an indicator of existence – especially to a legally blind woman. I use my voice as a sighted person uses their eyes; to sound out my surroundings and listen for the reflections to position myself. I ask questions to picture what was going on and who – if anyone – was listening. As a singer, I use my voice to cast spells, to worship, protest, destroy, lull and express. As voice teacher, I am constantly demonstrating and learning. My voice IS who I am. Forced to find a voice that wasn’t necessarily phonic, I temporarily entered the ‘silent’ world that many cultures have used as a gateway to creativity and enlightenment. Expensive ‘silent retreats’ remove you from your surroundings; I had to communicate right in the thick of the chaos. Ironically for a blind woman, many people presumed I was deaf. There is great serenity in vocal silence, but ultimately, when it is chosen rather than imposed. It took on new meaning. Previously, silence was a means of punishment, a deliberate “I’m not speaking to you” passive aggression. If I was quiet – you knew something was up…. trouble. Without being aware of it, the alternative therapies I employed to successfully reduce the size of the cyst (acupuncture, homeopathy and hypnotherapy) were inadvertently ‘turning the soil’ in preparation for voicelessness. These practices forced me to be ‘still’ – something I was unlikely to do – even if lying in bed or sitting reading. I started using these treatments for depression, anxiety and insomnia. But then, the cyst was diagnosed and I found myself in exactly the right place at the right time. Without these therapies, I would not have coped – my panic was positively palpable. Instead, pre and post surgery, I was a calm little bliss-ball with the lowest blood pressure the nurse had seen in ages. In the stillness the work is done: the conscious healing, meditation, listening, observation and reflection. I understand how, and why, my batteries got so low. I wasn’t just ‘being’, I was constantly pushing at life – and too hard. The non-speaking mode is receptive. I’ve always enjoyed wandering through art galleries and museums, walking the streets of foreign cities (without the mother tongue), communing with nature, watching movies (from the front row of course!) browsing in book or record shops, attending lectures, listening to music, reading or eating out alone and listening to all the conversations around me – in vocal silence. People warm to a silent person. Perhaps they’re less able to judge what someone’s voice ‘reveals’ about them: their personality, status and culture. Similarly, we’re reminded of our humanness amongst naked bodies in the changing rooms of a public swimming pool. We have less to ‘judge’ with a silent person. Lack of voice is one less thing to make assumptions about or dislike. Or, perhaps people are judging the ‘silence’ already, by presuming a quietness or sweetness. Silence can be seen as non-threatening and docile – to be silenced or ‘not given a voice’. Or, it can be seen as a means of protest or stubbornness – “they’re refusing to talk to me”, “I have nothing to say to you”, a ‘vow of silence’ and having the right to remain silent. Character assumptions are based on communication style. Loud = confident. Quiet = dumb and boring. Talkative = full of themselves vs. subdued = interesting and introspective. Postoperatively, I suddenly became a quiet person. People I’d never met before saw me as kindred (unaware of just how offensively loud I can be!). Kids gravitated towards me – they don’t use language anyway. I was on their level, not sidetracked by adult stuff ‘up there’ over their heads. We had better things to do – like draw pictures and make silly faces. I was made aware of just how loud some people can be – at the expense of others (and the whole sonic environment they ’pollute’). I suddenly heard all the “loud buggers, talking crap” as one new ‘quiet’ brethren pointed out. “They just want to hear the sound of their own voices, to be the centre of attention”. Sure enough, I watched and listened like I was having an out-of-body experience to the ‘dominance’ of the loudest talkers, the railroaders, the conversation stealers, interjectors and steerers. And let me tell yah – these people really don’t like silence! Worse still, they don’t like a defector like me being silent. They want the ‘old’ Caitlin back. She pulled her weight in conversation. She was entertaining. Participation and ‘contribution’ was expected. We either adopt of rebel against our family, peer and cultural communication styles. I had to be loud, out of mere survival – trying to get a word in edgeways with an English Professor father and a gregariously outspoken Redheaded Scorpio mother. Add to the mix my partial sightedness, wherein you must talk at whatever volume ensures you are ‘heard’. You are oblivious to the ‘silencing’ looks of people wishing you to ‘turn down’ or shut up. Without visual cues, it’s difficult to perceive whether you are being listened to, by whom, or when it is safe to enter a conversation – so – you just take a stab in the dark (so to speak) and speak. Writing three pages every morning inadvertently honed the near obsolete skill of ‘long hand’ writing. This helped me in communicating via an endless stream of notepads (tissues and tablecloths if I got desperate!) The more excited I got, the faster and more illegible my handwriting became. I now have a one-sided record of three weeks of conversations (and more notes from noisy social gatherings where I just couldn’t compete with the background noise after that). With mention of the ‘C’ word, a cyst also lost me a few friends whose own fear, I suppose, was projected onto me. I didn’t care – I was having too good a time. I still went out and socialized. Like the night of the NZ Music Awards where I caught up with Bic after first meeting her 20 years ago. Had I been my usual gushing self, I may well have overwhelmed the very quiet Miss Runga and missed out on her reflections on life overseas. That night was frightening for me as I’d only just started to make little noises with my newly recovered cords and the terrifying unknown of what the future would hold for me musically was tapping me incessantly on the shoulder. At least I didn’t get too drunk as my writing would’ve been completely illegible. Just in case my voice never came back to its full strength again, I gave copies of my CD to Matt from Concord Dawn to get remixed. Some strange people got jealous with my scribbling and took the pad and pen from me. It felt like someone grabbing the microphone off me mid song. Ahem, Excuse me? Writing slows down communication, providing extra space, deliberation and pause for reflection. Your average ‘big talker’ – like me – doesn’t like ‘dead air’ which constitutes a waste of valuable airtime. I’m used to participating in rapid-fire, witty repartee in which there’s barely time to breathe. Interjections and asides are timing-dependent, becoming obsolete when tangents are followed, the wind changes and the opportunity for participation is lost. Often I would regret my ‘off the cuff’ ejaculations immediately after uttering them. Now, I can just keep my thoughts – and emotions – to myself and run less risk of saying something I shouldn’t have. Just like my Nana used to say – “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all”. Amen Murtle Evans, NOW I understand. Why write down something unessential and bitchy? You’ll just get a sore hand… and someone who oughtn’t, might see it. Tis said that women talk more than seven times as much as men. Men will often think before responding whereas women often think as they speak. A lot of the ‘work’ of communication is still women’s work: establishing rapport, mediation, drawing participation from quieter parties, airing grievances, damage control, scene-setting. Without the ability to speak, there’s less pressure to conform to this role, to ‘fill the gaps’, jolly-along, entertain, be the focal point or be expected to say something witty or profound. One jazz bassist claimed that in my silent state, I was “the perfect wife” and wanted to take me home “as an example” to his beloved. By ‘sitting out’ conversations you absorb more, taking mental notes and developing ideas – even as the conversation shifts and moves on. I’ve become aware of the good listeners, and, who the lip-readers are. Tessa, it transpires has always looked at people’s lips, “where all the action is” during conversation. Not being able to see facial features, it’s little wonder that I’ve fallen apart in loud environments. Sure I used gesture, movement and expression – but I don’t get to see these things in return to complete the circle. Vocal silence revealed the people who don’t ‘engage’ in communication. They either mull over what’s been said, or, plan what to say next rather than responding with you ‘in the moment’. When I was the one doing ‘all the work’, this didn’t bother me, I’d communicate for two – oblivious to whether they were with me in spirit, or not. As for resuming voice use: I was like a baby trying out and experimenting with their brand new instrument for the first time. But, unlike the disinhibited, fearlessness of a baby, my new voice was full of question and doubt. Is this safe? Should I be making noise and following the advice of the Surgeon or the advice of the voice pathologist who suggested complete vocal silence for five to six weeks? Would I get my old voice back that took me so many years to tame and ‘mature’? I’m here to tell all the other singers out there that I have been to the mountaintop, and I believe! I had to. I found the first public performance at the Martinborough Food and Wine Festival, sharing stage and band with Nathan Haines was definitely the deep end. The cold splash as I hit the water certainly woke me up. I felt as if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Feeling fearful and desperate to perk myself up I drank the fine wine provided and pumped myself with Red Bull and coffee. As a consequence – I was racked with guilt and ashamed of falling off the wagon I’d been piously riding for eight months. So, I took action. I bumped up the hypnotherapy to build confidence instead of using artificial means and started taking my own advice. I hadn’t received any voice therapy in recovery as, I assume, they considered me to be an ‘expert’. Though I’d really wanted to sit at the feet of the guru and be told what to do, there came a certain power when I claimed the role of voice teacher for myself. Why not, isn’t that what people pay me to do? Physician, heal thyself. It’s a necessarily slow road to recovery. You can’t expect too much of yourself too soon. I just had to have faith in the good vocal technique that has now proven itself to be transformative and healing. My teaching is now educated by this scary but valuable experience. As if I wasn’t tough enough before, I’ve become even more conscious of cause and effect. I don’t expect results if I don’t put in the disciplined practice. I’ve never taken my voice for granted, but now, I feel as if I’ve been given a ‘second chance’ and light bulbs have been going off left right and centre ever since I was informed that the cyst existed.