To be heard

Everyone has some variation of sound; whether it is just their voice or the way they move, there is something about them that sounds unique. I can tell my mother by the sound of her bangles, my grandmother by hers and I have grown up envious of their sounds.

Women of my family have always been vocal, outspoken women. From those taken as children and forced or tricked onto boats or the strong women of my father's family, speaking in actions or making noise with their feet as they dance, women make noises all of their own.

I grew up throwing tantrums, making my sound that way. Sometimes muffled by the seat of an armchair I would hide my head in, bum in the air, yelling and screaming to get my way as an odd child. As an adult, I have developed a fascination with bells. At the turn of 2014, I had plans to find brass bells and string them on a cotton belt – something dark or muted to wear on my hips so I would be heard without saying a word. I couldn't find a single bell.

In this last trip around Viti Levu, we stopped in Ba to pay homage to a cluttered, fascinating shop, as we usually do, and my mother bought me a pair of anklets. Silver, plain, with two three-somes of bells. While it may seem like the most trivial of things, I was ecstatic. The sound of these six tiny bells would be my sound.

Sure, tiny in comparison to the global chorus of silver that adorns my mother's wrist; nowhere near as regal as my grandmother's odd pair of gold and silver plated wood. My bells are mine and when I hear my feet make music, my heart swells with a strange tingling, a sense of pride that I have found my sound.