A Quiet Voice in a World Full of Noise
Mother said I barely cried when she gave birth to me. I’d been quiet, reserved ever since. Quietness, shyness, were intrinsic to my nature; some days they were my defense–a shield to hide behind when life felt discolored. Intense. My being the youngest, with four highly vocal and opinionated older sisters who’d appointed themselves as secondary mothers I didn’t necessarily need, merely solidified that disposition.
I was twenty-seven and married, but that hadn’t lessened their bossy tendencies. Being born to Jonah and Maple Robertson—a woman who could talk Jesus off the cross only if long enough to still her rarely resting lips before climbing up on the cross and finishing His business—certainly didn’t help any. Father’s speech was impaired, and he rarely spoke now due to the stroke he suffered three years ago. Prior to this impediment he was more verbose than Mother, which was truly saying something. These loquacious people I called family. In the reverberating shadows of their noise, I existed—accustomed to being talked over; to silently, quietly retreating.
Except for here.
Two days each week I was the adult in charge of a room filled with little people under the age of majority. Here, I was seen. And heard. Admired, even.
“Miz R.B., I’m finished!”
I put a finger to my lips, reminding Packer Sims IV, best known as Peanut, not to disturb classmates still working on their art projects. My last name was hyphenated, the maiden with the married. Mrs. Robertson-Brinks being a mouthful, I’d allowed my students to shorten it to Mrs. R.B. But being southern and North Carolina bred, that was invariably shortened to Miz.
I motioned Peanut to the front of the schoolroom where I taught art every Tuesday and Thursday. Tuesday mornings were spent with the kindergarteners while my afternoons were shared with Profit Coleman Elementary’s combined class of first and second grades. Thursdays were the same with classes in the morning and afternoon, except those times belonged to third/fourth graders, and fifth/sixth grade students respectively in this four-room schoolhouse, which was an impressive upgrade from the one-room structure in which I’d been educated.
My preference would have been teaching five days a week, fully utilizing my talents and sharing my gifts. But something was better than nothing. Teaching art twice each week allowed a delightful reprieve from endless domestic duties. Plus, it provided steady employment that even Willard couldn’t find distasteful. For this, I was grateful.
For someone so determined that we save enough to move out of my parents’ place, he sure finds something lacking with every job option ever presented.
My husband of three years habitually objected to any job opportunity that ever happened to come my way, finding something unsavory in each. Secretary. Cook. Staff writer for The Colemanville Chronicle. Colemanville was only yea big, not a wide city where vast job opportunities may have existed for women. His objections made me wonder if he feared my independence. As the teacher of the fifth and sixth grade combined class, Willard couldn’t possibly find fault with my being invited to teach art here at Profit Coleman Elementary without looking hypocritical and foolish. Every Tuesday and Thursday I nearly skipped to work, thanking God for a place and the space to be me.
