A text by Samantha Friedman – instagram.com/sammyfrieds
Photography by Ana Falcão
Model is Milena Rocha,
Location is Santa Cruz dos Milagres, Piauí, Brazil
When I was younger, I voiced my opinions freely and without much thought. That was until my grandmother said to me sternly, “Little girls should be seen and not heard,” in a tone that struck a chord. I absorbed the chill of her kitchen’s marble floors and the iciness of the stainless steel fixtures. Her stark white cabinets in her pristine kitchen stood tall, concealing their contents like secrets. It was clear she wanted me to do the same, so I did. I took on their role, keeping silent, becoming more like furniture when I visited her home. I adorned her home with my presence yet brought nothing to the table but my gentle smile. I became mere decor, like the accent piece she brought out in the living room when guests stopped over.
After she said those eight little words, I shapeshifted, existing to complement the world around me, to fit seamlessly into the backdrop of other people’s lives without ever taking center stage. Silence became my loyal companion. I would be seen and not heard. I got good at it too. I sat still like the antique clock on her mantel, meticulously polished but never wound. I became a decorative ornament, like the tiny porcelain trinkets she collected but never engaged with. I, like them, was meant to enhance the space without disrupting it. I became the ornate chandelier that hung above her dining table, there to add a touch of charm but not to illuminate anything of real importance.
It has taken me almost 30 years to figure out my life purpose isn’t supposed to be as small, silent, accommodating, and convenient as possible.
I was an accessory, like the throw pillows she artfully arranged on her hard white couch to create a pleasing appearance but never to offer any real comfort. I was like the chocolate chip cookies she filled in glass jars, each batch carefully purchased every week, only to be thrown out and replaced by another new batch once they began to lose their freshly baked appearance. The cookies were never eaten, yet always there for looks, their presence a symbol of the rigid aesthetic that governed her life. They served no purpose other than to enhance the visual perfection of the kitchen. Their untouched state mirrored my own existence—on display, yet never truly indulged.
Adjacent to the kitchen was the dining room, a space dedicated to the art of presentation. The shiny wooden dining table, long and elegantly set, stood as the centerpiece of a room frozen in time. The chairs, impeccably aligned, never bore the weight of guests. This room was a stage set for gatherings that never occurred. The crystal glasses and polished silverware stood as silent witnesses to a formality that was never breached. It existed solely for the purpose of being seen, just like me: prepared and poised, yet unfulfilled.
The impact of her eight little words did not dissipate when I left her house; they followed me into my high school hallways and classrooms. I drifted through those formative years, my lips sealed, my thoughts locked away, observing the vibrant chatter around me but never participating in it. My opinions were stifled, and my voice subdued. I felt more like a spectator than a participant in my surroundings. I moved through large chunks of time with a sense of detachment, admiring bursts of laughter at lockers, cheering at football games, and conversations during lunch unfolding around me, but never feeling truly connected to them. My voice should have been vibrant and full of life, yet it faded into the background, a muted echo of the person I wanted and knew I could someday be.
My life became a series of posed moments, each one carefully crafted to meet the expectations of those around me.
So I hovered at the edges, the periphery, careful never to step inside and be heard. My interactions were limited to polite smiles and nods, my thoughts and opinions carefully tucked away like the fragile floral china my grandmother kept locked in her drawers, only to be brought out on special occasions. My life became a series of posed moments, each one carefully crafted to meet the expectations of those around me. I had perfected the art of invisibility. I sat in the back of the classroom, my hand rarely raised, the answers to questions whispered only to myself.
When I left my hometown for New York City in my mid-twenties, a quiet rebellion began to stir, ending my self-imposed silence. I yearned to be both seen and heard as a family member, as a friend, as a creative in the workplace. That meant taking up space, being loud, standing up for my needs, having wants, and being inconvenient at times, because that’s what people are. It meant embracing my full humanity. It meant speaking up when something bothers me, even if it disrupts the peace. It meant being okay with my desires sometimes clashing with those around me.
The proverb my grandmother used reflected the values and societal norms of medieval England published in the 15th century and certainly does not reflect the 21st century reality. It encapsulates the outdated hierarchical nature of society some 600 years ago, where children were expected to be obedient and silent in the presence of adults. The child’s role was simply to sit, listen, and learn without making any contributions. It has taken me almost 30 years to figure out my life purpose isn’t supposed to be as small, silent, accommodating, and convenient as possible. I was never meant to be ornamental; I was meant to be a person. I am entitled to be seen and heard, to occupy my rightful place in the world without apology. While she might not have known better, it’s for her not knowing that I finally do.
