Meditations on being mute

Three Fridays ago, I woke up with no voice. When I tried to speak, I could feel the air stop in my throat. Attempting to scream resulted in a barely audible whisper. I would spend the next week almost entirely mute. Forced silence was a frustrating yet thought-provoking experience.

That first Friday was Erev Rosh Hashanah, and I found myself sitting at dinner with my boyfriend's family, unable to participate other than through smiles and nods. I was happy they had met me before, and I didn't have to worry about making a good first impression.

That was not the case at fall Bicker. I spent Sunday and Monday — days three and four — trying to meet new people while lacking the physical ability to introduce myself. I had to rely on ludicrous miming and the use of a whiteboard and marker, which I had bought following the suggestion of one of my advisees. Friends occasionally translated for me but generally amused themselves in the process as my attempts to communicate devolved into a bad game of charades.

Being silent perforce made me rude in general. For a week, I could only return passing greetings with a nod and a smile. If my acquaintance was looking in any direction but mine, he missed my hello. I found myself grateful for once for the custom that drives Europeans mad, the fact that for Americans "How are you?" is a greeting rather than an actual inquiry. Several times I had to cut short conversations with friends whom I hadn't seen since February by gesturing toward my throat, miming a telephone and pointing to my throat again. My wrist got tired with waving.

My laryngitis had academic consequences. My French professor grew increasingly disappointed as the time I was unable to participate in class lengthened. (If I were he, I might have appreciated being spared my horrendous accent for a week.) I tried to keep up in seminars but found that my whiteboard thought fragments were always way behind the pace of discussion. I did fine in precepts as long as my friends asked questions for me.

Being voiceless also increased my sense of vulnerability. I was unable to "talk" on the phone except through an elaborate system that allowed only yes-or-no answers, in which my knocking on whatever surface was immediately available meant "yes" and silence indicated "no." I'd always felt safe on campus before but felt less so when I knew I couldn't shout for help or use a blue light phone.

Losing my voice might have hindered me socially, but it was also in some ways a forced break. Unable to speak and slow to respond in other ways, I was able to concentrate on really listening to those around me. Freed from the need to immediately interject, I had the time to think about what others were telling me and to decide whether I really needed to say something at all.

My condition also forced others to listen. One morning at brunch, my whiteboard and I were the center of attention as I joked with several friends. The act of writing — and the waiting implied — made my comments much funnier than they would have been out loud. I appreciated so much that these people had taken the time to include me in a conversation in which I was unable to insert myself otherwise. I was also touched by how many people at whom I gesticulated wildly over the course of seven days asked about my voice and my health when they saw me again later. My week of imposed silence may have shown me how much of communication is verbal, but it also reminded me that the most important part of interaction among people is often unspoken. Emily Stolzenberg is a German major from Morgantown, W. Va. She can be reached at estolzen@princeton.edu.