jen-lee-magic

Jen Lee is a writer and spoken word artist in Brooklyn, New York. She is a collector of stories, many of which unfold in her vibrant neighborhood or in the lives of her closest friends. Jen is the author of Don’t Write: A Reluctant Journal, and Solstice: Stories of Light in the Dark . She writes regularly about the creative process, among other things, at jenlee.net. She will be teaching two writing workshops at Squam Art Workshops in September, 2009.

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tigers-roar

A Voice, Untamed
by Jen Lee

My voice was tamed at an early age by a sharp whip called, Manners.  It curled and cracked with precision and a certain grace, marching my words into step, teaching my lips to form a tight line.

At some point I decided that performing for the whip wasn’t good for a voice, which is wild and free by nature.  I ran away from that circus, and I vowed that my daughter’s voices would roam freely all their days.

On one such day, we went to the Children’s Museum of Art.  As soon as we paid and entered, a sign was posted saying the downstairs would be closed for the next three hours to accommodate their summer camp.  Unfortunately for us, the downstairs area hosted the Ball Pond, which was the feature my oldest daughter was most excited about.  So we played.  We created.  I stalled.  For three hours.

When we were finally granted access, we saw that the Ball Pond was constructed–not of small balls–but of adult-sized exercise balls inside a padded cement coral.  My oldest daughter entered the ring confidently to romp in a menagerie of arms and legs and shouts and squeals.  Physically, it was the kind of space that would collapse my youngest daughter underneath its stormy waves, despite the fiery spirit in her that was pulling her in, in, in.

I stood outside a half-wall and held her hands while she jumped on a ball in place, just inside the wall.  She squealed.  She bounced.  She was part of the fun.  But she grew tired, and settled for standing on the half-wall and watching, holding my index fingers in her tight, tiny fists.  Girls in the Ball Pond were screaming with excitement and adding her own scream to the chorus was her last way to be a part of the wild play.

And then an older boy appeared right in front of her.

“Ow,” he said, holding his ears.  “Can you make that stop?” he was looking at her, then back at me.  “That’s hurting my ears.”  (Curl, crack.)

I thought about suggesting that he move to one of the other ninety-nine square feet of floor space, or pointing out that all the little girls were screaming, but I didn’t have the chance.

My daughter, hands still holding my fingers like anchors, stopped screaming.  She summoned her inner tigress, leaned her whole body forward, and roared.

And roared.

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