Today, women are taught that we can and should have the last word. I do believe this, and so I fight daily injustices rigorously. This has worked remarkably well for me at corporations, but poorly at home. I want my fiancée to know when I’m right and he’s ... well, not to point any fingers, but wrong.
After one argument with him, I fled, frustrated, to the sanctuary of my old-world friend, Lana. Upon seeing my face, she placed a warm tea in my hands, cuing me to sit and recount the conflict. Lana smiled knowingly, “In Ukraine, we say this is the time to be quiet”. It took me a moment—to finish the marzipan chocolate bar, that is, and allow the words to absorb.
I realized that what I had needed was not someone to agree and empathize, but someone who would say, in such a lovely accent, essentially to bite my tongue.
In practice, being quiet is so hard. Numerous windows of opportunity fling themselves open for a perfect retort. At these moments, I see the words I might have said float by me, realized only in cognition. I think of my Southern-sensibility mother. Her approach to back-talk was to make us daughters wash our mouths with lye (a harsh soap made from animal fat). Then I think of my friend and that warm cup of chamomile tea. Like that soothing flower, silence is a balm. Our misunderstanding fades into self-reflection.
I try to be quiet when I know I am fighting only for glory and not for justice. With time, it has become easier, and more importantly, it has been highly effective. I can thank my friend, who helped me learn to settle this need with a bit of wisdom from her country.
