I could never scream.
I chalk it up to being raised in debate. In such a male-dominated activity, I learned to wield silence at the risk of losing a ballot: don’t be too loud or the judge will think you’re hysterical; talk less, smile more. When you speak at 300 words-per-minute, use a deep timbre, as masculine as possible. I go into every round on a high, but inevitably, when I’m downed for being “angry” and “aggressive” while my male counterparts are “empathetic” and “passionate,” I muffle my sobs in a bathroom stall.
I love debate fiercely, so I smothered myself with silence, policing my voice until I internalized judgment. That was my mindset as I arrived at Texas Girls State, expecting a week of tense political discourse, humorless and adversarial like debate—so imagine my shock finding a boisterous auditorium of 600 raucous girls singing “my-ma-was-born-in-DAL-LAS, fa-ther-in-FORT-WORTH.” It was like being pulled to Barbieland: songs breaking out at political party meetings, dance parties every night. Is this empowering, I wondered, or just embarrassing?
Confession time: I’m a terrible singer. Years of dodging the mic at karaoke had permanently clogged up my throat. Nevertheless, something stirred that I hadn’t even realized I’d longed for. It started with a simple offer to make campaign posters with my direct rival, something unthinkable in debate. She can’t be serious, I protested. But as we chatted about education policy, drawing out serious platforms with copious amounts of glitter, I realized I’d misjudged.
Conversations blossomed, and with each new friendship, I allowed more of myself to surface—
bravely-fighting-social-anxiety Barbie, like Emma;
proudly-embracing-her-bisexuality Barbie, like Mila;
advocate-for-first-gen-immigrants Barbie, like Jennifer.
They belted the lyrics freely, and at their side, I found myself singing louder.
By the day of my governor’s speech, throats were raw. It was pouring rain, the auditorium was freezing, and Girls State was singing: loud, messy, and perfect.
I step to the podium, palms sweaty as I confront a sea of bright skirts and dark pantsuits, pixie cuts and french braids. My debate voice whispers: You barely know these girls. Just stop. You’re embarrassing.
I grab the mic.
“When I first got here,” I begin, hoping my voice isn’t shaking, “all the singing seemed pretty silly to me. I was afraid you would judge me, so I shut myself up.” Heads swivel; giggles ripple through the crowd.
“But, shoot, we’re all embarrassed. Everything is embarrassing. That’s what’s powerful at Girls State—here, we embrace that everything because we are everything: emotional, angry, stubborn, embarrassing.” Cheers erupt, rumbling encouragement.
“It wasn’t the singing that was silly, it was I for muting myself. So I say, sing. Be cringe. Because that’s not all we are.” I grip the podium; my voice rises. “We are powerful, assertive, LOUD women, and we shall NOT be silenced.”
Girls State screams.
My inhibitions disintegrated. And I screamed back: for Emma and Mila, for Jennifer and every girl brave enough to demand to be heard. I screamed until I lost my voice, then screamed some more. When the winning candidate ran through the human tunnel, beaming brighter than I’ve ever seen, we screamed as one, loving without fear, crying out in power, vulnerability, and no-strings-attached kindness.
After Girls State, my world is louder. I pulled my friends to karaoke night at Kenyon, assaulting their eardrums with my off-key Hamilton. I surveyed debaters to pierce the silence around toxic competition and gatekeeping in our community and broadcast my clarion call in a defiant podcast. When chants of “F*ck-the-Fra-ming” filled the dining hall at NSD camp and strangers thanked me because “everyone knew these problems existed, but no one voiced them before,” I knew my shouts had been heard.
Two months after Girls State, I visited the US Capitol. The Senate Chamber was whisper-quiet, eerily so. I can already imagine myself there.
But for now—
I drop my jaw
and
SCREAM.
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