With a stern look on her face,

She reminds me to be quiet,

To speak only when spoken to.

So I recite her words and repeat them like a prayer.

I remind myself not to talk back,

I remind myself that they are my elders.

They must be respected.

I must bend my knees in greeting

And respect them with everything I have.

I’m older now,

Even among friends,

I don’t speak unless spoken to.

I try to unlearn the words and the lashings

That made the words develop roots.

I hack away at the roots,

But they grow back, stronger,

Thicker than before.

Communication is something I have to learn on my own.

I have lost people in the process.

I don’t know what it means to be upset

Or to have a disagreement.

I was taught respect—

This respect meant my anger was for me alone;

It was never to be seen by another.

I’m older now,

I see the world for what it is,

For what I was never told it could be.

My voice isn't meant to only be heard in whispers.

No one is entitled to my respect;

They must earn it.

One day, I’ll dig deep enough to reach the roots,

Then, I’ll finally be rid of this anger

That’s made my gut so heavy.