Here's my next piece...
Selectively Silent
September
I got the job and Clara was in my class. She talked, giggled, shouted, and whispered at home, nowhere else. She was a challenge. This beautiful, bright six-year old who could not share her thoughts or questions compelled me.
From the first day I met her, I loved her. Her speculative eyes and the mystery of her silence whispered to me, urging me to explore the girl hidden inside. For the first few weeks, Clara said nothing. She wouldn’t sing “The Hokey Pokey” when we sang as a group. Her lips did not move. She cracked an occasional smile, but more often revealed a deep, contemplative look. She did not laugh out loud. Nor could you trick Clara into talking. We tried. She did not slip. Other children noticed her absent voice. They didn’t seem to care. They played together and chased each other. The children seemed to find it totally reasonable that Clara didn’t talk. To them, she just didn’t speak in words and that in itself was reason enough for her silence.
October
I began to make my first real breakthroughs with Clara on the playground. I would talk with her everyday and address her just as if we were having a conversation. I would nod or say, “Oh really, so that’s how you feel?” She would giggle. As she became more comfortable with me, she began to grunt. Guttural noises seemed to just slip out. On the outside, I did not make a big deal about the noises. In my heart, I celebrated. After a while as Clara grunted more and more, it became almost like a game. I would mumble back or yip like a dog when she’d respond to me with a grunt. She would laugh and mutter back, more and more often.
Throughout this process, I reminded Clara that I was dying to hear her voice, but I could wait until she was ready. I wanted her to know that it was okay to take her time. I did not want her anxiety to become worse. I offered her opportunities to whisper in my ear. Sometimes she would cozy up to me, but inevitably she would just grunt or be silly. Baby steps, I reminded myself. We were building a bond.
January
Through the winter, I continued to develop a relationship with Clara’s parents and little brother Jack. They were so supportive. They taped her reading at home so we could monitor her progress. Only through the tapes did we discover that she was a great reader! From time to time, Clara even addressed me personally on the reading tape. “Tara, don’t you think that was funny?” or “Will you read this book to me at naptime tomorrow, Tara?” Those were exciting moments. She also drew pictures at home and brought them in to share. She was developing a growing repertoire of ways to communicate without talking at school. I was getting to know Clara.
March
As spring flowers blossomed, so did Clara. Silly grunts slowly transformed. They weren’t really grunts anymore but not quite words either. She sometimes made noises that were beginning to sound like unintelligible mumbles, but only in one-on-one situations. Responses so faint and quiet they could have been mistaken for a buzzing mosquito. Her silent lips were beginning to move when we sang “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” as a group. She cracked a sly smile as she stretched her arms to the sky and then touched her toes. I still spoke to Clara as if she was responding aloud.
One afternoon, we were perched at the top of the playground equipment so I could watch over my whole class as they played. I asked Clara a simple question, just as I always did. She leaned over near my ear and I was so used to her silliness that I didn’t expect anything but a grunt or a giggle. She whispered, “Yes.”
Clara spoke! At school! I was thrilled. I struggled to restrain my excitement because I did not want to scare her or discourage her from speaking again. I squeezed her tight. A smile lit my face. Clara spoke at school. To ME. The excitement coursed through my body. One little word, yes, but it had such an impact. I awaited her parents’ arrival at pick-up time so that I could share the exciting news. We were good friends now, and I anticipated their delight. As they pulled up in their station wagon, Clara and I both raced over to share our breakthrough. As young as she was, Clara, too, knew this moment was special. The four of us relished our joint success with exhilaration and relief.
From this point on, Clara changed. She would whisper answers in my ear consistently. She only said one or two words at a time at first, but later used complete sentences. She transitioned from whispering to combining quiet talking in her responses. She began singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” with the group, her voice clear among the others. Other adults in our school were now confidantes as well. Clara was breaking free from the shell labeled selective mutism.
May
By the end of the year, an outside observer could not have picked Clara out of the crowd. She was a vivacious, talkative kindergartener. Home was no longer her only sanctuary. She laughed, played, and conversed with friends. She chatted on the phone. She gossiped on her nap mat at rest time. Clara babbled endlessly. She discovered her voice and the freedom to share it with the world. I felt confident…Clara would make it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
"I" Memoir Piece
Here is a piece I've written from my own experiences. I'm playing with parallel structure between two different, but related, events. Let me know what you think...
Triple A
The closer I got to the hospital, the more electrified I felt. The call came in at a little past nine. It was my turn. An older gentleman was en route to the operating room at University Hospital. Triple A – abdominal aortic aneurysm – a case I saw more than any other. I knew what to do…I’d run the cell saver on several of these cases already. I anticipated the situation and wondered what the outcome would be today. Had the aneurysm burst yet? Would we help him in time? Would there be massive blood loss? I hoped not, but I knew through experience that this might be a long, messy night. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Scooting into my baby blue scrubs, I hurried to change out of my street clothes.
Standing on the sidewalk, my tiny hand grasped my mother’s hand securely. The further we walked, the more implanted my feet became, harder and harder to lift as if I were dragging concrete blocks, not my feet. Like ivy, my limbs entangled themselves in my mother’s long legs until they intertwined so tightly there was no opportunity for me to move.
I rushed through the halls of the hospital, through winding and deserted underground tunnels. I had one goal in mind: get there in time. With a brief glance at the scheduling board I noted my case, operating room 2A. I grabbed my cell saver machine, whispered a silent prayer to myself that the aging beast would not choose today to malfunction, and rolled into the operating room. A gruff voice greeted me, “Hook that up quick. I expect we’ll need you today.” The patient was not yet in the room. A sigh of relief; I wasn’t too late.
The red and blue lights blinked and circled, turning heads as pedestrians passed. I began to sob. I did not want to go. It was too late. No amount of reassurance from my parents, grandparents, or the police officers themselves could convince me to climb into that car. I had no logical reason to be afraid. Perhaps, at some deeper level of intuition, my three-year old self understood the symbolic implications this ride to the airport would later have. All cajoling was to no avail. I would not ride in that police car.
Just as I finished attaching the saline and unwinding the yards of suction tubing, the two-way door swung wide open. A large man grunted as the bed skated into the room. He was conscious and talking, both encouraging signs. He clasped a small paper to his heart. As the nurses prepped him, his fingers massaged the paper’s corners. A friendly young nurse wondered, “What do you have there?” All of the preparatory action seemed to suspend in time. I guess we all wondered what he was holding so dearly. “This here’s a picture of my grandbaby,” he boasted. “She’s the light of my life. I wanted all of you to see it so you’d know who was waiting for me to come home.” Fighting the tears welling in my eyes, I was instantly transported 20 years back in time.
As they loaded the car, I can imagine there were tearful hugs, sobbing goodbyes. Grandpa’s heart had gotten worse. They were no longer able to help him in St. Louis. We shared our love and good luck wishes, our reassurances that we would see him soon. I gave him one last hug. We waved together as Grandpa rode off in the police car. The plane was awaiting his arrival at Lambert International for the flight to Houston. He needed the surgery, now, if he was to survive.
Today I was determined. The same evil triple-A would not rob a grandfather from the beautiful girl tenderly clutched in this man’s shaking hand. As the cell saver pumped and groaned, I could not erase the parallel images between the girl and her grandfather and me with mine.
Pictures in an old shoebox of my Grandpa as a World War II airman. He was a proud Army man, a member of the 101st Airborne Division. He jumped from war planes over the coast of France and escaped heavy artillery fire over Germany.
His uncanny resemblance to Robert Duvall. One afternoon I was watching a Duvall movie and I had an unnerving feeling, he reminded me so much of my grandpa. I could not shake the sensation. I called my mom and relayed my emotion. She was very quiet. “I always thought they were so alike, too. He looks and sounds just like him. I can’t believe you remember…that’s just how he sounded.”
His hidden stash of my favorite butterscotch candies, special for me, for when I would stop over. Without fail, every time I’d visit he would slip me a butterscotch and every time I’d choke on it. He would flip me upside down, dangle me by my feet, and out that yellow disk would pop. But every visit, I would come back for more.
Grandpa died when I was barely three.
I knew nothing about this man splayed out before me…but he was this girl’s grandpa and, like my own, he faced surgery with a failing aorta. That was enough. Today I could change history.
Triple A
The closer I got to the hospital, the more electrified I felt. The call came in at a little past nine. It was my turn. An older gentleman was en route to the operating room at University Hospital. Triple A – abdominal aortic aneurysm – a case I saw more than any other. I knew what to do…I’d run the cell saver on several of these cases already. I anticipated the situation and wondered what the outcome would be today. Had the aneurysm burst yet? Would we help him in time? Would there be massive blood loss? I hoped not, but I knew through experience that this might be a long, messy night. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Scooting into my baby blue scrubs, I hurried to change out of my street clothes.
Standing on the sidewalk, my tiny hand grasped my mother’s hand securely. The further we walked, the more implanted my feet became, harder and harder to lift as if I were dragging concrete blocks, not my feet. Like ivy, my limbs entangled themselves in my mother’s long legs until they intertwined so tightly there was no opportunity for me to move.
I rushed through the halls of the hospital, through winding and deserted underground tunnels. I had one goal in mind: get there in time. With a brief glance at the scheduling board I noted my case, operating room 2A. I grabbed my cell saver machine, whispered a silent prayer to myself that the aging beast would not choose today to malfunction, and rolled into the operating room. A gruff voice greeted me, “Hook that up quick. I expect we’ll need you today.” The patient was not yet in the room. A sigh of relief; I wasn’t too late.
The red and blue lights blinked and circled, turning heads as pedestrians passed. I began to sob. I did not want to go. It was too late. No amount of reassurance from my parents, grandparents, or the police officers themselves could convince me to climb into that car. I had no logical reason to be afraid. Perhaps, at some deeper level of intuition, my three-year old self understood the symbolic implications this ride to the airport would later have. All cajoling was to no avail. I would not ride in that police car.
Just as I finished attaching the saline and unwinding the yards of suction tubing, the two-way door swung wide open. A large man grunted as the bed skated into the room. He was conscious and talking, both encouraging signs. He clasped a small paper to his heart. As the nurses prepped him, his fingers massaged the paper’s corners. A friendly young nurse wondered, “What do you have there?” All of the preparatory action seemed to suspend in time. I guess we all wondered what he was holding so dearly. “This here’s a picture of my grandbaby,” he boasted. “She’s the light of my life. I wanted all of you to see it so you’d know who was waiting for me to come home.” Fighting the tears welling in my eyes, I was instantly transported 20 years back in time.
As they loaded the car, I can imagine there were tearful hugs, sobbing goodbyes. Grandpa’s heart had gotten worse. They were no longer able to help him in St. Louis. We shared our love and good luck wishes, our reassurances that we would see him soon. I gave him one last hug. We waved together as Grandpa rode off in the police car. The plane was awaiting his arrival at Lambert International for the flight to Houston. He needed the surgery, now, if he was to survive.
Today I was determined. The same evil triple-A would not rob a grandfather from the beautiful girl tenderly clutched in this man’s shaking hand. As the cell saver pumped and groaned, I could not erase the parallel images between the girl and her grandfather and me with mine.
Pictures in an old shoebox of my Grandpa as a World War II airman. He was a proud Army man, a member of the 101st Airborne Division. He jumped from war planes over the coast of France and escaped heavy artillery fire over Germany.
His uncanny resemblance to Robert Duvall. One afternoon I was watching a Duvall movie and I had an unnerving feeling, he reminded me so much of my grandpa. I could not shake the sensation. I called my mom and relayed my emotion. She was very quiet. “I always thought they were so alike, too. He looks and sounds just like him. I can’t believe you remember…that’s just how he sounded.”
His hidden stash of my favorite butterscotch candies, special for me, for when I would stop over. Without fail, every time I’d visit he would slip me a butterscotch and every time I’d choke on it. He would flip me upside down, dangle me by my feet, and out that yellow disk would pop. But every visit, I would come back for more.
Grandpa died when I was barely three.
I knew nothing about this man splayed out before me…but he was this girl’s grandpa and, like my own, he faced surgery with a failing aorta. That was enough. Today I could change history.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
The journey begins...
I am excited to begin exploring writing creative nonfiction. It's long been one of my favorite genres to read...and now I'm ready to make the leap and begin writing creative nonfiction snippets of my life. Check back soon as the journey begins!
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