Speechless in Manhattan
by Jenifer Pirtle
One Monday morning I woke up to find that my voice had disappeared. This was no minor hoarseness, but a full-blown absence of sound. I felt like a goldfish, mouth opening and closing in an ineffectual “O”. My doctor told me that a viral infection had left my vocal cords red, ravaged, and angry. The treatment? Several days without speaking. “No exceptions,” he stressed.
I meditate every morning, so a brief period of self-imposed silence seemed easy enough. My wordless regimen had become as essential as brushing my teeth, the noiseless soundtrack preparing me for the day.
Alone, in my apartment, all of this makes sense. Outside, however, it was a different story. I felt exposed, stripped of one of my “senses”. The usually invigorating energy of New York City was overwhelming. when I lived in Los Angeles, I’d see drivers wearing headphones in their ears. They were aurally sated, perhaps, but also dangerously muffled from the traffic noises around them. Walking mute in Manhattan, I felt similarly smothered. I shrank slightly and hurried to work.
In the office, I let co-workers know that I wouldn’t be able to speak for the next few days. Wordlessly (thanks to fax and E-mail), I tackled my urgent tasks without too much difficulty. At 6 p.m, I was surprised to find that, except for making and returning phone calls, I’d actually accomplished quite a lot. My day, quite literally, was a quiet triumph.
After figuring out how to navigate my silent world, I revelled in my predicament. Cloaked in silence, I felt powerful, a modern-day gumshoe. One the subway, I eavesdropped on conversations—the snippets of language (foreign and known) leaped out at me, a swirling mosaic of sound.
At my stop, the train doors lurched open, and I climbed the stairs. Oddly, without my voice, I felt more aware, as if the world had been thrown into high relief. My experiences seemed newly saturated—like the shock of Technicolor after years of watching only black-and-white films. I shut my apartment door and took in the soothing hum of the refrigerator.
My imposed stretch of silence brought with it moments of frustration—not being able to call my parents for a chat, or let someone know I’d be running a few minutes behind schedule—but even the struggles brought lessons. Most important, I learned how to be a better listener.
When I met a friend for breakfast, I couldn’t talk, but like people speaking different dialects, we managed to communicate. Visual and tactile cues became out links—the genuine laughter that rocks your entire body, the arch of an eyebrow that signals surprise, a soft touch on the arm conveying compassion. Friendship, I discovered, is a lot like love—a universal language.
After my throat healed, I tested my voice gingerly, choosing my words carefully. For a few days, I was content to let silences hang, the empty spaces highlighting the sound-filled ones.
I still schedule a block of time each day to let voice mail take my calls. The uninterrupted quiet lets me work more creatively and efficiently. At home, I’ve expanded my sunrise routine to include journal writing: the words comprise a silent conversation with myself.
Now, although I’m whole once again, I sometimes miss the journey I took during my week without words. The silence truly spoke to me, although I said nothing at all.
