Erin Holbrook


My father sewed my mouth shut in the third grade. I was 9 years old. I remember that I was so loud then. Like a megaphone had been shoved into my throat. I was addicted to the praise that came from having done a good job, given the right answer, told a good joke, put on a good performance. 

In school we had been learning presentations, and I loved them. I’d play in PowerPoint all day, finding the perfect clip-art.  My friends and I would argue about the best placement or the funniest titles to add. They were bossy, but so was I. We’d plan out jokes and stunts to sprinkle in. We learned how much goofing around would get us in trouble and how much was just right. When report cards came out, I was perfect in everything, but in the comments section there was a note. I was “a little too loud.” I was confused. I didn’t feel loud, but I was starting to hear those words a lot. I heard it when my friends were playing, and my mom didn’t like the noise. I heard it when I was excited to go to a parade, or a birthday party, and my parents didn’t want to go. I heard it when I was asking my parents questions, or wanting them to play with me. I heard it when I wanted to talk to the neighbors, but my dad wanted to stay home. 

One day my father pulled out a needle and thread, he sat me down to sew me shut. The thread was white – a horribly boring color. We were in my parents’ bedroom. His recliner loomed in the corner by the cluttered nightstand. His PlayStation waited by the TV on the dresser, staring me down. If I was good enough, we’d play it together after. His back was turned to the avalanche of unfolded clothes on the bathroom floor. I was on the edge of the bed, listening to him explain.

It wasn’t a punishment, what he was doing. It was more like a secret. I was smart, so I got to be let in on it. I got to join the club. As he threaded the needle, he told me how everything loud, and exciting, and social – everything I loved – was all a sham. People didn’t really like it. It was tiring, having to talk all of the time – or having to listen. And if you knew what you were doing, you really didn’t have to say anything at all. People would just know what you meant.

“Nice weather we’re having,” “How’re you doing?,” “I’m fine, thanks,”  Small talk especially is useless. It only exists so you can be polite, so why don’t we all just agree to get rid of it?” 

“Probably the only time you need to talk is if you want to say something important. But if what you have to say is important enough, someone else will say it first. Or, if no one says it, probably everyone knows it already. You shouldn’t say something everyone knows. It’s like polluting the air with your mouth. People like you and me, we know better.”

“My best friend at work? We never speak to each other. We just nod at each other, and say nothing. We both just get it.” 

The needle wasn’t threading, so he showed me how you can lick the tip of the thread to make it smooth. It went through immediately after that. He kept talking while he tied the end knot. He explained how the people who loved to speak were all either stupid or lying. Mostly, they were both. They were all lying that they liked it, but they still felt they had to be loud so that they could all be polite. The really smart people, people like me and him, knew that politeness like that was pointless. If we all wanted quiet, why did we pretend we didn’t? No, the smart people knew we didn’t have to pretend. That was the point of all this. They would see me with my mouth sewn shut, no longer pretending, and they would know I was their best friend.

I was confused, because I actually liked the talking. I liked being talked to. I liked hearing my voice and hearing other people’s too. I loved loud noises and screaming crowds and energized rooms. I loved playing games and smiling and waving hello. 

I was mortified to learn I was the only one like that. 

My dad praised me for how perfect I would be when I was quiet. How good I would be at making friends, like him. People would love me for the silence. The peace. The quiet contemplation. They would love me more than they would if I spoke, and laughed, and joked. He finished tying the knot.

He praised me for how smart I was. He told me that I was like him, or that I would be. Just like that, I was joining a secret society of all the best people. My embarrassment was replaced with eagerness. 

His mother was a seamstress so he knew what he was doing. I sat tall as he pushed the needle through my lips in an evenly spaced zig zag. It hurt a bit when he pulled it taut, making a straight seam across my lips, but I appreciated how even it was. I would never have been able to think about anything else if the holes weren’t spaced right. He put time and care and love into each stitch, and I felt special. When he finished, I stood proud. I was excited to be smart like him. To be quiet like him. I was now smarter than all of my classmates, a title I clung to. I was something my father could be proud of. He smiled at me and patted me on the head before sending me away to my room. I frowned, disappointed. He always said he needed space to recharge – especially when I was too loud or energetic. But even sewn shut, it wasn’t enough for me to get to stay here forever. I glanced longingly at the PlayStation. Maybe we’d play it next time. Now that I was silenced, he’d probably let me see him more. I walked down the hallway into my bedroom and sat down in front of my tv. I brushed my fingers back and forth over the stitches and pushed at them with my tongue, wondering how long it would take to get used to them. I told myself that the next time I saw him, I’d be quieter than ever, and he’d let me hang out for a while. I’d wait here until it was time to try.