Viva Voce

It’s been ages since I last wrote anything. I haven’t blogged for months, have barely tweeted, and Facebook and I are ‘on a break’. I still write the occasional ridiculous poem or silly story to amuse my classes, but even that has stopped recently when I inadvertently hurt a very lovely student’s feelings with something I wrote. Doing that made me feel I’d never write again, as I realised that I care far too much what others think, how they react to what I’ve said.

But now, this week, I’ve lost my voice.

I’m back in school after a couple of days off with the worst flu I’ve had in years (and yes, I had the jab…) but my voice, or most of it, hasn’t returned to help me out. Teaching without a voice is like playing tennis without a racquet. You do your best but you end up looking silly. I try to speak, but what comes out sounds like Marge Simpson at the end of a very bad day. It’s not even the sort of husky, vaguely attractive kind of hoarseness. It doesn’t sound menacing either, which can always be useful among teenagers approaching the end of term. It’s just like a cross between a squeaky wheel and a thirteen-year-old boy whose voice is breaking. I’ve told my classes that I won’t be offended if they laugh at me. To do them credit, they haven’t: perhaps they’re glad of the break from listening.

The old story applies; you don’t miss what you take for granted until it’s no longer there. This week, I’ve realised just how much I talk in class. Ironic, really; when I think back, my school reports always said that I was ‘quiet and conscientious’ but ‘could speak out more in class’. Now, it seems, I barely ever stop. Writing my students’ Christmas reports has felt like a huge release this year, as it’s allowed me to communicate in detail without the need for audible speech. I’ve never used text or email so intensively. I’ve almost reached the point of passing notes in class.

At home, it’s even worse. Either it’s first thing in the morning and I’m still at the coughing, choking stage and the Marge Simpson croak hasn’t even got going yet, or it’s the evening after croaking my way through the day and Marge has gone. There’s little point even trying. Someone phoned me last night – I did try to speak, but the person probably felt as though they’d dialled their own nuisance call. I hope this ends soon. That song springs to mind, about wanting your two front teeth for Christmas: I just want my voice back. Although I think of myself as quiet, I’ve realised this week just how much I actually like to talk.

It's topical. We all need our voice to be heard. There are the gilets jaunes protests in Paris, the calls for the People’s Vote in the UK, petitions and protests everywhere. The Conservative Party held a Vote of Confidence in Theresa May as leader. We had our say on Brexit, but maybe some minds have changed, while Remainers remain Remainers. Even on simpler matters, we want our say on how Christmas is to be celebrated, how our day is going, what’s the latest gossip or maybe just the weather.

I’d like to recover my voice in writing just as much as I wish my throat and larynx would recover. I’d like to get back to writing harmless silliness to amuse my classes, or more serious sample argumentative or personal essays or debate speeches. I’d like to get back to trying to write blogs about my sideways look at life, hoping people might read it and that maybe someone might have that delighted spark of recognition: ‘I feel that way too!’

In Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout Finch gets into trouble in her first week at school because she already knows how to read. Her comment, later in life, is: “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.”
I didn’t realise that I love to have a voice. I need my voice back. I need to be able to speak without sounding as though I’m trying to open a rusty gate in my own throat. And I need my writing voice back too. The year when Lost Voice Guy won Britain’s Got Talent is almost over; my patience with losing mine is nearly gone.

Aaron Sorkin says that ‘The most valuable thing you have is your own voice.’ I need to recover mine. A new year is approaching. It’s time to attempt some new words.