The Voice
On learning to quiet our inner critics.
A Translated Life is a weekly space for stories about identity, belonging and parenting that need two languages - English and Spanish - to be told.
It was a sunny day in Amsterdam, the kind of day when the last thing you want to do is attend a lecture.
On that particular sunny day, I happened to be the lecturer.
Picture a business university, a room full of students I’d never met, a short lecture that had somehow turned into a 3 hour ask, and my name spelled wrong on the announcement board, Welcome José Alvarez (I wrote a piece on how I feel about this).
It doesn't matter how many years you've spent on the subject; that you've been in bigger, tougher rooms; or that you teach students this age most Fridays. As I stood there, The Voice was in full swing. Julia Cameron calls it the inner critic. Richard Carson, The Gremlin. The Voice had a banquet in front of it and I could feel it salivating:
Why did I say yes in the first place? How boomer can a Dead Poets Society reference be? Will they have seen E.T.? Why did I bring a whole section around E.T.?!
The Voice isn’t my friend, but knows me longer than any of them. It speaks to me in perfect Spanish and remembers all my secrets, specially the darkest ones. It has a talent for picking and choosing the best out of my little big box of insecurities, bringing them out just like the algorithm on Instagram, where someone is always telling us we could do better, we’re doing it all wrong.
But The Voice doesn't know I have a best friend. One who helps me fight her in endless voice notes we'd never listen from anyone else. We call it WhatsApp therapy, something that would drive our therapists mad. Most of the time, before sharing candid advice - taking that risk only best friends can take for each other - we apologise beforehand: consejos vendo que para mí no tengo. I sell advice I have none of for myself.
Few know about The Voice's existence. My son isn't one of them.
Theo has a few toys that ask something of him: fitting the right shape through the right hole or putting together four puzzle pieces to make a boat. He approaches each with absolute seriousness, tongue slightly out, full concentration. The interesting bit comes when he gets it right, making his own applause, raising his arms up to the sky while shouting Yaay Theo every single time.
He’s never met The Voice. And sometimes I dream he never will.
Me hablo mal a veces, muchas más de las que me gustaría. Casi siempre cuando la vida me pone a prueba. Convierto la duda en exigencia y doy una paliza a mi autoestima con mi inseguridad.
Pero ese día, en esa universidad y en esa clase, noté a La Voz vieja por primera vez. Vieja porque me hablaba de cosas que yo ya no era. Cosas de cuando vine aquí solo, con dos maletas y cuatro libros. Así que la miré a la cara y comencé a hablarle. Le dije que había hecho cosas increíbles, difíciles, impensables. Que esas dos maletas eran ahora una casa llena de alegría y ruido.
De vuelta a casa, mandé un audio de 9 minutos a mi amigo. Le conté que al final de la charla hubo aplausos, agradecimiento. Nada de lo que La Voz hubiera querido oír. Al llegar, Theo montaba el puzzle del barco. Escuché ese Yaaay Theo de nuevo. Tengo tanto por aprender, tengo tanto aprendido.
Consejos vendo que para mí no tengo. Pero a veces, sólo a veces, soy capaz de escucharlos.
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I love a Dead Poet’s Society reference! And if it matters, my very cool twenty something daughter recently watched it in Madrid and loved it.
Precioso Julio! Gracias por recordarnos que a La Voz hay que mirarla a la cara y decirle, ya no más!