of self-imposed silence

In yesterday's Feature Writing class, we were given a little assignment. Here's the piece I wrote on it. Comment away, s'il vous plaît.

***

I glanced at what was written in the notebook in front of me: “No verbal communication from 6 p.m. to 12 a.m.”. There was no way that this was going to happen, I thought to myself. I put my things away and left the lecture hall.

It had been a long day – back-to-back classes, defending a thesis I had been working on for almost a year, and then, attempting to tutor a preadolescent in the nuances of the Malay language – a feat far more challenging than it appeared. But I was finally back home and looking forward to a long, hot shower when I remembered this little assignment. Before I could talk myself out of doing it, I decided to give it a shot. With much reluctance, I informed my mother that I would not be communicating verbally for the next five hours. Her reaction? “How ridiculous!” It was 7 p.m.

While in the shower, it appeared that my mind was attempting to make up for the silence I would be subjecting myself to. Thoughts raced through my mind. How would I say the things I needed to say? Paper and pencil? Charades? Can I actually do this for five whole hours? Would my other senses be heightened now? I paused momentarily – did my papaya-scented shower gel smell any stronger? Did the water on my skin feel any hotter? It was only then that I realized that talking wasn’t even one of our five senses, although I know many people who would argue otherwise. I must have been a lot more tired than I thought.

7.25 p.m.
I was making copies of some legal documents when a name on the page caught my eye. Wanting to know why the man I call ‘Uncle Mike’ had Maria listed as his first name, I had to resort to gesticulating wildly to get my mother’s attention from across the room, and then try to explain what I wanted to know. This whole self-imposed silence was beginning to annoy me. I had questions and comments that I didn’t want to have to write down to get across. Her one line explanation didn’t really explain anything, and ‘Uncle Maria’ didn’t sound nearly as amusing in my head as it might have out loud.

7.32 p.m.
Into the room sauntered my brother, who reacted to my mother’s explanation of my strange behavior with puzzled glances that soon turned into sarcastic sniggers perfected by many an adolescent. I then had to fend off his attempts to do everything he possibly could to make me give up. I persevered, but my patience was wearing thin.

7.48 p.m.
I was in my room, contemplating throwing in the proverbial towel. Although I had no plans on being extremely verbose for the next couple of hours, I liked that it was an option. The gestures and the miming were fun for a little while, but I could see my frustration levels increasing steadily as the night wore on. It was taking more energy to not say something than to actually say it. This was the last thing I wanted at the end of a strenuous day. My mind made up, I left my room and announced loudly – I. Give. Up. It was 8 p.m.