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I would like to further explore how I understand silence as a first generation Cambodian-American within the Cambodian community as well as within my own family. In the previous web event paper I wrote about how stifling it was to live in a household dictated by my father. What I struggled to come to terms with was the unexpected guilt that I felt after I realized that my choice to speak out against him may have silenced him. But what I want to explore in this web event paper is how silence is exemplified when I am with my grandparents and any other Khmer speaking person who isn’t intent on purposefully silencing me.

Christine Sun Kim: Silence as Discipline and Mediated Viewings of Art

“Hold your tongue”.  “Use your inside voice”.  “Don’t talk back”.  These common phrases all refer to controlling your silence/voice as a way of demonstrating control and discipline.    From a young age, children are taught rules of silence and quietness at home and at school, to varying degrees given that culture of their environment.  Many of my classmates have talked about being silence in their homes growing up as a sign of respect.  But what does it mean when a deaf person is expected to control their voice or to be aware of the noises they make? Christine Sun Kim, who was born deaf was still expected to lives within the conventional norms of sound.  She states, as a child, “They would tell me: be quiet.  Don’t burp, drag your feet, make loud noises.  I learned to be respectful of their sound.” (Selby)  This experience led Kim to question what it meant to have control over sound and explore this through the avenue of art.

          In our class journey, we have recognized, outlined, and named several different types of silence. Our daily silent practices display this especially. We’ve been led through guided meditations, during which the conflicting dialogues in our minds cleared but the room was still full of Anne’s voice. We watched a silent pianist for 4 minutes, who aimed to prove that there is no silence, as the world consists of layers of sound, many of which we can only hear when we’re both quiet and listening. We had one class during which we were mindful, placing all of our attention in our feet, and we walked around without speaking or communicating in any form with others. Sarina led an exercise which was about communicating silently, with our bodies, in an action game. I led a blind contour drawing exercise. We’ve made collaboratively written short stories and engaged in soundless free-writes on our assumptions and what has been unspoken between us.

          Most of the exercise facilitators have taken the “silence” requirement to mean the absence of sound. This brings me back to the first question I wrote about in this class – which was inspired by the image of the empty library; I wondered if a library is silent, or a book. Although it has the capacity to be a noiseless space, it is full of symbols and dormant meaning -- meaning that must be read to be heard.

My thoughts are fractured and fracturing. My visit to the moon bench (where I will remain for the rest of the semester) wasn't memorable, to say the least. While I was sitting there I was aware that there was a storm brewing somewhere off the coast, and it seemed appropriate. The weather is cold and nasty, it has transformed my mood which was initially one of lightheartedness into one reflective of the storm, dark and gloomy. Sarah C's post stands out to me because she has found "a gateway to Mother Earth herself." I would love to visit the duck pond, maybe we could go as a class? I feel like I need to reconnect to the Earth and nature, even while I was sitting outside in the midst of it I did not feel connected to it. I felt very distracted, and I think my gameplan for next week will be to try and continue to find ways to connect with the Earth. Rather than change my spot on campus I would like to try and change my perspective or mindset when visiting my spot and see how this changes it.

Disclaimer: This is entirely tongue-in-cheek

Oops, accidentally posted twice.

Attached is my web event for Anne. 

Hybrid Identities; Silenced Selves

            Growing up in a country that was not my own, as I tried to adopt behaviors in order to fit in socially in school and in college, I often felt as though I was abandoning traits that were essential to who I was. In her memoir, Rigoberta Menchú talks about being a Quiché woman but not representing all factors of that identity as a result of having learned Spanish. John Edgar Wideman echoed similar sentiments in saying that the higher he moved on the social ladder, the more alienated he felt from his home, family and more specifically his brother. What is the price that those from marginalized groups must pay when attempting to achieve social mobility by adapting to the dominant culture? Which aspects of their culture and identity are silenced as they choose to highlight or give voice to other versions of the self? How are these people viewed not only by the dominant culture but also by their home culture? I often fear being called a traitor by my family and I hide my accomplishments from them to avoid being seen as “the other.” In comparing the experiences of Rigoberta Mechú and John Edgar Wideman to my own, is it worth the risk to loose a part of the self in order to help our communities and ourselves?