Life Lesson #9 - Your Voice Matters

In this podcast, Life Lessons of an Ordinary Woman, you will be welcomed into a community of Ordinarily Beautiful People!  A community of kind, supportive, welcoming people who like to start their week with a smile and a little inspiration.  

In this episode, Your Voice Matters, you will hear an excerpt from the unpublished, retro-historical memoir written by the host, Kim Farnes.  You will listen in as she, at 10 years old, learned how her voice mattered, as she attended an election night polling center in 1980 with her family.  

You will be reminded about women's fashion in the 80's, like the popular cotton, button up shirts with the ruffled fronts and high shoulder pads and references to Schmidt beer, playground twirly bars and velour, gold recliners.

You will hear a quote from Vera Nazerian, who shares how each person's voice shares a part in a larger "community choir" of voices; and how to ensure that your voice always plays a part in the larger song.  

You will be encouraged to like, follow and share this podcast with others, people who you would like to invite to be a part of this amazing community.

email: lifelessons.ordinarywoman@gmail.com

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good morning this morning, my ordinarily beautiful friends. I hope you had a great week and that you had some fun thinking about sunflowers and identifying who the strong, vibrant, proud sunflowers are in your life. I'm so grateful I have those people in my life, people that are there for me, in the good times and the hard times. Thinking about them always puts a smile on my face. In preparing for this episode, I reflected on many things. I went back and listened to all of my podcasts that I have put out so far on a trip that I took to the ocean over the weekend. I thought about what a fun journey this has been and how much I look forward to putting out a few more in the next few weeks as I finish up the chapters that I have left. What really came to the forefront though for me as I listened is my opening to the memoir and how the literary agent turned down publishing it because she said no one will buy or be interested in a memoir about an ordinary person or the ordinary people in her life. I still disagree with that. I Googled it as I love to do, stronger words for disagree, and it's veinantly in rebuke. So I veminely rebuke, it's hard to say what the agent said. It's my opinion, at least, that all of our stories matter, the things we survived that should have crippled us, the moments of pure joy that made us super happy to be alive, these times that we share with another person in another place, or when we're a part of something bigger than ourselves, all of our ordinary lives that we get to live, all of it has value. Each and every one of those things creates our unique voice. They develop our unique perspective on the world and the people that comprise it. When we share with another person, like I shared in an earlier episode, our story gives us strength, and when we share our stories, somewhere someone hears us and quietly whispers, me too. And then they share theirs and so on. This life lesson is about when and how I learned that my voice mattered. It's a story about voting, but don't worry, it's not a political post. It simply shares how my voice inside a polling booth or out of one deserves to be shared. So here it goes. Life lesson number nine, your voice matters. The first time I remember noticing politics was in early 1980. Ronald Reagan was running for president and everyone seemed to like him. I was in the third grade, and my teacher would wear her Let's Make America Great Again button on her colorful blouses, always with the ruffles down the front and high shoulder pads that made her ear seem too close to her collarbone. She would talk to us openly in her class about how Reagan is going to change the world for the better. Although at ten years old, we didn't know yet what was wrong with the world or what she was talking about. Most of us in class were just thinking about whether or not we would be quick enough to get to the twirly bars before everyone else, so that we wouldn't have to wait in line for our turn. At home, the nightly news program was always on. My parents would sit in front room after dinner, mom in her gold flower lounge chair, and dad in his black faux leather recliner. Dad would be drinking his Schmidt beer with some kind of animal on the can, telling mom some kind of thing about the state of the world and how it needs to get back on track again. I didn't really listen to what they were saying. I was paying attention to my mom's reaction to my dad, though. Since she couldn't talk, her facial expressions and gestures told us what we wanted to know and what she was thinking. Our local voting spot was at the community clubhouse. Friends and neighbors would gather around the building in the parking lot with their political buttons, campaign t-shirts, and hats on, and bumper stickers pasted all over their cars. I always found it funny that with each election my dad would just paste his next favorite candidate sticker over the previous year's one, making his campaign stickers visibly thick in various spots on his car. I remember seeing my dad in the garage one night in 1992, Canis Schmidt in one hand and a razor blade in the other, trying desperately to remove his Ross Perot bumper sticker from his car. He just wanted that particular one completely off his Chevy Nova. Voting nights were one of our family's big things. A big thing was when your family dressed up, got in the car as a family, and had rules about behavior that were discussed in the car before you arrived at your destination. Voting night rules were have just one cookie, just one, and for Pete's sake, Kim, don't go running off this time. The polling place was electric. Women were still filled with the energy of empowerment with their right to vote, and women in the eighties were making full use of that right. This night was the first night I had ever asked my dad a political question. I looked at him before he went into the polling booth with his reggae button displayed proudly on his jacket, and asked, Dad, how is he gonna make America great again? I don't remember all of what he said. I do remember the look on his face as he said it though. He believed what he was telling me. He looked like he had hope in his face. His hands, stained permanently from diesel grease, from working for years on heavy equipment, tapped the top of my head and he said, Kim, that's why we're here tonight. My voice and my vote matter. If you want to say in making things better, you have to vote for it. Then he went behind the red, white, and blue curtain to cast his vote. I looked at my mom. She nodded yes and really meant it too. Then she went behind her curtain. Presidents came and went, wars started, and some never seemed to end. My friends started to enlist after high school, and some never came home from deployment. Some that did were forever changed. It was in high school that I started to read the voting guides that came in the mail. I read about each of the candidates in my district, my state, and about how those who were employed by us that worked in Washington, in both of the smaller houses and the big white one. I wanted to know what each of them stood for and why they should get my vote. I felt strongly that it was my duty to make my vote count. It may have been only one vote, but it was a mighty one. When I turned eighteen on September 14, 1988, one of the first things I did was register to vote. When my card came in the mail, I tore the perforated edges around it and put it proudly in my neon blue zipper pouch wallet. I didn't own a purse then and I still don't, so my wallet held all of my most valuable things. It was large enough to carry my driver's license, my checks, my lip gloss, photos and those plastic flaps, and most importantly to me at the time, my new voting card. Two months later I went to my own neighborhood polling place. I'd read all I could on the candidates. I didn't wear political buttons, t-shirts, or hats. I didn't have a bumper sticker on my car, but I did have a card that allowed me to vote, and I pulled it out proudly at the registration desk. I went into the booth and closed the curtain behind me for the first time as an adult. I actually got teary-eyed. When I came out, I excitedly put my I voted sticker on my squire shop black and blue checkered zip-up jacket that I was wearing. As I put it on my jacket, I was thinking about the help I had just given the country by placing my one vote for America. I called my dad when I got home to tell him that I had voted. He said that they had too. Then he told me something I didn't hear very often, so when I heard it it really meant something to me. He said, I'm not going to ask you who you voted for. I know you voted for the person you feel deserves to be in office. Then he paused. It felt like forever until he said, No matter what, I hope you know that I'm proud of you. Then it was my turn to get quiet. I wanted to let the compliment linger, and truthfully I didn't know how to respond. Then he gave a little cough to clear his throat and said, Well, I guess the big question now is, did you take just one cookie, Kim? We both laughed. I told him yes, but we both knew that that was a lie. I've continued to read the voting guide books for every election since then. I educated my kids to do the same. I've encouraged them and others to vote with both their hearts and their heads, regardless of political affiliation. I even ran for mayor of my city. When my husband told me to quit complaining about the state of our city or do something about it to change it, so I did. I learned how to canvas, participated in a televised debate with her, and although I lost the election, I felt great that I'd given others in my town a choice on who to vote for, as she had been running unopposed until I registered as a candidate. The most important part about that was I ran my campaign on the policies that mattered most to me and the families, friends, teachers, and workers that made up our town and had lives similar to mine, which were very different lives than the current mayor. I used my life, my stories, my values to give strength to my platform and stood up for those that did not feel like they had a say and was proud of myself for that. The people I represented said they were proud too. Maybe I have always tried to use my voice in every setting I'm in because my mom couldn't talk. Maybe it was because what my dad said to me at the polling place that day. Maybe it was because I had a lisp and took years of speech therapy to try and get my voice and my S's just right. I don't know what it was, maybe a little bit of all those things, but I try and use my voice, share my story and my perspective wherever I am. Whether it's in a polling booth, in a conference room, a PTA meeting, Bible study, or other community groups, and even here on this podcast. Not to argue or devalue the person I'm talking to, or even try to change their minds, but to share with them how I see things. They might not agree, but there's still value in sharing. I like to take the time to listen to their perspective and their stories too, and I've learned a lot from listening to the other side of things and believe that truly every voice matters whether you think or feel the same or not. Listening to others helps them feel valued and included. In fact, inclusive communication is essential for driving meaningful change and bridges empathy gaps. I forget who said it to me, but someone told me once, speak up even if your voice shakes. Mine definitely does sometimes, but I push through the uncomfortableness anyway. I read a quote from Vera Nazron. She is a Russian-born American novelist. It goes, A choir is made up of many voices, including yours and mine. If one by one all goes silent, then all that will be left are the soloists. Don't let a loud few determine the nature of the sound. It makes for poor harmony and diminishes the song. I love that. It reminded me that all of our stories, our voices combined, make up a great choir. Everyone has their part to play in the song, and not to ever let my part of the song go quiet. So thank you for singing with me, being a part of my song. I've thoroughly enjoyed working on these podcasts and being a part of this community with you. I'd love to hear how you feel that your voice matters. Have you pushed through a shaky voice and trembling hands when you were sharing your opinion or your story? How did that feel? Did your sharing help someone whisper me too? Do you wish you would share your story and your thoughts more often? What are some things you can do to make yourself more comfortable doing so? I'm here to tell you I would love to hear more about you, and I'm sure others would too. Our voices, our ordinary lives are beautiful and they matter. You can connect with me by clicking on the fan mail button on this site, or by emailing me at lifelessons.com. Please like, follow, and share this podcast with others, people who you feel would make a great addition to our community. Until next week, please remember that I love you and that your presence is a present to those around you.