In the first week of first grade, I was sent to the hall for talking out of turn. When my brother's class walked by on the way to the cafeteria, he said, "There's my stupid sister." That's me, the stupid sister, I thought, and shrank into the wall.
An aunt once told me to "Quiet down" during a Christmas celebration. My niece and nephew stared at me, open-mouthed. I spoke not another word in her presence all night.
A brother used to tell me and his wife, "You don't have to shout," at the dinner table. Neither of us was shouting.
In college, the only time when my natural volume, resonance, and enthusiasm were accepted as a natural part of me -- and a good part, at that -- my friend Charley and I used to have a "projection contest" during theatre rehearsal breaks. We'd stand on the stage apron and speak toward the back wall of the audience. Both of our voices resounded, without effort, without shouting.
I thought about Charlie today and my own "intensity" when I saw this mushroom burning in the forest.
I suppose I should apologize.
But I can't: I am who I am.
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