Confessions of the Loudest Girl you Know

Or, if not the loudest, I must at least be in the top ten, right?

I was born with a genetic predisposition for being loud. 

It’s my dad’s fault, mostly—he’s a big man with a big voice, and his sister isn’t much quieter. Between the two of them, a dinner conversation at my grandparents’ house becomes a ruckus that makes Papa turn his hearing aids off. 

Mom is more soft spoken, but she’s not entirely off the hook. On her side of the family, a game of Left, Right, Center has been known to shake tables, wake babies, and terrify newcomers. Welcome to the family; pardon our noise. 

The proof is in the parents: I was destined to be loud, and from the moment I realized I could speak up, I wanted people to listen. I got lead roles in the school plays because I knew how to project, and in crowded college bars, I was reliably the one in charge of getting the bartender’s attention. I once officiated a wedding without a microphone while still recovering from a brutal case of strep throat. Every grandparent in attendance said they heard me just fine. 

“I hate being the noise, because then, I’m not just loud; I’m loud and obnoxious. I’d rather sew my own mouth shut than be described the same way as a gaggle of theater kids in a Steak ‘n Shake booth.”

I don’t mind being loud. A big voice rarely goes unheard or unnoticed, and I’ve never been one to blend in with the scenery. I have opinions I want you to listen to. I have stories I want you to hear. I want an audience, and I’m not afraid to raise my voice until I have one. I like attention. Friends, I am a leo. 

Still, I cannot exist at a constant shout. I have a voice that is easily heard, so I hope you will hear me when I say this: I don’t mind being loud, but only if I am being loud on purpose. 

I’m worried that you won’t believe me when I say this. I’m worried you’ll say, “Becca, aren’t you always loud on purpose?” But I’m not. I don’t mean to scream so loud at scary movies or talk at a level everyone in the restaurant can hear. I love a quiet home and a private conversation. When I’m speaking to a crowd or over one, I’m grateful for my built-in megaphone, but when the crowd is gone and there’s no noise to shout over, I become the noise. I hate being the noise, because then, I’m not just loud; I’m loud and obnoxious. I’d rather sew my own mouth shut than be described the same way as a gaggle of theater kids in a Steak ‘n Shake booth. 

“At my loudest, I laugh like a cannonball into the deep end, a dropped plate in a restaurant that makes everyone turn and look.”

Unfortunately, I do not come with volume presets, and I am often loud on accident. My laugh is the primary offender: it’s one part cackle, one part classic “Haha,” and 100% disruptive. Unlike my speaking volume, it’s not something that I can usually control. My laugh comes barreling out of me, bold and unbridled and spelled out in all caps. At my loudest, I laugh like a cannonball into the deep end, a dropped plate in a restaurant that makes everyone turn and look. People always turn and look—at movies and plays and open mics. I recently sulked through the back half of an improv show after watching two women glare and cover their ears each time a joke landed with me. I don’t do it on purpose, I wanted to tell them. This is just my laugh. 

Forgive me for being trite, but I love to laugh. I grew up alongside very funny friends, each of us siphoning our sense of humor off our dads and blending them together at the lunch table. The result was some unholy soup of wit, sitcom references, and—let’s call it what it is—mean-spirited bullying that we still keep at a rolling boil. When we’re together, we laugh, and I love to laugh, so I love to be with them. With friends, I never feel loud and obnoxious, only loud and clear. 

This past weekend, one of those friends got married, and I sat next to another during the ceremony. I cried when her dad walked her down the aisle, and I let out a laugh or two during the groom’s vows. Only then did it register that sitting in the back was a great choice. At cocktail hour, I had my turn to hug the newlyweds, and the groom lingered in a way I didn’t expect given all the family and friends he had to yet greet.  

“I heard your laugh during the vows,” he said with a hint of a smile, and my stomach dropped to the floor like a cartoon anvil. I can forgive myself for disrupting an improv show, but not my own best friend’s wedding. Apologies came pouring out of me quicker than liquor at the open bar, but the groom shook his head as his smile stretched. “No, no,” he said, “I loved it. It made other people laugh, too.” 

And that, friends, is something I will always hold close: that my loudness encourages yours. If I shout my opinions, maybe you can whisper yours. If I broadcast my stories, maybe you can write yours, too. I don’t mind being loud so long as it gives you permission to laugh, to scream, to speak up. You deserve to be heard, and you’ll never be loud and obnoxious to me. I’ll always have you beat.