The Power of Silence: My Keynote Speech

“To be in God’s will is to be out of your comfort zone.”

On November 14, 2019, I gave the keynote address at the 60th Annual Florida College System Publications Association Conference.

The Florida College System Activities Association (FCSAA) is an organization that provides academic and athletic opportunities for college students. The organization includes 29 community colleges across the state of Florida.

Honestly, all I can say about impacting that many people is that God was serious about 2019 being my year of speaking up.

He said it’s time. I said okay but I’m scared. And He said I’ll give you strength. You’ve already got support.

To my best friends, to my family, to my poetry community, and to everyone who sent me a sweet message or encouraged me in person, thank you. I’m so grateful for your support.

Mrs. Susanna, Me, Octavia, and Alicia

The conference was specifically for journalism and creative writing students. Most of the students were involved in producing their university’s newspaper or literary magazine. So, being able to talk to a room full of writers and editors was a dream. It wasn’t until the very end that I realized I was talking to my college self too.

While I was given the opportunity to talk about anything writing and publishing related in my career so far, I knew the night needed to be about poetry. It would have been much easier to talk about my experiences with entertainment magazine editing or social media marketing.

But this speech, like the rest of my year, was supposed to be about vulnerability and healing from trauma. So I did my very favorite thing: I used flower metaphors.

In my speech I talked about how important it is to speak up and share those stories rooted in survival, how bold vulnerability has helped me bloom, and why being planted in pain can lead to purpose.

I also shared two poems. The room was so silent during the poems and my heart was beating so loud that I kept putting my hand over it.

It reminded me of something my former USF boss turned friend, Mrs. Susanna (pictured above) said after reading some of my poems a few years ago. “It was like all the air had left the room.”

Mrs. Whitt

My former USF professor turned friend, Mrs. Whitt (pictured above) is who gave me the opportunity to be the keynote speaker. I am so grateful she believed in me. Here’s part of my speech where I talk about an assignment from her reporting class.

We were supposed to find an important issue to cover and at the time, a Title XI compliant had just been filed against the university for a case of sexual assault. I wrote about walking into the Center for Victim Advocacy and Violence Prevention to cover the story as a reporter, and not to speak out as a survivor.

At the time I wasn’t really saying I had survived anything. Bad things had happened, but I wasn’t dealing with them or calling them what they were. To call myself a survivor meant that I first had to acknowledge being a victim and I didn’t want to do that.

So I wrote about the handmade quilt on the wall behind the front desk. I wrote about the three rows of colorful canvases beside the cubicles. The painted rainbows, flowers, and hearts with words scripted in sharpie like “strong” and “free.” 

When it was time to write, I tried to follow the strict reporting style, but I ended my assignment with these words: I had been avoiding the center since freshmen year, hoping to hide my secrets inside creative writing stories that could be read as someone else's trauma. But as soon as I walked through the door, I felt my composure cracking. People came here to heal. No matter what investigations are pending, people are healing here. I want to be next.

Fast forward to today, five years later, and I’m creating my own version of what it means to be next. To be healing. Simply put, I write my poetry and I put my name on it. I call myself a survivor and I share in hopes to empower others to share their stories too.

The funniest thing about this whole experience is that four days before the event, I lost my voice. I was barely talking above a whisper. I didn’t feel sick; no sneezing or body soreness. Just no voice. The one thing I really needed for a speech.

On social media I briefly wrote about how my crippling anxiety was taking over and I think the stress of it all took out my voice. I’ve been silent most of my life anyway. The irony.

But in all seriousness, it was just God. He made it clear that I was not supposed to practice a million times like I had planned. I was supposed to write the speech, read it out loud once or twice, pick the poems, and rest. Rest, rest, rest.

I’m not very good at resting. I like to be doing a million things all at once and maybe just maybe, all the things will quiet my mind for a little bit. But I was supposed to just be silent.

In the silence leading up to my speech, so much was revealed to me that I would have missed had I been practicing my words over and over. And even though I didn’t think I needed a reminder of the power of silence, I really did.

~

Before I started my first poem, I went over poetry show style audience participation. I talked about how snapping your fingers at any time throughout the night is encouraged if you feel connected to the words, whether they make you happy or sad. I mentioned shaking car keys too and phrases like “Get free!” and “Go in, poet!” to shout out if people wanted to.

Even as I went through those poetry show tips, I knew the room would be silent. My quiet time leading up to the event had prepared me. It was supposed to be silent.

When it was over, so many of the students were crying and asked for hugs. I wanted to hold everyone so tightly, including myself. One girl thanked me for my confidence and vulnerability. Excuse me while I burst into tears again just typing that.

But the best part of the night happened in the hallway as I was leaving. Two students, a girl and a guy, were there as I was walking out with my friends. They both were so sweet and thanked me again for speaking and sharing my poems. They both said they wanted to snap their fingers more and shout out, but they didn’t. I thanked them again for listening and told them no worries, I understood.

Then, once I was a good distance down the hall, the guy cupped his hands together and shouted out, “Go in, poet!”