Threatening Communication

I remember the last time that a parent raised their voice to—shouted at—me. I was around six old, and my dad was frustrated for a now-forgotten reason. My room was probably a mess, with Lego pieces strewn around my bed from the container underneath, and he probably stepped on one. Picture: a shared cultural moment.

I felt threatened and scared when my dad then, and by extension others raised their voices to yell. Raised voices didn’t need to associate violence—my parents’ were firmly in the we-don’t-spank-our-babies camp—to impress fear upon a kid. Had they ever hit me, I’m sure I’d’ve made worse associations.

At some point—I remember shortly after that, but for all I know there could’ve been a few years in-between—telling my mother “I’m scared of Dad when he shouts at me.” At her urging, this became a conversation around the dinner table, and I don’t remember him shouting again after that. Memory—particularly childhood memory—is notoriously faulty, but this is how I remember it.

I don’t remember whether my mother shouted at me. I remember the distinction between her raised voice, his raised voice, his shouting, and his shouting at me. I’m unsure the degree to which I asserted that distinction myself as a kid: when a man shouted, it was aggressive and threatening, whereas when a woman raises her voice, it was something else. I saw a threat in men that I didn’t in women, and I don’t know whether that led me to code the same behavior differently between genders, or if there was a measurable difference in how my parents communicated with me when frustrated. Alternatively, I could’ve learned to differently code women’s raised voices, comfortable in the passive knowledge that with our sexually dimorphic bodies, I was less likely to experience interpersonal violence.

Twenty-five years later, I rarely think about this. Increasingly as I think about kids, and the values we want to engender, this comes to mind. This last week however I recognized that I view threatening communication as uniquely men’s domain, and I needed to figure out where that came from. Nowadays, I know that anyone’s capable of violence, but that men hold its cultural monopoly—but I also know that I had these biases as a child, and lacked the words to describe them.

I was in a conversation this week with three others. We were two couples with a generational age gap. This was the first time in years that I’d been in a conversation where a man tried to make his points by shouting over everyone else, and damn, I’d forgotten what receiving that felt like. Worse, the only way to engage was to speak over—shout over, yell at—him. No-platforming depends on other parties caring about mutual interaction—leaving the discussion or remaining silent until he wore himself out would’ve only validated him. Loud men read compliance in conversational gaps—they’ve said their piece, intimidated others into silence, and leave happy in the knowledge that they uniquely were heard and unchallenged.

It’s lonely to image one making their way through life by impressing and intimidating others—particularly children—into silence. Not only should we discourage this way of living for the sake of loved ones, but for one’s own self. Authentic and empathetic connection cannot be built over a foundation of intimidation. Muscling others into submission is extrinsically harmful and intrinsically isolating the self.

I’m thankful that none in my life communicate this way, and sincerely hope that I don’t become that kind of parent. Frustration and fear happen—I remember having been shouted at too in moments of physical safety—but hopefully one rarely needs to raise their voice, and where necessary, one separates it from intimidation and entitlement.