Have you ever felt like you needed to voice your opinion — but felt censored, or afraid you would be silenced if you did?
Do you wish you could have a more active role in politics, to exercise your right to vote and have it actually mean something?
Do you ever feel despair and think… what does it even matter anyway?
I’ve always wanted to live in a country where “We the People” actually had a say in who got elected and what policies shaped the country I lived in.
But to be honest, many of us in Gen X never really felt that it mattered.
We were told there were things to look forward to at certain ages — and every time we got close, the government moved the goalpost.
The drinking age used to be 18. Just as we were approaching that milestone, it changed to 21. Retirement used to be 65. Then it became 67. Now it’s moving toward 70. So sometimes it feels like we’re expected to work until we die.
And pensions — when we were teenagers, pensions were still a thing. Then they disappeared, and suddenly it was up to us to save on our own. But where was the extra money to save?
So yes… I think our generation learned disenfranchisement an early age.
So many of us stuffed our frustration down and told ourselves we were fine. We’d just do it ourselves.
I think that’s why I always carried this quiet need to use my voice — to say something that mattered, and have someone listen. But for a long time, that opportunity never seemed to come.
If you spoke up, who would you even speak to? Would anyone listen?
When I watched protests on television, I admired the people who gathered for a purpose and demanded change. I’ve always deeply admired the Civil Rights movement — the courage it took to stand in the street and risk everything.
It wasn’t until I became a grandmother that I joined my first protest. I’ve only been to two in my life.
The first was in Albany, in October 2016, for the Fight for Fifteen.
I went with my union. I had never really been involved in the union before — I was a member, but that was it. It was a coworker — a friend — who convinced me to go. She was always trying to get me more involved.
And looking back now, I think she saw something in me that I couldn’t see yet.
She could see that I needed an outlet for my voice because I was quite loud and passionate when speaking about the rights for the common folks like us.
I remember being nervous. We took a bus with all these other union members. It was a long ride. And I remember sitting there thinking, “What am I doing?” But I went anyway. And I’m really glad I did. Because what struck me that day wasn’t anger.
It was how many different organizations had come together. People collaborating. Organizing. Trying to protect workers and their dignity.
And what moved me the most were the young people. So hopeful. So alive. They walked around handing out flyers, encouraging people to elect Bernie Sanders.
And I remember thinking…
This is democracy. There were chants. Music. Speakers. It felt alive.
And something else happened that day.
That was the first time I ever really found my voice, and I’ve been involved with my union ever since.
The second protest was during Trump’s first term, when families were being separated at the border.
That one was different. I went with my grandchildren. My health wasn’t good then. I wanted to march more. To be louder. To do more. But I couldn’t.
And I remember standing there thinking…
This matters so much. Not just for me. But for them.
I’ve always admired the civil rights movement — the courage it took to stand in the street and risk everything — because silence felt more dangerous than speaking.
And the truth is…
Nothing in this country has ever changed without protest.
Labor rights.
Civil rights.
Women’s rights.
Voting rights.
None of that came from being quiet. I’ve always been someone who stands with workers. With poor people. With families.
So lately, I’ve been deeply disturbed by an idea that seems to be everywhere now:
That protesting is wrong.
Unpatriotic.
Disruptive.
Dangerous.
And I keep asking myself a simple question:
When did using your voice in a democracy become something to be ashamed of?
I don’t have all the answers. But we do have history. We can see the patterns — silence, both subtle and overt.
And I want to keep exploring this. The stories we were taught that made us afraid of our own voice. The ways so many of us learned to stay silent without ever being told to.
This feels like an important place to begin. I want to keep returning to this question here in future issues of this newsletter.
If this resonated with you, I talk more about how voices get silenced — and why — in my next YouTube video. Keep watch for that here: https://www.youtube.com/@michele-thespacebetween.
As always, you can reply to this email if you have a question or feedback.
Have a Great Day!
~ Michele
Yeah! Go ahead and say the quiet part out loud.