Mute

By Mazikeen Quinn

Like On Top of the Mountain Hill, Mute is about taking my voice BACK and standing up for what's right. It's a beautiful experience unknown to all and a journey willing to explore.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warrioress Publishing
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223320647

Book preview

Mazikeen Quinn

MUTE

A Memoir

First published by Warrioress Publishing 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Mazikeen Quinn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Mazikeen Quinn asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Mazikeen Quinn has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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Sometimes, I want to end it—until I remember the why.

Mazikeen Quinn

Contents

Acknowledgement

BIRTH STORY

WHO IS MAZIKEEN QUINN

INTRODUCTION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

POEMS

Diamond

My Apologize

Tremors

Words Spoken by a Queen

Mirror Mirror

Blinded

Masterpiece

Valentino

Forest

Till

The Man With the Same Face As His…

Jack the Ripper’s Siren’s Call

Paper Doll House

LADY IN THE WINDOW

WINTER BREAK

A CONVERSATION IN THE DARK

PRIDE

NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

About the Author

Also by Mazikeen Quinn

Acknowledgement

I wrote, thinking about what I wanted to put into Mute and being by my side every step.

Thank you to my trauma therapist for helping me understand my self-worth, tackle my demons, use the tips/exercises to work through my episodes, and know it’s all right to break down after a while.

Special thanks to my friends for being so understanding and loving.

It’s taking some time to find my way back to you and all you’ve endured over the years—how they made fun of who you were since you were born. Still, I know you’ve overcome a lot, and I want to thank you for telling your story your way and not letting anyone change your narrative just because they think they can.

You have a story to tell, and hopefully, people will see that—the struggles and many nights you wanted to give up. Know that your story doesn’t end here.

BIRTH STORY

This isn’t your ordinary book. This isn’t your ordinary memoir of a woman filled with trauma and regret—filled with the events that have happened as such—no, this is a memoir deep within the minds of a young woman’s perspective of whom she thought she was and all she’s seen to be false, but there are moments where you will question, ponder the possibilities, and find a sense of awe yes—I see.

I don’t know much about my birth or how I came to be. I talked to some of my family members, but this is all I could gather from that day.

From Birth, I demanded attention. The day of my birth—it was a planned induced labor. It was a Sunday. Funny, I would have been born on the 11th of September, but we all know that we’ll never forget the real tragedy that day six years later.

How the twin towers fell, and over 2,977 lives were lost.

Thankfully enough, this was the mid-90s. As far as I know, six months after birth, I was sick due to the meningitis outbreak, where babies passed and mothers wept. And there were lives lost but for other reasons entirely.

Right around six or so, the doctors did the physical inspection, and after a while, they popped my mother’s sac. Did you know that a baby can be born inside their sac? Quite uncomfortable, I can imagine.

So much time had passed because my mother, when arriving there, was three centimeters dilated. From what I gathered from my great-grandmother, she, her daughter, and my mother all went shopping for baby clothes before arriving at the hospital because they were all excited to meet me—I assume.

My grams: my father’s mom told me that the three of them all got neutral baby colors because no one knew if I would be a boy or a girl.

Maybe that’s why I’m having trouble finding out who I am.

Or the need to question things because I just must!

Everyone was getting ready and ensuring I was appropriately faced because after the inspection, come to find out, I was turned the wrong way—yep, you guessed it!

BREECHED!

I could have been a breeched baby. Luckily enough, that did not happen.

My father was in the waiting area watching a movie: Tango & Cash. I assume it was popular around the time I arrived. During a commercial break—the prison fight scene; I was born. According to my father’s knowledge, I came out in ten minutes.

The doctor stated:

That was the quickest delivery I’ve done.

I don’t know the full extent of what my father felt at that moment, but from all the stories I heard from my great-grandmother, her daughter—my grandmother, I’d assume he was happy to see me like they are when a baby has just been born.

Parts of me wanted more extensive details about what everyone felt then. I was just pleased to have survived a birth such as mine after the events that took place afterward.

WHO IS MAZIKEEN QUINN

INTRODUCTION

I feel like sometimes I can’t even shake the sadness that is my voice. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but nothing I say or do makes sense anymore.

From the outside looking in, there is a woman I barely recognize, and she’s standing in a field unfamiliar to her, and the people in her life come in and out like propeller blades on an airplane higher than her hands can grasp.

Her feet are planted to the ground, and she can’t seem to breathe, for her lungs are filled with fire that eats at her heart and burns her throat.

She can’t speak; she wants to move, but she can’t feel the urge to take that first step.

I wake up sometimes in a puddle of sweat because, at times, my fears consume me like the beast in the lion’s den.

I’m not saying those that don’t have fears can’t relate to feeling the same dread of emptiness day in and day out—they hide it better than some folks. Or fake it till you make it, but what’s that do? Really.

Repeatedly, we wear masks covering our pains, regrets, and truths. Why should any of us fake it? Because it’s been done before? When does it become prevalent to break the toxicity of societal norms and start living—not just for us, but for the future ahead?

As people, we want to change, but what does that consist of?

What does that look like for someone who doesn’t have what others have?

Freedom starts from within, and that freedom, from how I see it—from my perspective is fear.

No one expects to find what they’re looking for—some expect the unexpected. When we close our eyes, we’re covered in darkness—until we dream of a dream that will take us far from our worries and problems, and we melt into this idea of what safety feels like.

How come the caged bird sings?

Sound familiar?

Who killed the man on the moon?

Where was his body found?

Finding your voice in a world capable of taking it away with a snap of the fingers can be challenging.

Dedication, arduous work, perseverance, and grit are all the same language, just taught differently through a kaleidoscope lens. All its colors are your perspective of how you see it because seeing is believing, right?

At least, that’s what I was told.

I, but a young girl who once believed in love and all its contents—now I, but a young woman who doesn’t seem to know who she is and where the many parts of me fit. I’ve been silenced—shunned and mocked by many because of who I am.

What’s so wrong with being different?

Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, unique?

To have the world look at you like you don’t belong because you have unique abilities to connect with people you understand better than yourself.

What becomes of those left behind and abandoned by their caretakers who abuse a cycle that needs to be broken?

You know what I’m talking about—the generations after us.

What happens to them?

How do we know we can do better?

We don’t.

Time is just that; timeless. There’s no start, no end, or middle. People we know and grew up with influenced us in many ways and made us who we are today, but I don’t know who or what?

But I’m willing to tell you why.

Why it’s significant, I know.

Why it’s necessary, you know.

We question who’s in charge of our narrative and how we live our lives. It’s hard to say when we have a say in what we do and who we are—when people like you and me are just starting to see the errors in their ways.

From birth, the first person you encounter is your mother:

The touch of her skin, the smell of her scent, down to the taste of her nipple as you are being fed from her breast; all the sounds around you synchronize like you’re being winded up like a toy soldier marching on the front lines at the battle where there’s chaos and turmoil at every possible end.

Still, you are that toy soldier: standing at the ready—to fight and fend for your life and those you protect and love: your family, the ones you choose. The ones who see you for you and know you for who you are don’t judge or lead you astray because they also know what it’s like.

I never experienced any of that growing up. Yes, I was being protected, but there’s a difference between being protected and being spoiled. I was loved and cared for, but it feels different when you’re an adult and start seeing everything crumble right before you.

You can see things crumble at the seams, and you start to reach for a solution, but it gets further and further away from you—you stretch your arms out wide, but your body can’t seem to extend out that far.

I’ve reached my breaking point and felt as if I were insane to the point where I questioned whether I belonged.

I still do that at times.

When doves cry, who is there to tend to their needs?

I don’t know why I like it. I do…

I get so emotional when I think of you and wish I could help you, but not that kind of help. I remember seeing you dance in your room with this excitement as if you had all the answers in the world.

Your smile told the truth, and it was as innocent as you were, but things happened to you that you couldn’t speak about as if they were taboo.

Like the grim reaper attached to your body, you want to break free from the fear and pain, yet all around you; you sink deeper into the void and lose yourself.

It’s never enough to see yourself slipping and falling into the background: fading away into the darkness and not seen yet heard.

Where is your life raft?

Who’s going to save you from the darkness we all face?

I take it one day at a time, and I still feel like it’s not enough.

1

My advice for life: dance and sing your song while the party is still on.

― Rasheed Ogunlaru

As the start of the work week, Monday has always been associated with a sense of gloom and dampness. I’m not particularly fond of this type of weather. However, I cannot deny the calming effect that comes with the sound of raindrops falling.

It’s no wonder that the sound of a rainforest is often used to induce a peaceful slumber.

It’s truly remarkable how the simple sound of rain can profoundly impact our emotional and physical state. The sound can naturally soothe the mind and a sense of tranquility.

In this state, all worries and stress seem to evaporate, leaving the body feeling completely relaxed and revitalized.

When I was young, my mind would conjure up enchanting visions as I slept. But lately, my slumber has been plagued by ghastly and unsettling terrors that leave me uneasy upon waking up.

I used to feel content and comfortable with myself, but something altered that. It’s unclear what caused the change, but the sense of tranquility I experienced during childhood now seems foreign.

However, I still hate Mondays.

Close your eyes and count backward from ten.

Find a quiet place, sit there for however long it takes, and breathe in and focus.

Take a moment to unwind by loosening your body, and relaxing your fingers, toes, and hands. Empty your thoughts and focus on finding your inner balance.

As I sit here beside you, I can sense the calmness of the room permeating your anxious thoughts. I empathize with the unease you’re experiencing, as it seems to be bubbling within you like a pot of water on a hot stove.

The stillness around us provides a peaceful atmosphere, allowing us to address our worries clearly.

That fear of a toddler placing their curiosities all around when they wander off, and you don’t know where to look or whom to turn to because it hovers over you like your worst nightmare coming to life.

Or feeling like you’re disappointing those who expected more out of you. All those countless nights of molding you into their interpretations of what you should be—trust me, it’s a bitch!

The constant tossing and turning, those restless hours of sleep you can’t get back because it must be how others see you, and you can’t oversee the amount of pressure on your shoulders.

How society looks at you tells you how to dress, act, and be.

Stress is a killer.

Worry is its accomplice, but fear is its motivator: a constant reminder that you are a failure, but that’s not the case because you have what it takes to speak up and to fight for what’s right.

How come you don’t fight for it?

How come you don’t speak up for those that don’t have a voice to fight back?

Is it because you’re scared?

That no one will hear you?

No, you’re not scared—is it because you know what’s coming?

Because it’s coming.

Like pen to paper, you can say just about anything when it comes to telling how you feel; like a pen to paper, you can craft unknown facts about yourself.

Find the hidden parts that unravel what makes you—you.

You have a voice that speaks the truths of this world—hidden beneath the surface: cracks in the tiniest places of your mind, and you know it’s there; you have to believe it’s there.

It can be harmless, but others use it for pure malice. To boost their egos, a part of me wants to know—who hurt you?

I hate Mondays because it reminds me of the rain and how long it seems to take for someone to notice those tiniest details within the cracks. On the outside, looking in, I can feel the ache wither away like wet sandpaper in a deserted sand dome.

I doubt anyone’s noticed the breathing from counting, and I haven’t even started.

How are your hands and feet, down to your fingertips?

TEN:

I feel numbness in my chest. It weighs on my shoulders that I can’t utter a breath without releasing my foot off my throat.

I know how it can be when you feel like you have no one to turn to when you’re in a place where you think you don’t have a say.

I turned off a part of me that I don’t even know anymore. Those weights have now become a burden dragging me to my feet.

NINE:

No matter how many times I cry in my pillowcase, the bellow of my wailing screams