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A voice at the table

By Rosemary McKenzie-Ferguson
It seems eons back when my voice was silent, I spoke only in muffled tones and even then, only when it was required for me to speak. I certainly didn’t make a sound when all I wanted to do was be brave enough to scream. Speaking up and speaking out terrified me, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because there was nowhere for a person such as I to speak about what we were living with and attempting to live through.

Instead, I screamed in silence, I cried endless tears without allowing one single tear to fall, I wrote tomes of issues and never printed one word.

My voice was lost in and among the voiceless.

I am not able to point to one single thing that changed for and within or around me, it was more like a collective of small insignificant happenings. Tiny things that seemed not to really matter, I responded to newspaper articles, I responded to segments on talk back radio. Other members of the injured worker community reached out and I reached b…

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