Make Some Noise, If You Can

A week ago yesterday, I awoke to the chirp of my alarm clock, stretched and wished my roommate a good morning. That is, I tried. What came out sounded more like a squeak. I tried again, and squeaked again.

The Russian author Gogol wrote a story called "The Nose." A civil servant wakes up one morning and discovers his nose is missing. Months later, he spies it walking down the street, wearing the uniform of a civil servant three ranks higher.

My very own voice had similarly departed, maybe skipping off to narrate a documentary or croon in a hotel lounge somewhere. I was on my own.

Granted, I should have seen it coming. I'd had laryngitis for days already, but I hadn't bothered to alter my speaking patterns. I had abused my voice, and it had grown empowered, and left in a huff.

No matter, I thought. I can handle Harvard, voice or no voice. It's a user-friendly campus, after all. I'd write notes to friends on a pad of paper. I'd use gestures and nonverbal communication. I'd polite. I'd smile. People would accommodate.

I went to Adams Dining Hall for lunch, communicated with Jane the checker through a series of gestures: touch hand to throat, grin sheepishly to lament absence of I.D., point finger at the Adams House resident guesting me in.

Between the kitchen exit and the table where my friends sat was a giant, stagnant mass of talking Adamsians. I needed to get by. With no voice to pipe up, "Excuse me," I did the next best thing--push. I figured it wasn't all that distant from standard dining hall behavior.

Well-trained by my mother, I went to UHS, equipped with a note: "Hello. I lost my voice, and would like an appointment as soon as possible." I went to University Hall to pick up a document, and brought a similar prewritten note.

So far, so good. Then I clambered up the steps of Widener. The library proved a much greater challenge. True, finding a book in the stacks requires no verbal communication. But the check-out process often does, especially when your book--stiff yellowed pages and a ragged binding--has no barcode.

I waited in line for 10 minutes, reached the front, and discovered I had no barcode form. The checker, who looked a little confused about my silence, told me to step aside, fill out a form and return to the front of the line. I did, placing myself in front of a man who looked less than pleased.

"She's not even on line," he whined when the checker beckoned me to return. He waved his book frantically, and the checker looked flustered. Glumly, silently, I held up my barcode form. The man paid no attention.

Under normal circumstances, I would have spoken up. Under normal circumstances, in fact, I would have delivered a small lecture, in which I explained exactly where I thought this gentleman could wave his book. But today, I was voiceless, powerless. I let him pass me, and waited longer in line.

"Sorry," the checker told me when I made my way to his counter. I just shrugged.

I couldn't stand up for myself. I couldn't complain when a passerby socked me with his backpack. I couldn't cry foul when the woman stepped in front of me at Au Bon Pain. (Had I felt less defeated and a little less sick, I probably would have tripped her.)

Petty? Probably. My obstacles were minor and temporary. But they hurt nonetheless. I got ignored, bumped and chastised. I had to wait in line. If you're not loud here, you might end up waiting in line forever. Polite, quiet communication only gets you so far.

I've tried in the past to handle problems quietly. Last fall, when my bathroom windowpane fell out, I did what good house residents are told to do: went to the super's office. "My bathroom windowpane is broken," I told the worker I found there. He nodded and promised to fix it. A week went by with no result.

The next week, I returned to the super's office with a message that was false, but sounded more urgent. "My bathroom windowpane is missing," I told him.

In his notebook, I saw him jot down the words, "bathroom missing." He got it wrong, I thought, but if that didn't get a maintenance worker to my room right away nothing would.

I was right. Nothing did. From October on, duct tape held up my bathroom windowpane. I realize now that it was my fault, in part. The system here doesn't accommodate you, it ignores you. I shouldn't have taken a nod for an answer. I should have made life difficult for the Dunster House superintendent until somebody fixed my windowpane.

The rule applies to more serious case, Latino students earlier this year wrote a polite, private letter to Dean of the Faculty Jeremy R. Knowles, asking to meet him to discuss faculty hiring. Knowles sent back an equally polite, equally private letter, saying he just didn't have time to meet with the students, and suggesting other lower-level administrators.

The students got angry, and got loud. Newspapers covered it and published editorials. A few weeks later, the students breakfasted with Knowles at the Faculty Club.

Laryngitis taught me a lesson. To get what you want, you've got to shout. Or at least push.

Joanna M. Weiss '94, the editorial chair-elect of The Crimson, got her voice back a few days ago. She only wishes she could breakfast with Knowles at the Faculty Club.