Archive for the “supportive parents” Category

Trish Lange
Elementary School

I was basically a walking bullseye my entire childhood. In elementary school, I was foot taller than everyone else including some of the teachers. I wore leg braces for several years which required me to wear big, clunky shoes all the time … even to bed. I was a brain, a geek. Other girls had posters of the New Kids on the Block, I had posters of Kirk and Spock.

The other girls either taunted me or just flat out ignored me. The guys taunted, mocked, pushed, and shoved me. I never had a date. I went to Prom by myself.

My parents tried their best to support me. They’d always say, “Someday, all this will make sense. God must have a reason why you’re going through all this. Just try to hang on.” I thought they were full of it, but had little choice but to hang on by my fingernails until I could escape to college.

And escape I did. Free to really be me, I flourished. I had wonderful friends, met a wonderful man (my now-husband), and graduated with highest honors.

Fifteen years on, through a turn of events, I am now working in the same school district that I attended as a child and that my own children now attend. Teachers have come and gone, buildings have changed, but unfortunately, kids have not. Predators still circle the classroom or the playground. Smelling the blood in the water, they still seek out the weakest prey in the crowd.

I am no longer prey, but remember so well what it’s like to be surrounded by sharks. God’s reason for my childhood torment has become abundantly clear. All the pain I endured has made me a steel safety cage for my own children and for those other tiny fish in the sea, strong enough to help ward off any kind of shark attack.

by Annelise Zoe Barriga
Currently in Seventh Grade
Translated by Sheryl Muñoz-Bergman and Liz Henry

By Lisa Lucke
Age 9 at the time 

Mrs. Winton had barely finished forming the phrases “school assembly” and “music recital,” and my nine-year old heart was already pounding. I tracked her every move as she made it clear that “yes, families were invited.” This meant that I would actually be up on the stage, violin nestled under my chin, and my hand carefully sliding the thin bow over the taut strings, just the way Mrs. Winton had taught me to do. I’d only been playing for a few months, like everyone else in the 4^th grade with their chosen instruments, but I was absolutely sure of my abilities. Every Wednesday afternoon, instead of going to last recess, I walked to the cafeteria for music. I was proud of myself, and most of all, I felt important.

At the sound of the 3 p.m. bell, I ran the two blocks to my house, where I found my father mowing the lawn. “Dad!” I shouted over the grinding noise of the push mower. “We’re having a recital in two weeks and guess what?” My dad rotated the mower at the end of the long row and managed a breathy response.

“What?”

“Family gets to come and it’s in front of the whole school and it’s at night!”

“That’s great Ellen. Go call Mom and tell her the good news.”

The days flew by, filled with extra practices after school, and rehearsals that folded in every detail, from where we would sit and who we’d sit next to, to reminders about how to dress. One by one, Mrs. Winton fine tuned our weaknesses with gentle admonishments, as if we ourselves were the instruments and she the player. Finally, at the end of two weeks, we were ready. I couldn’t believe that this unlikely instrument, the third I’d tried in as many years, the one my mom said was my great-grandmother’s passion, would be the one to propel me into the spotlight, and out of ordinary.

I had decided the same thing about the accordion two years before, in second grade. Mr. Carlotti, a seemingly ancient man, found my two best friends first. They were sisters, and lived just a couple doors down from me. One Saturday morning, the seemingly ancient man trod door to door in our neighborhood, looking for prospective students. Chrissie and Debbie’s mom said yes, and before he had even left their porch, the girls sprinted down the sidewalk, past the cranky neighbor’s house that separated us, and flew up my porch steps. I opened the door to their frantic chattering that I must get my mom to say yes to accordion lessons, though just what an accordion was I didn’t exactly know. When Mr. Carlotti reached my door, after old Mrs. Tadblink shooed him away, the polite gentleman in the dark brown suit got lucky again.

The three of us, Mr. Carlotti’s only students, wedged into his tiny office in the basement of the public library each Saturday morning. We had exactly four lessons before what I now realize was Mr. Carlotti’s likely overdue passing. I wasn’t so much sad for poor old Mr. Carlotti as I was for me. I wanted to get good at something, and the accordion was different, so different than any other instrument most kids played. For me, different meant special, and special meant better.

I tried again the following year, in third grade. I took piano lessons from a spinster living across town in an aging Victorian with a slobbering, monster of a dog who rested his mouth, complete with gloppy tennis ball, between my knees as I played. Miss Ricky hugged me the first time I entered her house, and every time after that. She hugged me goodbye, too. She may have even hugged me after each song – I just remember her thin, yet surprisingly strong arms squeezing my shoulders in a lovely vice-grip, and her nervous, happy voice prattling all the time. Miss Ricky’s corrections came in the same tone as praise: soft and encouraging. She ended each lesson by playing anything I wanted, and without exception, I chose one of Joplin’s rags. I loved to watch Miss Ricky’s bony shoulders and arms and fingers vibrate up and down and that silly look on her face that resembled a smile but may have just been the natural slope of her wrinkled, oval face. I also remember that she seemed to be somewhere else – somewhere I wanted to be, without even knowing why.

For three months I played at Miss Ricky’s house, which ended up being the problem. My parents decided that without a piano of our own at home to practice on, I was not making any real progress, and therefore, lessons were pointless. The decision took me totally by surprise, and of course, I disagreed. In my mind, and definitely in Miss Ricky’s, I was doing just fine. Besides that, I enjoyed the lessons, which were more like a trip to a carnival than work, and most of all, Miss Ricky needed me. Why else would she insist on showing off the endless upstairs rooms of her house each week after our lesson ended, and keep introducing me to the relatives who stared out at her antics from behind dusty glass? How could I make my parents understand that progress really wasn’t important to me, but spending time with Miss Ricky was? I couldn’t, so I quit the lessons and reluctantly said goodbye to Miss Ricky.

Now, just one year later, under the direction of Mrs. Winton, I would reveal my musical talents to the world with the violin.

At 6 p.m. promptly, on a Friday evening in late October, Mrs. Winton took center stage, in front of the heavy, velvet stage drapes and welcomed the assembled parents, relatives and teachers to the 4th Grade Fall Music Recital. Behind the curtain, my classmates and I sat in our assigned seats – I near the end of the third row, between two other violin playing 4th graders. I knew I’d be able to catch a glimpse of my parents between pieces, and I was already imagining how proud they’d look. I wiped my hands on my jumpsuit and tried to stay calm. At 6:03 p.m., the curtains parted a crack and Mrs. Winton slipped back through, looking us over for the last time. As she quickly made her way toward the wings, we made eye contact, and she stopped just long enough to whisper one, simple sentence in my ear that remains with me to this day, 33 years later:

“Ellen, I want you to pretend to be playing.”

With that, the curtain rose.

by Victoria Davis
Age 11 at the time

The little girl sat at the edge of the classroom — sensing the excitement but knowing her only form of participation could be observation. Squeals of delight came from the popular corner as white and pink tissue paper flew from the gift boxes wrapped in lots of curly ribbon.

Oh, she would get a gift too. But if she squealed it would be met with ridicule and various mimicking of whatever sound she made.

No, life was better for her if she was invisible. Teachers were oblivious or chose to tune out her peer-enforced solitude.

She loved people. She loved to tell jokes and laugh. But right now in this classroom — she was the only joke. What would she do wrong today? Oh, it would be something.

And she’d see these girls at church again on Sunday with their curls, angelic smiles, and stockings, looking like the apples of their moms’ eyes. Not saying anything, they would steal glances at one another as she spoke up in Sunday School — oh, what fun they’d have tomorrow about this lesson!

And yet, there was one place she could go with complete acceptance. Her mother and father adored her and enveloped her in their respect, love, and care the moment she came home.

And — in her room at night — she’d open her Bible and read of her Saviour. He was a “man of sorrows.” Enemies hung on his every word looking for their next point of contention with him. This man — this Jesus — knew what it felt like to be alone, to be made fun of even in church. To be left out and not fit in. He understands. He knows.

And snuggled under her covers beside a small lamp in the darkness, they met in conversation, talked about their day, and became best friends.