Voice as an Identity

Chris laments that in his head, as he speaks, his voice comes out as Don Draper. Sultry. Mysterious. But when listening to his recorded voice, he’s surprised that it’s higher pitched and squeaky.

I am the same way too. Although I am comfortable with the voice that comes out. But there are mannerisms buried in my voice. The slurs. The lack of enunciation. The odd way that I let sentences flow out—not that it swings up in tone at the end of the sentence, but it sounds foreign, accented. But it has always been like that. And those are the parts that surprise me. But it’s me.

Today, my voice squeaked out. Possibly due to a cold/flu that has affected…everything. It’s raspy. It’s low. Lacking intonation. But in my head, I feel the same and my thoughts race everywhere at the same pace. I hear myself think and it feels like I am speaking aloud. But then I find that I need to share my thoughts and I open my mouth. Another voice comes out. People say that it’s so much clearer. It’s understandable.

“It’s Jennifer,” I say to headless voices during the meeting. “I sound different, because I am sick. But it’s me, Jennifer, in case you can’t figure out who is speaking.”

In a moment of fit, I jump up to fill my mug with hot water to calm down my throat.

“Can you understand me?” I say at my computer. “I have video turned on so you can at least read my lips.”

The heads in the streaming video nod back. I wonder if my voice is demanding as it usually is. Or needy when I want to be. If my voice stays like that, does that mean people will perceive me differently? A voice that can barely increase its volume above a raspy whisper? That squeaks in weird way as if a melody wants to burst from my larynx?

Or to lose my voice completely?

When I am sick…

Growing up, being sick was not an excuse. And perhaps, schools were not strict then and didn’t send students home. I always went to school with a runny nose or cough. I dealt with it and carried the habit to today.

As a result though, I have become more conscious of the effect of a sick person. Or as others would call it, a walking biohazard. Accustomed to being sick (frequently), I dismiss the sickness similar to a minor insect bite. It never slows me down and, more often than not, I am always at the top of my game.

But I realize the benefits. I can sleep more at home if I don’t go to work. I can force someone else to make decisions in my absence—decision that could have been made without me. In some way, although it may be diluting my effectiveness, that’s what it is. What a company should be—a company that has a backup plan for everything. For being human and legitimately ill.

For now, though, my raspy voice will stay with me in my room. It’s silent, but right now, I hear my voice loud and clear.

I am privileged

I will admit that I grew up privileged. I grew up in a household where education was considered paramount to everything in the true Asian parent tiger fashion. There was an expectation that I would always go to college. Also, too, my mom always reinforced the belief that women should never be reliant on anybody else, especially a husband—one should always be self-sufficient, she said, likely thinking of her bitter relationship with her long-lost father.

I had access to college. And graduate school. I was persuaded to get a law degree, but got a masters in something so unique and rare. When I lacked resources, I could always turn to my parents, although I rarely ever did once I got my first job in college.

I grew up knowing how to manage money, almost to a fault. I am stingy with everything, always following a scarcity rule—pumping out as much as I can from any event (free food! ample networking! seeing sights!). I split bills down to the penny in fairness.

When I look at people with more than me—things, I mean—I don’t feel jealousy. Instead, I wonder who they are and who they can be. But then I wonder for those who have less than me, do they see the same in me? Hope? Or just jealousy?

I am fearless about healthcare maintenance (except, of course, when it physically hurts). I may think: yet another undecipherable bill. But I don’t think: I can’t afford this, because I need to pay next month’s rent. I hurt a little bit when I put my credit card down, but it stings and I move on quickly.

I have the privilege to seek help when I need it. And if I don’t, it’s mostly because I am afraid to, not because I don’t have the money. But when I am afraid, there are people and I can find them. I have the skills to find them. My fingers dance across the keyboard. My mind logically thinks round and round puzzle pieces, solving them, until they make a full picture so that I can make a decision. I say my thing and I am not afraid that I’ll lose.

I am privileged and I am not afraid to admit it.

A conference of parents and children

In paradise with Toad, #dinoscarf from #princessawesome @princess31415 and #Disney backdrop.

A photo posted by Jenn Ng (@jennism) on

I may have raved about the Disney experience of it all—the the amazing magic band, the happy cast members, and the way the resort (attempted) to make it a seamless experience from the gate to the room.

But you see, I wasn’t there for Disney World. I was there for a conference put on by children with diabetes, part of my latest project for a startup looking to empower people with chronic conditions, starting with diabetes. I led a “focus group” (I quote those words, because I don’t like the idea of a traditional focus group, but that’s a discussion for another time) with caregivers of those children. People wore shorts and t-shirts. They wore their sunglasses. Their hair was up, pulled back in a ponytail. There were nurses, middle school teachers, stay-at-home parents, banking professionals, psychologists, and more. They told stories, comfortable that their kids were under the care of other people who understood the condition. They said that they wanted their child to succeed, yes, but they believed that they needed to intervene—sometimes.

I have always talked with people who were adults. People who read books. People who wanted to find something interesting to do around them. People who wanted to find something to watch. People who wanted to make a commute better. People who wanted to customize their lunches. This experience was different.

Some people hate this space, because it’s ridiculously hard. How do you balance parenting style while not sacrificing personalization for each person? How do you consider each child’s development and maturity? How do you consider the way that a parent wants to remain in charge instead of relying on technology? It is possible, I believe.

And as I played in the pool later after a day of the conference. I watched as teenagers all who had a patch on their skin talk in the water, flirt, and throw the ball. They didn’t hide their insulin pumps or patches. The girls had their dainty bikinis. The boys were bare-chested and growled in low voices. They took over the hot tub and I could smell their hormones. In some way, they had found their own kind and it was amazing.

What intrigued me was the tribe. There’s no communities for the quiet ones. There’s no conferences for those who are naturally high-strung (hi fear emotion!) Or even further, no communities for people who do not enjoy eating green things. I wonder if the condition makes people find unbreakable bonds. I am normal, but normalcy isn’t a condition. And for so many of us, we must find our own way in life. But that probably is our privilege, the freedom from any chains holding us back.

But I love it noisy

“Is it noisy?” a newly acquainted friend at a party asked.

Almost by default, I always say that it is. Sometimes, I say, I want to move; I am tired of it. Yet there was something different about the way he asked it—whether it because I have been focusing on possibility of empathy lately or because I have realized that I am a city person at heart, this time I said, “It is, but I have gotten so used to it. That when it’s silent, like when traveling, I am weirded out.”

But was I really weirded out when I traveled to the middle of nowhere and it was suddenly quiet? Or staying at my parents’ house in suburban Bay Area where noise has been driven away by the suburban design of large houses on large residential streets with long snaking private driveways? I remember that there was a night in Ohio, deep in what I thought was rural, where I couldn’t sleep. It probably was that the bed was uncomfortable. But it was the silence, knowing that I had no cellular phone access, and then the noise. The noise then was the footsteps of the dogs and cats pattering from the main house’s porch to the rooftop of my room. I heard howls, meows, bark, all echoing into the night.

But in the city, I prefer the sounds of faint words from people, walking, the high heels clapping against the concrete, and the air rushing from passing cars, and the low rumble of engines. It reminds me that the city is alive. Quiet, more now that night is rapidly approaching. But it’s alive. People are going somewhere, finding something, discovering a wonder. It is alive, and with my ears, I hear the beat of the city, pulsing without pause.

Away dust

There’s supposed to be a feeling of relief as I swept away all the dust, cleared all the unwanted items, marked things for sale or to charity.

And yet, I sit in my room looking at what I have left and wonder, am I supposed to feel comfort now?

There is comfort, yes, in the feeling that I have scoured all my belongings. That now I generally know where everything is. There isn’t items hiding beneath untouched drawers for years, which was the case until Wednesday when I had ambitiously decided to empty everything out, push to my hallway.

My room is more organized than it has ever been. Or ever. Even when I moved into my apartment, I arrived with boxes and never quite filed them away. Yet for once, my desk is uncluttered (at least to the best of its ability) and my floor is actually walkable. But there is something missing.

This is all spurred when I went to a friend’s housewarming party. I admired her roommate’s decorations in the living room. “Nothing here is mine,” she said.

I loved the (useless) branches sitting on a chest pulled up to the third-floor apartment with scuffs and dents in the black paint. I loved the frames and the way it sat with the potted plants. I loved a vintage poster of a train falling off the cliff and drawn characters crying in surprise. Envy filled my heart, and I desperately wanted that.

So I went home, searched on Yerdle, browsed on Etsy. But I was stumped. Is that who I am? To have uncluttered surrounded by useless items?

A friend once proudly showed her home. Along the wall in her kitchen, four small vases hung. One held a fresh flower. “Why?” I said, alluding to the fact that she would have to get a newly cut flower every week.

“Because it makes me feel happy,” she replied.

I didn’t buy it then, but now, I sort of buy it. Well at least for the guest. For me, when I see freshly cut flowers, it reminds me of the effort to get it, the need to refresh it every week, and that the flower will die soon. I may be practical, but there’s some emotion behind everything, to have things that are meaningful.

Right now, I am delighted with the newly acquired purple mini shelf (that was free) where I have filled with my proud random tchotchkes. In one, there’s a collection of classic paperbacks—my favorite novels like The Stranger, Golden Apples in the Sun, and How to Win Friends and Influence People. Another holds variations of sackboy from Little Big Planet. Another holds small rectangular pieces of metal that have welded “<3" and "jenn". Yet another houses karts of various mario kart characters and amiibos. Yet another still displays my "art project" from a "gifted and talented" program from high school—prose based on The Catcher in the Rye and accompanying "lonely" photos. I look at the things there and finger some of them, letting my fingers rub over the smoothness, the roughness. I let myself wonder in admiration. It is, after all, making me happy.