(no subject)
OMG! I got an email about my submission to the NHCC bi-annual publication and it made it to through the first round of selections! There is a good chance my story will be published!!! This is awesome! I want to be a writer and having something of mine published (granted it is only a school thing) is still pretty cool! The story is about my time as a mute. I'll put the story behind a cut for you to read if you haven't yet. I still have some work to do with the ending, but it is pretty good for the first 4 snippets. The formatting is off.
I have a story to tell. My biggest obstacle in telling this is my memory. I only remember snippets of the past, mostly insignificant moments in my life. Most of my years were the same, my parents, teachers and psychologists trying to get me to talk. The one year I most wish to bring out is the hardest to recall. I ask my mom for help to jog the memories. I look over my fourth grade teacher’s master’s thesis that was written about me, but I am only more confused. I simply don’t remember my childhood as much as I would like. I wish I could recall the feelings surrounding my fear of speaking, but I simply don’t remember. Here, though, are snippets of my childhood that I do remember, events that were both significant and insignificant in my recovery from being mute and the courage it took to overcome it.
The other kids in the class shot their hands into the air, flailing them back and forth in the hope of getting the attention of the teacher, Mrs. Kessler. Meanwhile, I sat cross-legged on the alphabet carpet when I suddenly felt like Joan of Arc, like I could conquer the world. I thrust my hand above my head, making my stomach lurch in the process. Mrs. Kessler called on me, and my face flushed, my pupils dilated and my insides recoiled. I suddenly wished I could disintegrate into the rug, becoming the letter Q. I sat in an endless silence before my teacher rescued me by asking if I had forgotten what I was going to say. I nodded in relief. As the other students rattled off characteristics of autumn, I felt that Joan-of-Arc courage bubbling inside of me again. I raised my hand for the second time and Mrs. Kessler called on me. It was now or never. My stomach flopped like a fish out of water, my mouth opened and “yellow leaves” fell out. The class gasped and whispered to their neighbors. I, the-girl-who-didn’t-talk, had spoken. As a mute, it felt as if I had conquered the world.
I sat in my first grade class as the substitute teacher went over what we were supposed to do. She was having us take turns reading a book to our neighbors. My neighbor, Owen, raised his hand and the sub called on him. “My partner doesn’t talk,” he announced, as if he were tattling on me. I sat in my chair, uncertain of what to do. Everyone knew me as the girl-who-didn’t-talk, and I hated having new teachers who didn’t know that I would never speak. I always relied on my classmates to be my voice. The sub approached our pair of desks and asked, “Why won’t she talk?” Owen responded with an “I don’t know.” I sat there with my eyes to the floor, intentionally not making eye contact with the mean old lady. “I will keep you from going to recess if you don’t read to your partner,” she threatened. Panic rushed through my body as I risked losing my recess, which was every child's reason for living. I didn’t do anything. I just sat there not knowing what to do. “She doesn’t talk,” the students around me piped in. “Why not?” the sub demanded. “We don’t know,” they answered. “Fine, just read to her then,” she told Owen as she began walking back to the front of the classroom. I still had my recess and I wasn’t going to be forced to talk. Nobody would ever force me to talk.
The windowless, stuffy room was like a prison. Actually, it was my prison that day since the person in charge wouldn’t let me leave. My second grade teacher sent me to that room because I was a “Special Ed” kid. I was grouped with the mentally handicapped, the ADD children and the extreme troublemakers. This was unfair because I didn’t fit into any of those categories. I was a very bright child, always paying attention and never misbehaving; I just didn’t talk. That year, they seemed to decide that boring me would be the best way to make me finally say something. So, there I sat in the corner at a partitioned desk. They told me I could leave after I said a word, but they didn’t understand that I wasn’t going to budge no matter what the consequences. I was deathly terrified of speaking and had been since I was three years old. I didn’t even talk to my grandparents. What made them think I would ever talk to them? The person in charge approached me after helping another Special Ed kid with math and begged, “Will you please just say a word? You can leave once you do.” I sat there in silence, averting my eyes to the floor. Then she said, “I’ll make a deal with you. If you whistle for me, I’ll send you back to your classroom.” I had a chance to leave! This excited me, although I didn’t show it. “I’ll leave you here until you figure out what you want to do,” she said. I turned my back to the room, facing the dark corner as I pursed my lips and blew, hoping a whistle would come out. The breath whooshed past my lips, but no sound emerged. I had a chance to leave but I didn’t know how to whistle. I tried and tried again but it never worked; I couldn’t make the sound. The person in charge came back to my area and asked if I was going to whistle for her. I looked down, disgusted by my inability to do something so simple, and sighed. I didn’t even attempt to whistle. She said, “When you are ready to talk, then you can leave.” Then she turned her attention to the other student, giving up on me for the moment. As the day finally came to an end, I was sent back to my class so I could go home. That night, I practiced whistling over and over again until, finally, I nailed it. I had my tongue placement perfected and could finally make the sound. Relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend any more time in that windowless prison, I called the night a success and went to bed. The next day, I was sent back to that hellish room. The same routine started, I was told I could leave once I talked, but I never did. The whole time I was silently pleading they would ask me to whistle for them, because now I knew how. They never did. Their torturous methods of trying to get me to talk would not work. I told myself I could deal with the boredom, but not with talking. They didn’t understand the depth of my fear. I felt like no one understood.
We were working on an art project when my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Exel, told us to stop for bit so we could go into the other third-grade classroom for a combined class storytelling. As all of my classmates filed out of the room, I continued to glue things to my paper, hoping to get a certain amount done before I had to leave. My teacher told me to hurry up, but I sat there still gluing. I finally stopped and started to close my glue bottle. It was too late though. The other students were almost all in the other room when Mrs. Exel said, “Alyssa, go turn your card.” Shock washed over my face. Me? Turn my card? “Turning your card” was equivalent to detention at Zachary Lane. It was essentially branding you as a bad kid. Usually the most misbehaved kids in the class had their card turned almost every day. I, on the other hand, had never once been told to turn my card, that is, until that day. With shame, I walked to the board and flipped the card over. I wanted to cry. It was the worst possible thing that could happen to me at the age of eight. I went into the other classroom, took a seat on the floor and dwelled on the fact that my reputation was ruined. I didn’t pay attention to the story the teacher was reading. When the class was told to return to our room, I dragged myself to my desk and heard the other kids whispering and pointing at my bad kid badge that was up on the board for everyone to see. They were no doubt asking each other, “How could the girl-who-didn’t-talk get her card turned? What did she do?” I was thoroughly ashamed. My perfect student image had been tarnished, and there was nothing I could do about it.
In fourth grade, I was transferred to a new elementary school because the school district boundaries changed. Pilgrim Lane was my chance for a new beginning, a fresh start, but I continued to hold my tongue. On one of the first few days of the new school year, my teacher, Mrs. Blei, asked me to come with her to the gym, which was just across the hall from the classroom. I panicked, thinking I was in trouble. She sat me down on a pile of blue safety mats and said, “I know you are not comfortable talking, but I want to be able to communicate with you. I want you to write in this notebook anytime I ask you a question or if you have questions for me.” I sat there looking at the notebook she was holding, refusing to make eye contact with her, because, let’s face it, I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. I was slightly miffed at this new development. I was comfortable in my silence. I was comfortable never having to participate because I didn’t talk, but I was also scared. I had been scared to talk for almost seven years at that point in my life and I wasn’t about to change that easily. Mrs. Blei took me back to the classroom and we continued with the day. When I got off the bus after school, my little sister, Mandee, and I walked down our cul-de-sac to our house at the end. My mom had the video camera out and was recording us as we came home. Mandee started jogging toward the house, but I dragged my feet the whole way. She would turn around and look at me, expecting me to run with her, but I was in a bad mood because of the day’s events, so I dawdled behind. I didn’t want to change. I feared change. “How was school today?” my mom called out to us when we got closer. While my sister responded happily, I scowled at the camera and kept on walking.
It was near the end of the school year when I sat in front of my sister’s first grade class holding the children’s book I wrote. All fourth graders were required to write and illustrate a children’s book. Mine was about a little girl and her talking carrot that stopped a string of robberies by two men. After we completed our books, we were to read them in front of a classroom of a younger grade. On that day, I was going to read my story in front of my sister’s first grade class. In doing so, I had to overcome my fears of speaking and learn to be comfortable around certain people, like my teacher. The woman who helped me the most though was Ms. Manning, the school psychologist and rightly named (by my mother) my earthbound guardian angel. Ms. Manning was a very patient woman and never gave up on me. She believed I would start talking again and she gained my trust and admiration. Her office was a windowless room in the library, just like my personal hell at Zachary Lane, but I loved going to her office once I got comfortable with her. Even better, my best friend Senja would accompany me to her office sometimes and we would play games or work on getting me able to communicate with my peers. Ms. Manning gained my trust by not pushing me and not giving me an ultimatum. It was a step-by-step process to get me to talk to her. At first, she would leave her office so Senja and I could play a game. I don’t know where she went, but the goal was to make me feel comfortable while I was in her office. After a few days of this, she would sit in the library while Senja and I talked or played a game. I knew Ms. Manning was out there though, so I didn’t talk much. Eventually, Ms. Manning worked her way closer and closer to her office while Senja and I were talking. Soon enough, I was comfortable talking around Ms. Manning and even to her. I was just glad I didn’t have to use that stupid notebook anymore. Mrs. Blei did the same thing. “Phasing in” is what it was called, and I was soon talking to her too. I had accomplished a lot in my ninth year of life. I had overcome my fear of talking, for the most part. I was still very quiet, but at least I didn’t always stay silent. In the process of conquering my fear, I made a long-lasting friendship with Ms. Manning that still exists to this day, and as a reward for my accomplishments, my parents got me a pet parakeet named Skippy. As I sat in front of my sister’s classmates holding my “published” children’s book, Ms. Manning and my mom stood at the entrance of the classroom, watching me. I am sure my voice was shaky, and I struggled to keep it loud and clear, but I got through the book. It took a lot of hard work to overcome my fear of speaking in my ninth year, but I learned lifelong lessons in perseverance, love and most of all courage. I could conquer the world because I conquered my biggest obstacle, speaking.
I have a story to tell. My biggest obstacle in telling this is my memory. I only remember snippets of the past, mostly insignificant moments in my life. Most of my years were the same, my parents, teachers and psychologists trying to get me to talk. The one year I most wish to bring out is the hardest to recall. I ask my mom for help to jog the memories. I look over my fourth grade teacher’s master’s thesis that was written about me, but I am only more confused. I simply don’t remember my childhood as much as I would like. I wish I could recall the feelings surrounding my fear of speaking, but I simply don’t remember. Here, though, are snippets of my childhood that I do remember, events that were both significant and insignificant in my recovery from being mute and the courage it took to overcome it.
The other kids in the class shot their hands into the air, flailing them back and forth in the hope of getting the attention of the teacher, Mrs. Kessler. Meanwhile, I sat cross-legged on the alphabet carpet when I suddenly felt like Joan of Arc, like I could conquer the world. I thrust my hand above my head, making my stomach lurch in the process. Mrs. Kessler called on me, and my face flushed, my pupils dilated and my insides recoiled. I suddenly wished I could disintegrate into the rug, becoming the letter Q. I sat in an endless silence before my teacher rescued me by asking if I had forgotten what I was going to say. I nodded in relief. As the other students rattled off characteristics of autumn, I felt that Joan-of-Arc courage bubbling inside of me again. I raised my hand for the second time and Mrs. Kessler called on me. It was now or never. My stomach flopped like a fish out of water, my mouth opened and “yellow leaves” fell out. The class gasped and whispered to their neighbors. I, the-girl-who-didn’t-talk, had spoken. As a mute, it felt as if I had conquered the world.
I sat in my first grade class as the substitute teacher went over what we were supposed to do. She was having us take turns reading a book to our neighbors. My neighbor, Owen, raised his hand and the sub called on him. “My partner doesn’t talk,” he announced, as if he were tattling on me. I sat in my chair, uncertain of what to do. Everyone knew me as the girl-who-didn’t-talk, and I hated having new teachers who didn’t know that I would never speak. I always relied on my classmates to be my voice. The sub approached our pair of desks and asked, “Why won’t she talk?” Owen responded with an “I don’t know.” I sat there with my eyes to the floor, intentionally not making eye contact with the mean old lady. “I will keep you from going to recess if you don’t read to your partner,” she threatened. Panic rushed through my body as I risked losing my recess, which was every child's reason for living. I didn’t do anything. I just sat there not knowing what to do. “She doesn’t talk,” the students around me piped in. “Why not?” the sub demanded. “We don’t know,” they answered. “Fine, just read to her then,” she told Owen as she began walking back to the front of the classroom. I still had my recess and I wasn’t going to be forced to talk. Nobody would ever force me to talk.
The windowless, stuffy room was like a prison. Actually, it was my prison that day since the person in charge wouldn’t let me leave. My second grade teacher sent me to that room because I was a “Special Ed” kid. I was grouped with the mentally handicapped, the ADD children and the extreme troublemakers. This was unfair because I didn’t fit into any of those categories. I was a very bright child, always paying attention and never misbehaving; I just didn’t talk. That year, they seemed to decide that boring me would be the best way to make me finally say something. So, there I sat in the corner at a partitioned desk. They told me I could leave after I said a word, but they didn’t understand that I wasn’t going to budge no matter what the consequences. I was deathly terrified of speaking and had been since I was three years old. I didn’t even talk to my grandparents. What made them think I would ever talk to them? The person in charge approached me after helping another Special Ed kid with math and begged, “Will you please just say a word? You can leave once you do.” I sat there in silence, averting my eyes to the floor. Then she said, “I’ll make a deal with you. If you whistle for me, I’ll send you back to your classroom.” I had a chance to leave! This excited me, although I didn’t show it. “I’ll leave you here until you figure out what you want to do,” she said. I turned my back to the room, facing the dark corner as I pursed my lips and blew, hoping a whistle would come out. The breath whooshed past my lips, but no sound emerged. I had a chance to leave but I didn’t know how to whistle. I tried and tried again but it never worked; I couldn’t make the sound. The person in charge came back to my area and asked if I was going to whistle for her. I looked down, disgusted by my inability to do something so simple, and sighed. I didn’t even attempt to whistle. She said, “When you are ready to talk, then you can leave.” Then she turned her attention to the other student, giving up on me for the moment. As the day finally came to an end, I was sent back to my class so I could go home. That night, I practiced whistling over and over again until, finally, I nailed it. I had my tongue placement perfected and could finally make the sound. Relieved that I wouldn’t have to spend any more time in that windowless prison, I called the night a success and went to bed. The next day, I was sent back to that hellish room. The same routine started, I was told I could leave once I talked, but I never did. The whole time I was silently pleading they would ask me to whistle for them, because now I knew how. They never did. Their torturous methods of trying to get me to talk would not work. I told myself I could deal with the boredom, but not with talking. They didn’t understand the depth of my fear. I felt like no one understood.
We were working on an art project when my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Exel, told us to stop for bit so we could go into the other third-grade classroom for a combined class storytelling. As all of my classmates filed out of the room, I continued to glue things to my paper, hoping to get a certain amount done before I had to leave. My teacher told me to hurry up, but I sat there still gluing. I finally stopped and started to close my glue bottle. It was too late though. The other students were almost all in the other room when Mrs. Exel said, “Alyssa, go turn your card.” Shock washed over my face. Me? Turn my card? “Turning your card” was equivalent to detention at Zachary Lane. It was essentially branding you as a bad kid. Usually the most misbehaved kids in the class had their card turned almost every day. I, on the other hand, had never once been told to turn my card, that is, until that day. With shame, I walked to the board and flipped the card over. I wanted to cry. It was the worst possible thing that could happen to me at the age of eight. I went into the other classroom, took a seat on the floor and dwelled on the fact that my reputation was ruined. I didn’t pay attention to the story the teacher was reading. When the class was told to return to our room, I dragged myself to my desk and heard the other kids whispering and pointing at my bad kid badge that was up on the board for everyone to see. They were no doubt asking each other, “How could the girl-who-didn’t-talk get her card turned? What did she do?” I was thoroughly ashamed. My perfect student image had been tarnished, and there was nothing I could do about it.
In fourth grade, I was transferred to a new elementary school because the school district boundaries changed. Pilgrim Lane was my chance for a new beginning, a fresh start, but I continued to hold my tongue. On one of the first few days of the new school year, my teacher, Mrs. Blei, asked me to come with her to the gym, which was just across the hall from the classroom. I panicked, thinking I was in trouble. She sat me down on a pile of blue safety mats and said, “I know you are not comfortable talking, but I want to be able to communicate with you. I want you to write in this notebook anytime I ask you a question or if you have questions for me.” I sat there looking at the notebook she was holding, refusing to make eye contact with her, because, let’s face it, I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. I was slightly miffed at this new development. I was comfortable in my silence. I was comfortable never having to participate because I didn’t talk, but I was also scared. I had been scared to talk for almost seven years at that point in my life and I wasn’t about to change that easily. Mrs. Blei took me back to the classroom and we continued with the day. When I got off the bus after school, my little sister, Mandee, and I walked down our cul-de-sac to our house at the end. My mom had the video camera out and was recording us as we came home. Mandee started jogging toward the house, but I dragged my feet the whole way. She would turn around and look at me, expecting me to run with her, but I was in a bad mood because of the day’s events, so I dawdled behind. I didn’t want to change. I feared change. “How was school today?” my mom called out to us when we got closer. While my sister responded happily, I scowled at the camera and kept on walking.
It was near the end of the school year when I sat in front of my sister’s first grade class holding the children’s book I wrote. All fourth graders were required to write and illustrate a children’s book. Mine was about a little girl and her talking carrot that stopped a string of robberies by two men. After we completed our books, we were to read them in front of a classroom of a younger grade. On that day, I was going to read my story in front of my sister’s first grade class. In doing so, I had to overcome my fears of speaking and learn to be comfortable around certain people, like my teacher. The woman who helped me the most though was Ms. Manning, the school psychologist and rightly named (by my mother) my earthbound guardian angel. Ms. Manning was a very patient woman and never gave up on me. She believed I would start talking again and she gained my trust and admiration. Her office was a windowless room in the library, just like my personal hell at Zachary Lane, but I loved going to her office once I got comfortable with her. Even better, my best friend Senja would accompany me to her office sometimes and we would play games or work on getting me able to communicate with my peers. Ms. Manning gained my trust by not pushing me and not giving me an ultimatum. It was a step-by-step process to get me to talk to her. At first, she would leave her office so Senja and I could play a game. I don’t know where she went, but the goal was to make me feel comfortable while I was in her office. After a few days of this, she would sit in the library while Senja and I talked or played a game. I knew Ms. Manning was out there though, so I didn’t talk much. Eventually, Ms. Manning worked her way closer and closer to her office while Senja and I were talking. Soon enough, I was comfortable talking around Ms. Manning and even to her. I was just glad I didn’t have to use that stupid notebook anymore. Mrs. Blei did the same thing. “Phasing in” is what it was called, and I was soon talking to her too. I had accomplished a lot in my ninth year of life. I had overcome my fear of talking, for the most part. I was still very quiet, but at least I didn’t always stay silent. In the process of conquering my fear, I made a long-lasting friendship with Ms. Manning that still exists to this day, and as a reward for my accomplishments, my parents got me a pet parakeet named Skippy. As I sat in front of my sister’s classmates holding my “published” children’s book, Ms. Manning and my mom stood at the entrance of the classroom, watching me. I am sure my voice was shaky, and I struggled to keep it loud and clear, but I got through the book. It took a lot of hard work to overcome my fear of speaking in my ninth year, but I learned lifelong lessons in perseverance, love and most of all courage. I could conquer the world because I conquered my biggest obstacle, speaking.