Waterdrops on Leaves

When you speak into a silent room, or write on a blank page, you give voice. Giving voice is a gesture of belonging. It says, “I am here, I have something to say, I am part of this.”

It seems so simple. Yet it can be excruciatingly difficult, especially if you are ashamed. I recently ran into a friend I hadn’t seen for awhile. After we greeted each other she grabbed my arm, pulled me close and whispered, “I just lost a home to the bank. I haven’t spoken to anyone about it, but I know I can talk to you because you know what I am going through. Can we have lunch?”

My friend was not someone who had recklessly entered homeownership. In fact, she’s owned multiple homes for decades. The one she lost to the bank was in good standing for over 30 years. She followed every step laid out for seeking relief, short sale, and refinance but was told, “no, there are no options for you.” Something is wrong with this picture. And it’s not a lack of sincerity on her part to follow through on her promise to pay the debt. Yet when we did have lunch, she continued to speak in hushed tones while glancing over her shoulder so as not to be heard.

In the midst of foreclosure shame can move us into invisibility, into silence. We remain silent because that’s what we’ve learned to do. But it hasn’t always been this way.

When I was little I made a daily art of using my voice. When I was unjustly told “no,” or felt squelched, upset, ignored, unheard, or not included I would throw myself belly-down on the ground in a chaotic orchestra of fist pounding and leg kicking in a righteous yelling tantrum. Once I even cracked my head open on the sidewalk when I had to leave Disneyland. I knew how to throw my voice (and my body) into a room and claim it just because I was in it. But something happened between then and now. I learned to hush up. To be a good girl. I learned to lie by omission. I learned to participate in the silences of class so I could belong.

My mom was skilled at this and she taught me well. As a single mom raising two daughters she was always on the financial edge. Because of her chronic blood clotting disorder, mounting medical bills, and inability to get medical insurance, she had to file bankruptcy, twice. So “financial failure” wasn’t unfamiliar to me, yet underneath it was a desire to fit in and move up the social ladder, or at least appear as if we had. My mom was all about dressing the part. Once she used a whole paycheck to buy a dress and a pair of shoes at Neiman Marcus. When I was in middle school she stole a red silk blouse from Bloomingdales to wear to a job interview. I wore it for my senior pictures. Despite being broke, my mom took my sister and I places. We were required to wear dresses with slips, tights, buckle shoes and coats with matching hats. We never stayed at the exclusive hotels, but we often ate at them. We shared meals, and by her command ordered “just water please,” at places such as The Palace Arms at the Brown Palace Hotel, the Palm Court at The Plaza, and Peacock Alley at The Waldorf Astoria.

I learned that you could dress your way into bathrooms that had maids even if you could never afford one, or you could manner your way to the most posh of tables as long as you knew how to put your napkin on your lap, that your butter plate was on the left, the difference between the salad fork and dinner fork, and the dessert spoon is at the top of the plate. I also learned that it was rude to talk about money. You never ask people how much money they have or make. It’s tacky. You don’t speak about money struggles. You don’t look as if you don’t have any, even if you don’t. You keep that quiet if you want to belong. And no matter what, you must believe that if you work hard enough and do things right, then you will belong. These are the lessons of the middle class. They were what you needed to know to get there if you weren’t already, to stay there if you were, or to gracefully move up to the top.

After bankruptcy and foreclosure I realized that I never was in the door. Not really. I was always a lost paycheck or one major illness away from losing it all. I also realized that underneath the articles of pretense was an inner core of unworthiness formed by the tangible and intangible realities of a class-based society. Foreclosure put me, and it, out into the full light of day.

4.4 million completed foreclosures have taken place since the financial crisis of 2008 according to a recent article in Business Insider. That number doesn’t include all those still struggling, on the edge, or underwater (having mortgages higher than the home value). We defaulted ones have become an ungraspable number. A silent voice of millions. In our time of foreclosure, of putting people out, I am interested in what a foreclosed voice has to say.

I have been writing and speaking about foreclosure since my home was auctioned off in 2010 and I still wake up everyday with the question—who am I to name this experience of being put out? Shouldn’t I just put on my buckle shoes, hush up, put my napkin back on my lap so I can get to the table and try for another piece of the pie? The problem is the pie is gone. And once we realize that, we see there isn’t even a table. So what does that mean for the 4.4 million+ defaulted ones and the lives we touch? We all are experts in this experience. When I speak or write from the depth of my experience, I am an expert and I have much to say. In talking to me, my friend realized she also has much to say. I imagine you do too whether you have gone through it personally or know someone who has. Together our voices can break something open other than our own shame filled heads.

When we give voice, we come home. We enter a new house of belonging—one in which the very foundation is WORTH. After all, worth means to become. To become is to come to be. When we put our voice into the room or on the page, we come to be precisely because we are.

 

 

 

 

Pin It on Pinterest