Unbecoming Her

I remember the moment I realized
there were things I couldn’t say.

I was in kindergarten.

We were outside playing kickball—
my cousins, neighborhood kids, a mix of ages.

At some point, someone said something
I didn’t understand.

“Do it.”

I didn’t know what it meant,
but I nodded like I did.

I didn’t ask questions.

I just carried it with me.

That night, I was in my parents’ room
saying my prayers.

I climbed onto the bed between them,
folded my hands, closed my eyes,
and said the words I had been taught to say.

When I finished,
I leaned over to hug and kiss my mom,
then my dad.

And without thinking…

I said it.

“Did you know ‘do it’ means—”

I didn’t even get the words out.

Her hand hit my face
before I could finish the sentence.

I remember the shock more than the pain.

The way everything went quiet.

My skin stinging.
My ears ringing.

And her voice…

firm, sharp, immediate:

“Don’t you EVER say that word again.”

I turned to look at my dad.

I don’t know what I expected to see.

Understanding.
Protection.
Something.

He didn’t say anything.

He just tilted his head toward the door.

Go to bed.

And just like that…

I understood something.

There were things I couldn’t bring to them.

Things I couldn’t say out loud.

Things I was expected to carry on my own.

I wasn’t trying to be inappropriate.

I wasn’t trying to be disobedient.

I was a child
repeating something I didn’t understand.

But what I learned in that moment
had nothing to do with the word.

I learned that my voice
could get me hurt.

That saying the wrong thing
had consequences.

That even curiosity
wasn’t safe.

So I adjusted.

Again.

I became more careful.
More quiet.
More aware of what I said
and what I kept to myself.

Looking back now…

it wasn’t just about being told to be quiet.

It was about being shown
what happens when you’re not.

And I think that’s when it really settled in.

Not just that no one would come…

but that maybe
silence was not only safer…

It was enforced.