Fragments of the Quiet Mind

I remember the first time I caught myself censoring a story. Not because I wanted to, but because I was afraid. Afraid that the words I chose would mark me as “other,” or worse, unsafe. It was subtle—a hesitation before speaking, a carefully edited sentence—but it was there, like a quiet tremor before an earthquake. Language policing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a whispered warning, a sideways glance, or the slow erasure of dialects and accents. It’s the constant pressure to speak the way power expects us to—neatly, politely, “correctly.” For marginalized communities, this isn’t just about words; it’s about survival. When your language is policed, your identity gets clipped at the edges. You start to doubt if your stories are valid if your voice deserves space. Freedom of expression becomes a minefield, where one misstep can mean exclusion or worse—silencing. But here’s the thing: language is alive. It breathes the culture, history, pain, and joy of a people. To police it is to...