BY SARAH MACINTOSH
Iāll admit itāI was shocked when I was first asked to be a part of this project. But the shock didnāt linger; it turned quickly into delight. Although the role I was asked to serve in the project is uncommon and even difficult to describe, I know it well. I have also seen, heard, and felt its life-giving effects so many times that I was able to walk my unfamous, unknown, and non-degree-holding self confidently into a room with some of the most gifted treasures that writing has to offer and lead them in writing. Just a sampling:
- ā¢ Revolutionary biblical translator? Check!
- ā¢ Unbelievably humble yet iconic musician? Check!
- ā¢ New York Times bestselling author, eh? Check!
- ā¢ Americana songbird whose voice raises hands, hearts, and arm hair? Check!
The role I am describing is one of a writing workshop leader for a nonprofit called the Fold. The organization, birthed and nurtured in 2016 by my dear friend and fellow musician/songwriter Leslie Jordan, has fervently sought to serve writers in a way that is greatly needed yet often overlooked. The Foldās vision is āhelping writers and songwriters find their original voice in the safety of communityā1āand oh, how it has, not only for others, but also for me.
I was born and raised in Texas. I am fluent in drawl and yāall language. Still to this day, though I no longer live in Texas, when I hear someone speaking from my place of origin, I can feel my shoulders relax and my heart rate slow.
After moving from Texas in the middle of my senior year of high school, I arrived in frosty Boulder, Colorado, where my beloved Texas tongue was hated, berated, and demeaned. I understood why my voice was met with such dislike by those in Boulder: Texans and Californians were flooding into that beautiful state, driving up home prices, crowding freeways and ski resorts, and bringing with them the immaturity and lack of respect that often come with a tourist or out-of-towner mind-set. They were also filling the sky with smog faster than nature could disperse it.
As a result, my ideas and personhood were judged based on whether I introduced myself as Sarah or, as my Deedee called me, Say-ruh. I am embarrassed to say that I abandoned my accent. I wanted to belong, to be heard, to be understood and known for who I was, not who my Texas accent led others to believe I was. Without truly realizing it, I covered my voice over, flattened it out, and stamped down upon any bit of character left in the way I said my words, till my language sounded like the native tongue of nowhere.
Although I sometimes feel saddened by the loss of my drawl, nothing compares to the sadness I feel when I think about the years I spent silencing my original voice. When there is shame saying āSay-ruh,ā there is shame being Say-ruh.
In the years that followed, I traveled as a singer, speaker, and songwriter, all the while continuing to allow others to rename me again and again. Each time, I adjusted my voice to conform to their preferences. I bent my God-created being, believing I would receive the belonging, acceptance, and knowing that I craved. My desire was for them, and they ruled over me.
It took years before I could see how spiritually emaciated I had become, yet through Godās intimate and intentional persistenceāGodās faithfulnessāI finally saw. The revelation came while I was in community with others who were spiritually emaciated as well. Others who shared the native tongue of nowhere in order to belong somewhere. Others who had given up their original voice. Our need, our starved state, hummed along with Davidās as he sang:
āāā
When I kept silent, my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day...