The blur of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene from the film Joyland. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.
The essence of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene from the film Joyland. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.
The essence of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene from the film Joyland. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.
The essence of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene from the film Joyland. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.
Here, Mumtaz, brimming with the excitement of Haider’s newfound employment rushes to share the news with the family. She fails to fully grasp the full context of his role at a dance theatre. SHE WASN’T LISTENING. This sense of hurry in extracting information from incomplete expression and communication underscores a recurring theme in the film. Haider was hesitating when telling his wife about his job. Mumtaz should’ve gotten the hint or at least waited long enough to listen to his explanation. Haider was not a manager at the dance theatre but a background dancer to a transgender erotic dancer. Telling a traditional family like Rana family about the super unconventional job, especially during the presence of his father, would be close to suicide for Haider.
The essence of our unheard voices isn’t merely in the silence of our spoken words. The deeper hurt stems from being cut off before we can fully express ourselves, from conversations where the so-called listeners are just biding their time, eager to insert their own story into any pause. This isn’t just about being unheard; it’s about the deep disappointment of realizing that our words are merely background noise to someone else’s monologue.
Look at Mumtaz in this scene. Mumtaz struggles as she’s made to abandon her career at the makeup parlor, a place where her art and passion thrive and her identity flourishes. She’s told to quit her art so that she can help out at the house now that her husband, Haider, finally has a job of his own. Her feelings are evident, and her words reflect them. She clearly says that she does not want to leave her job, but the deep-seated gender norms within her lower-income family dictate otherwise. She has no choice but to be obedient and quietly conform. Haider’s inability to support her in this fight, bowing instead to his father’s expectations, amplifies Mumtaz’s isolation. She feels unheard, speaking into a void where no one truly listens to her.
WAIT. I’ll illustrate my point through another example. Consider a crucial, yet seemingly minor scene preceding the confrontation.