The Power of Speech

My long journey to reclaim my voice was finally nearly over

I took a wide berth around an elderly woman that was sitting on a set of steps leading up from the sidewalk. She was wrapped in several layers of scraggly shawls and bent forward to peer at me. Her mouth opened in a wide, toothless grin. I staggered backwards in shock and she cackled loudly.

These streets were unfamiliar to me and, despite the scribbled instructions I held in my hand, I felt quite lost. The buildings were tall and dark, from their brickwork to the lighting. The next corner was marked with a flashing neon sign advertising the dive bar beneath it. I turned left and started counting the house numbers.

When I reached number 7117, I stopped, double-checked the address on the last line of the instructions, then climbed the steps to the door and knocked twice. A young man with no teeth answered the door.

“Hello,” he said.

“I'n ‘Anny,” I said, past the thick wedge of plastic in my mouth. “I’n here hu see ‘Ucas.” He nodded and beckoned me inside.

“Just wait in here.” He pointed at the first door off the hallway. I nodded and entered the room. The walls were covered in peeling paisley wallpaper; a threadbare striped corduroy sofa sat in the middle of the room. I looked around again then tentatively took a seat.

After a few moments, a tall man confidently marched into the room sporting a wide toothless smile,

“Hello, Hannah.” He said, offering a firm handshake. “I’m Lucas.”

I had spent years hoping to meet the man that now stood in front of me. I’d got involved in the lingua-liberation movement as a teenager and the name ‘Lucas McBryde’ had followed me ever since.

He offered a pioneering procedure to remove the thick coating that I was forced to have fitted to the roof of my mouth at the age of 12. My parents had arranged the appointment as soon as my adult teeth came through.

I remembered feeling the sticky plastic being poured into my mouth. I almost gagged as it slowly flowed towards the back of my throat. Then a strange spatula-like implement that glowed purple was pushed against it for a few seconds and that was that.

My new plastic palate-lining was uncomfortable at first and made it hard for me to speak. I developed the same lisp that my parents had and, although I had learned years ago how to understand people who spoke that way, it no longer felt like my voice.

My parents sympathized but they were more worried about avoiding trouble than about my feelings. Several years later, when I moved in with some friends from a lingua-liberation group, somewhat ironically, they stopped speaking to me.

I started reading about the history of the procedure and my personal anger was met by a righteous one.

It was first done as a punishment to prisoners, in an attempt to stop them from communicating. But that failed: the prisoners continued to be able to understand one another. It then spread as a mark of the lower class, encouraged by those with power.

Many spent their lives voluntarily hobbled. Not enough to prevent themselves from doing anything but forever branded as lesser. Every sentence, every word, every smile was a reminder that they wanted to silence us. They may have failed, but we are socially conditioned to carry their attempt on our bodies.

I wanted more for my life. I didn’t want to wear this mark. I wanted to be free.

Over the years, I had tried many times to remove the palate covering, with my fingers, my tongue, the handle of a fork, but they all hurt too much. But now Lucas might finally free me from it.

“The procedure will take a couple of hours. It will result in you losing at least your four front teeth.” Lucas said and I nodded in recognition. “I need you to read through these forms. Take however long you need to understand them, then pop your signature at the bottom. I’m available if you have any questions.”

He handed me a few sheets of paper: some were explaining the procedure, and what could go wrong; some were collecting my details, and asking me to waive liability. My name was written at the top of the first page and there was a red stamp beside it that read ‘Payment Received’. I had spent most of my savings on this, even though I was almost certain that I would lose my job when I showed up with no teeth and a new voice.

I read through them, then signed my name at the bottom. I handed them back with a smile.

“O-ay, ‘et’s oo ‘is,” I said, firmly.

“Great. Follow me, Hannah.” Lucas said and led me along the corridor to regain my voice.