Bethelene Hart

Transcript

I'm floating high above my body, looking down at the commotion below. in the operating room. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I repeat it like a mantra. I had given birth to my first born, a son, two hours earlier. After, alone with a young nurse who confided she was new to the floor and unsure of herself, I sensed something was wrong. My gut said, "Speak up." But I didn't. What did I know? A new mom, 24, and married.

postpartum hemorrhage. I was dying. The birth had been joyful. I sang through the contractions. Donobi's patchim, a Latin hymn, grant us peace. As the contractions got stronger, the singing got louder. By the 10th and final hour, I was belting out Dona Nobi's patch like Selen Deion in Vegas. The nurse tapped on the door. Can we leave the door open? and the others want to hear you sing. And now I was fighting for my life. I want to live. I want to live.

I want to live. Those words kept me from fading away. I thought about my father and his family. I went into labor on my father's birthday. His mother was orphaned at her birth. And his brother and only sibling had died years earlier, leaving behind a young family. Was I clearing some sort of family karma? I didn't sign up for that. I wasn't ready to go. I wanted to live and I came back. As I stand here on at the CBC stage on November 22nd, I am having a full circle moment.

My father, the late Harvey Hart, was a film and television director and a pioneer of early television at the CBC. He passed away 36 years ago today on November 22nd. In his field, he was awarded and respected. To us, he was just dad. 5'6 with a six-foot presence, playful, curious, generous, a compassionate observer of the human condition. qualities I share in my personal and professional life as an expert in the field of early childhood education. My father told stories for a living, and so do I.

But my near-death experience taught me something deeper. That quiet sense, the one we so often dismiss, it matters. My not listening to it almost cost me my life. I've taught my children that are now grown the importance of listening to their intuition and that fear and anger can drown it out. If children are not encouraged to listen to their inner voice and follow that inner compass when they're young, how will they learn to navigate the world when we're not there or to trust themselves when they become adults?

Took me a little longer to trust myself. There were times in my life where I was alive but not really living. two marriages where I was more a passenger in my own journey. A psychiatrist told me once, "Your first husband was emotionally unavailable and your second husband was controlling." So basically, I went for the sequel instead of rewriting the script. But um sorry, Dad, but you know what they say, women sometimes marry men like their father. I had a sense that I wasn't living the life I was supposed to be living.

and I started to follow. Then I had a setback. Thyroid surgery and it damaged my vocal cord. Really? The woman who sang her son into the world can no longer sing? I kept going. It didn't stop me from becoming an inspirational speaker. I'd built before and I would build again. This time, maybe not with volume, but with clarity. Because the world is loud and fear is louder, but our inner guidance is quiet and steady. My father told stories to make sense of the world, and so do I.

Stories build emotional intelligence, teach, and reconnect us to ourselves. I am living the life I'm meant to live. [snorts] Okay, it only took two marriages, a near-death experience, and a very persistent inner voice, but I got the message. You don't need to be floating above your body shouting, "I want to live." You can start now. Don't play it safe. Play. Because it's not the roles and titles we carry that echo on. It's how bravely we live that quiet truth and how boldly we taught others to do the same.

Thank you.

Transcript generated from the recording and lightly cleaned. Some names and wording may differ from the spoken speech.

Transcript

"You're not a singer, are you?" said the thyroid surgeon, waving my file in the air. "I was just going in for routine thyroid surgery in 2018." "Yes, yes, I am a singer. I sang my whole life. I even got paid to sing. My favorite, the community singing, choir, choir, choir. Ah, we're very careful, but we'll be extra careful. After the surgery, my voice was very horsearo. You have permanent vocal damage, said the speech pathologist. No more singing, no more choir. Choir, I couldn't go to social or work functions.

People couldn't hear me, and I couldn't talk over the noise. Even ordering a tea at a drive-thru was difficult. and my world got smaller and smaller. I'm eight years old and I'm attending my fourth school by the time I'm in grade three. I'm always the smallest one in the class pictures. My dad was a film and television director and carded us off to sunny California from Winintry Toronto. I'm settling in my new class and we had to take a multiplechoice test and I decide I want to be done first because I want to impress my new teacher.

So I just randomly answer the questions. Unbeknownst to me, it was an IQ test. Also unbeknownst to me is the principal, Dr. French, a very tall, intimidating figure, called my mother into his office. And he proceeded to tell her that I scored so low. And he used a term that we consider derogatory now, but was acceptable at the time. And he told her I was mentally [ __ ] And my mother, who should have been my voice and advocate, did not question the authority of the principal.

And I was ripped from the little class that I had just gotten used to and deposited in what the kids at school called the dummy class. It was a remedial class, the behavior kids, the misfits. The girls rolled their skirts up a little too high and put blue eyeshadow on in the bathroom and smoked a couple cigarettes. We were eight. Well, I was eight. I think these kids repeated grades a few times. I knew I didn't belong there, but my voice wasn't louder than Dr.

French. And this set me up for my academics and the shame that came with it. And the unspoken message was, "You are not smart." And my world got smaller and smaller. The one place that I felt a sense of belonging and confidence was with my singing. In my 20s, I asked my mother, "Why was I moved to that grade three class?" And that's when I found out. I like, "Mom, is that what you thought of me?" She's like, "I didn't know.

I just felt bad for you." When we moved back to Toronto for high school, no wonder my parents were only asking my sister where she wanted to go to university. Nobody was asking me that question. Nobody had expectations of me, especially me. I married and I had children of my own and I wanted to parent differently. I went to my first parenting class, hopeful but exhausted with my 10-day old daughter in my arms and my three-year-old son at home who was a bit of a challenge at that time.

And I didn't want to break his spirit and I didn't want him to break mine either. And those parenting classes were life-changing. And eventually I trained to be a parenting instructor. What would you do if a kid told you to [ __ ] off? My answer to that question got me a job working for the school board. Oh, I would just ignore them and redirect them. Can you start on Monday? It was a behavior class. It was the misfits. It was the dummy class.

And now I was a voice and advocate for these children. I went back to school as a mature student and I graduated with honors in the field of early childhood education and this has been my career and passion. Seven years ago when my voice and spirit were impaired, I had a Hallelujah moment. It reminded me of Disney's Little Mermaid. She gives away her singing voice in exchange for her legs. I was a divorced mom of four kids and I had to stand on my own two feet and I had to use my own voice and I decided I don't want to live a small life.

I want to live a big life and I started my own business parenting by heart and I've since published two children's books. I went back to choir choir choir. I'm working on my smoky jazz voice. Life will test us but we don't have to live a small life that somebody else chose for us. We can rise above the things that held us back and choose a life that we want. We can use our own voice to advocate for ourselves and other people, big or small.

Sometimes we have to lose our voice to find our voice. Hallelu.

Transcript generated from the recording and lightly cleaned. Some names and wording may differ from the spoken speech.