A Celebration of Voice: a poem for Selective Mutism

First, thank you to everyone who attended our event on Thursday. We were able to "Celebrate Voice" with a great crowd, who saw people of all ages and experience perform poetry, comedy, and music. Ballydoyle Pub in Aurora provided us with more than we could ask for, and it was a perfect start to our ongoing fight against Selective Mutism.

Now that the madness has (temporarily) settled, I aim to be on here a bit more. Expect a continuation of the previously started Voice Project, among other projects that will surface once the fall semester begins.

Until now, here is the poem I read at our event. Feel free to help us provide funding for kids coping with this disorder at our website: www.buildingbridgesgroup.com

Love you for reading

JN

A Celebration of Voice

 

I cried a lot as a baby,
Ear puckering tears from a crib
Around 2 am that forced dad to mumble
“your turn” into his pillow,
Prompting, undoubtedly, a sigh from mom’s tired face
And a stare so cold I’m sure he felt it on his neck,
 
Much like I do every day
When I leave the confines of my home
 gazes, from just as tired faces
Stretch like arms
with weary fingers around my neck, begging,
“Why won’t you talk, whisper,
Even cry?”
 
But the grip is too tight. I can’t speak.
 
I only cry inside now.
Sometimes it leaks onto paper in ink,
But those tears stay hidden beneath covers
Away from eyes that loom
outside the silence of my room.
 
Hidden, too, are my dreams,
The schemes of which I wrote with ambition
In a playbook
Which I keep in a dark and dusty pocket
Against my chest, close to a locket
That holds pictures of the person I wish to be,
But can’t
 
because life is a drag race,
And fear holds tight to my torso
Like the harness of a parachute.
 
It slows me down.
I reach
 
But its grip is too tight, I can’t breathe,
 
So I watch the others speed free
And it’s like nobody sees,
And those who do skip their careless words at my feet
Like rocks into water until I trip and fall in.
Head overcome with a wash of questions
“Why don’t you want to speak?”
“Why won’t you talk? Even Cry?”
 
Now I’m drowning.
 
But in the distance
a light shines, Showing me safety’s existence
And guiding me there.
 
I am buoyed by hope.
And I can float and pray for rescue
But I’ve been doing that too long,
 
So I’m going to catch a wave
And ride it,
gather strength in my legs
And lungs so when I’m close enough,
I can wade Home
to who I am,
 
Burst into my mother’s room
And hear her cry
tears of joy,
see her celebrate
when she hears me proclaim
that I didn’t lose my voice,
I simply misplaced it,
And in the process I learned
 
Bravery isn’t always being the loudest,
Bravery is having the courage to search the dark
For your voice until you’ve found it.
 
I never wanted to be afraid,
I can’t help what I couldn’t say
But now,
My voice is found
and from this day forward
I will choose
 
To use my brave
 
And speak.

 

Exit Interview: A final poem to my students

For those of you who don't know, I am leaving my position as an English teacher at Oswego High School and pursuing a graduate degree at SIU-Edwardsville. The decision was difficult, but perfect for me and my personal goals. On Thursday, May 22nd, I shared this final poem with my students. The text speaks for itself, but I would like to thank everyone who had a hand in my teaching career. Whether you were a student or colleague, administrator or mentor, thank you for everything. I could not have asked for a better five years (DGS and OHS included).

Cheers to taking leaps. I love you for reading.

Exit Interview

I won’t conduct an exit interview

before I leave this place for good,

but if I did, it would likely entail questions

about my experience, reflections

on growth and grades and the ways

of this district.

I doubt they’d ask about my students,

those young minds consuming the thought cloud

resting above my right shoulder,

a final image for the reader to capture before this story ends.

Suppose the process was all procedure,

a  printout of questions from district headquarters.

I’d stop them and say this:

I hope, during my time here

I encouraged one student to toe the cliffs of his limits,

to leap into thin air because it felt right and not because

the world expected him to.

I hope a student’s bad day was made, just once,

from a silly note or poem I wrote, the words glistening

in their inky glory, the only light such a kid would see that day.

I hope they learned the power of language,

the way words can team up into a violent army,

burn holes through the soul of another with an easy flick of a trigger,

but how words, those same words, can just as easily

drop their weapons, hold up their hands in peace

and build something no army can destroy.

I hope my students learned to love a book,

or stories, the realest expressions of people;

I hope one of them, at least one, grew angry

at a man that didn't exist anywhere but on a page.

I hope the word “poetry” will not make them shudder,

but smile, and when others chastise the art they defend it

like their little brother on a playground being taunted by bullies,

explain how beautiful it is,

how each piece of it was selected carefully by its creator,

arranged in such a way that someone may see it

and love it for who it is, for what it reveals on the surface

and what lies beneath—the good stuff, that which is only found when

one invests thought and care into the poem.

And I hope, for at least some of my students,

I will be that poem, the one they turn to

because they know what they’ll get,

a message that understands them.

I hope they grin each time they flip to me,

read me, or even think of me—how I may be resting

on some bookshelf in the dark,

believing in them,

waiting, smiling,

old and distant,

But always there.

Voice Project (Installment III): Amber

Amber
Oswego, IL

Meet Amber Colon. Senior at Oswego High School. Master of human resiliency.
 
Amber was always shy as a child—and not the typical, youthful type of shy. No, Amber was terrified of being around people. In fact, she only spoke to select members of her family until the age of 15 because of the anxiety she felt in crowds. At 5 years old, she recalls, a doctor asked her how old she was. She couldn’t make eye contact. Her throat closed. She could barely muster the courage to spread her trembling fingers onto the table to give her answer.
 
“At first I thought I was just shy,” Amber says. “But eventually I realized there was something more. It wasn’t normal to shut down the way I did. It wasn’t normal to dislike myself as much as I did. There was definitely something else wrong.”
 
As it turns out, that “something else” was a rare disorder called Selective Mutism. The disorder affects around 7 out of every 1000 kids, and can be summed up as a phobia that causes victims to shut down in social situations. The fear is uncontrollable, and the anxiety is dangerous and detrimental to the suffering person.
 
Amber describes her experience in social situations as “overwhelming,” citing shakes and chest pain as effects of the anxiety.
 
“Sometimes I would be in public, and I would just forget how to hold a conversation, which was frustrating,” she says. “Other times there would be so many thoughts racing through my head that I wouldn’t know where to start, and I’d shut down because that was so overwhelming.”
 
Amber’s disorder haunted her through elementary school and placed her in therapy sessions that she claims made her feel like she “had problems” (though she is now grateful for her sessions and claims they were beneficial). These effects were the root of her low self-esteem and chronic frustration. Amber also claims she was severely misunderstood by many of her peers, including teachers.
 
“They thought I was rude,” she says. “They thought I was choosing to be quiet. If they knew how I felt, they would know that nobody would choose to be that way.”
 
By the time Amber reached 8^th grade, she grew weary of her disorder and started to take a stand.
 
“I got tired of it. I wanted people to understand me, so I researched the disorder and created a YouTube video, and I wanted to make sure I at least left something positive out there before going into high school,” Amber said.
 
That YouTube video now has over 16,000 views, and is joined on Amber’s page by several others. She even started a Facebook page to raise awareness, which holds almost 4,000 “likes.”
 
Still, Amber’s inability to adapt to social settings was not going away. The pressure of high school loomed in the near future, and it was a difficult adjustment.
 
This is when I met Amber, a quiet freshmen who, beneath her shield, clearly possessed a sense of blossoming vitality. A week prior to the start of school, Amber and her parents called a meeting with all of her teachers, and the 14 year old shared her YouTube video with us. It was a courageous start to a year that would yield much silence. But the video was a step, and four years later…
 

-

 

Amber is now a senior, and her vitality is in full bloom. Over the past few years, Amber has not only found her voice, but has embraced it, mastered it, and broadcasted it to thousands of people.
 
“I feel obligated to speak for those who can’t,” she explains. “9 out of 10 people don’t know what Selective Mutism is or how serious of an issue it is. I want to make sure 10 out of 10 people do know what it is.”
 
“I don’t think anyone deserves to go through life without having a voice. Hating yourself that much is not okay, and then you feel like you can’t do anything.”
 
Although the experiences were difficult, Amber maintains that some benefits emerged from the disorder.
 
“[Few] people can relate to not being able to speak when they want to, so I think I benefitted from that. Just sitting back and listening, observing, I better understand people. I am more empathetic.”
 
With college on the Horizon, Amber intends to major in communications and specialize in international relations. This way, she can continue to raise awareness about the disorder, among other issues.
 
That’s right. A girl, once unable to speak, wants to major in communications.
 
“I’m bilingual, so the more language I learned, the more interested I became in other cultures. I want to expand my travels and help people.”
 
This success started around sophomore year of high school, when “the pressure of freshmen year wore off.” She claims exposure to new friends and kids who enjoyed similar things certainly helped, as well as her faith, and sharing her story.
 
Despite her profound growth, Amber says the anxiety still resonates in certain areas of her life.
 
“It’s not so much social, but more anxiety caused by stress. I never really learned how to deal with anxiety.”
 
Still, Amber is a socialite with a thirst for sharing her voice.
 
“I love people. I love helping people. I want to dedicate my life to more than just the disorder because there is so much more.”
 
As our conversation ends, Amber sits in her computer chair with a cool confidence about her. She smiles, takes a deep breath, then packs up her planner that is laden with records of her numerous commitments. While there is no known cure for Selective Mutism, Amber seems to have concocted a homemade remedy.
 
“I always say,” she adds at the last minute. “All the words I never got to speak—I’ll make up for that, and more.”
 
I have no doubt she will.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------------------
 
 
Click on the links below to see Amber’s videos, and like her Facebook page (also below).
 
This July, Amber is teaming up with my company (Building Bridges) to raise awareness for SM. Ultimately, we plan to raise money so a child suffering from SM can attend a therapeutic camp in Oak Brook. We will do so through an open mic, the theme of which will be “Unheard Voices.” We people of all ages to share their voice on topics they are typically excluded from.

Follow us on our journey! You can follow Building Bridges on Twitter at @BridgeBuilt, and can like our Facebook page (link below.
 
I love you for reading!

 

JN

 

 

Amber's Facebook page:

https://www.facebook.com/SelMuAwareness

 

YouTube Account:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpbwQ6esldE

 

Building Bridges Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/bridgebuilt?notif_t=page_new_likes

 

Voice Project: Installment 2

Rocky’s Corner

Coal Mine and Pierce
Littleton, CO
 
If customer service is dying, Rocky’s Corner is the defibrillator for its revival.
 
At least it seems as if there is enough positive energy in the place.
 
Snuggled tightly against the back of a liquor store on the corner of Coal Mine and Pierce, Rocky, the institution’s owner and operator, greets his customers with unconditional warmth that keeps you coming back. He'll even give your dog a treat--then ask if he can give another.

But this is not an advertisement for his coffee or breakfast burritos, which come wrapped elegantly in foil and topped with a bright orange label—a gift for his customers on their way to work. This is, rather, a testament to a belief that good people exist.
 
The American spirit is rooted in the rags-to-riches archetype. Stories of good people wading through the muck of life and coming out clean on the other side—that’s what we live for. That is Rocky, who coincidentally lives for everybody else.
 
Born into a family of five—all raised by his mother after his father passed away when he was 5—Rocky carries the toughness of a kid raised on the streets, of a kid raised to work hard and “never lie, steal, or cheat.” From an early age, he was taught to cook, clean, and most importantly, be kind.
 
"I got to a point where, I’m walking down the streets, kids are getting shot in my back yard, and I have to convince a guy pointing a gun in my face that I can be his friend,” Rocky said. “I’ve had a gun pointed to my face 15 times, not kidding. What I know, though, is that people are people. They like when you’re real with them.”
 
And there began his life philosophy of “being real” with everyone he met.
 
“Why not?” he asks. “Why not wake up every day and smile? Why not be kind to people, enjoy life? If you don’t, you get darkness. The sun doesn’t rise all the way. You need to surround yourself with people who love you, and treat people with respect.”
 
Rocky toted his kindness to his job with United Airlines—where he worked for 27 years and met celebrities, visited the world’s greatest cities, and experienced all the world’s luxuries.
 
Rags to riches, right?
 
But Rocky doesn’t care about all that.
 
“I don’t care who you are. I don’t care if you’re rich or poor. I don’t care where you come from. All I care about is that we’re people. I care about you and me having a conversation,” he says.
 
While working at the airline he also ran a remodeling company. His life was centered on serving people. Then, two back surgeries and United Airlines layoffs pushed him into an early retirement.
 
“I couldn’t just stop,” Rocky explains. “If you stop interacting with people, if you stop being active, you age. This opportunity (the Burrito and Coffee stand) came about, and I couldn’t pass it up.”
 
Just as he was about to elaborate, a car pulled up to his window.
 
“Hey darling! What’s going on this morning?”
 
The customer returns his excitement.
 
“Hey Rock! I just need a Veggie Burrito. You have any left?”
 
“Ohh if you’re lucky” he says with a smile. He does a nifty spin move to the back of his shop and picks a burrito from the stack—perfectly wrapped, labeled with a neon sticker that reads “Veggie.”
 
“Ohh look who’s lucky today!”
 
She hands him her money. He gives her the burrito, which she immediately unwraps. A gift to enjoy on the way to work.
 
As our conversation continued, Rocky handed me a stool through the window and invited me to sit down. He would stop frequently to wave to cars at the stoplight in front of the store or to serve customers, and he handled the morning chaos with undeviating joy. Within two hours, Rocky sold over 100 burritos, and crossed paths with over 100 friends.
 
“It’s like this, man,” he continues, his arms on the countertop like a wise bartender of yore. “I came from nothing, and I’ve lived the life of a 100 year old man. I have a beautiful wife, beautiful kids, 10 grandchildren, one great grandchild; I’ve fished and hiked this beautiful place. I’ve met so many wonderful people. I told my son, If God takes me today, tell everyone I was ready. Man, I’ve done everything I could’ve ever wanted. So why not keep going? Why not help people?”
 
He shows me a picture of his body building days, along with a few of him holding a 45 pound fish with his brother.
 
“I’m so blessed. So fortunate. I’m not religious, but I do believe in God. I asked Him for one thing in this life—to be a father, to be a father and live long enough so my kids know me. He gave me that. I didn’t have that, and I was able to do that for my kids. And man, my kids are beautiful. All this—” he points to the mountains and pictures—“all this is extra. I love waking up and interacting with these people.”
 
This man, who opened up his life to me after I bought a Chorizo burrito and Carmel Macchiato—which were both fantastic, by the way—is proof that spreading kindness is effective.
 
Any man in America can open a business, but it takes a special person to run it the way Rocky does—with a smile on his face and a genuine desire to build relationships with his customers.
 
Around 11 a.m., Rocky runs out of burritos, and will just sell coffee until 1. I shake my head and marvel at this man who has mastered the craft of customer service (and breakfast culinary).

 

“I’m just being me man! I’m just being me!” Rocky says.
 
Well, Rock, you have a gift. And this one doesn’t come wrapped in foil, nor will it ever run out.

Voice Project: giving those with a voice a place to speak

#VoiceProject (follow on Instagram)

 
Over the past few years I’ve tried to extend the boundaries of my voice as a writer. I’ve tried writing on controversial topics or looking for inspiration in romantic places, but my experience has taught me a few valuable lessons:

 

1.       Most people do not care about what you have to say unless they can directly connect with it. Unless it is real and at the same time reveals an understanding of humanity.

2.       You will not truly understand yourself until you make it a point to understand others first.

3.       The people who have the most to say often say the least, usually because they aren't given a chance or they are worried nobody will listen.

 

Most of what we hear today, be it music or broadcasts on various media outlets, is selfish. People talk about themselves. A lot. Musicians talk about their struggle or how hard they work. People advocate for a love of critics and a disregard for public opinion. What they fail to realize, however, is that without other people, we would have no purpose. They also fail to realize that, pardon my sincerity, nobody cares.
 
Over my spring break (from Denver to Chicago and back), I wanted to start a project that would give a voice to those who don’t typically get to speak. It’s easy for me, a high school English teacher raised in a middle-class, predominantly white area, to stand up and speak for myself.
 
What I should be doing, however, is standing up and speaking for those who can’t.
 
Over the next month, I hope to compile a list of great people I meet and give you a glimpse into their lives. Good people still exist, but people won’t believe it (like they won’t believe most things) without cold, hard proof. I intend to provide that proof, and I invite you to join.
 
Please follow me on this journey (I have named Voice Project), not for me, but for the people I meet. I would love for you to share your own, too. Share stories/poetry/art of anyone you think deserves to be heard (or seen), and simply tag it with the hash tag #VoiceProject.
 
Anyway, enough of me. Let the sharing begin:
 
Name: Bernard Lee
Denver, CO
March 27, 2014
 
Bernard just arrived to Denver from Chicago two weeks ago, not long after his release from prison. “I needed change,” he said. “I kept getting into the same old [stuff]. I made horrible decisions.”
 
Bernard’s rough life began while he was growing up in a group home in Chicago. “[The people in charge] took advantage of me because I was smart, and everyone else in the house, except a few people, were mentally insane. Literally insane,” Bernard said. “How am I supposed to maximize who I am in that environment?” Bernard said the only reason he made it out was because he “did everything they asked, no questions. Even if it meant selling drugs. Shit, they would smoke and drink with me. I was just a kid. And they’re supposed to be helping me?”
 
At 19, Bernard was locked up for selling drugs. He did five more stints over the next 12 years. Now, he’s 31 and trying to find his way in Denver.
 
“I was meant to help people. My mother was a Jehova’s witness. Helping people is in my blood.”

With a passion to escape the Midwest and all that it brought him, Bernard walks the streets of Denver searching for shelters that will provide him with opportunities to help.

I asked him if he ever wrote about it. He smiled, and over a Gyro from a cart on the sidewalk, Bernard shared his poem “I’m Tired” with me. When he spoke, his brown eyes opened wider than I’m sure they had in a long time. Each line conjured some trial he endured back East, and his lips puckered to his teeth. During the 40 seconds it took for him to share his poem (completely from memory), Bernard Lee was as honest as he’s ever been. He wanted to write it down (so I wouldn’t take credit for it) and have me record it, which I did. Friend me on Facebook (Jacob William) to see it.

“I just have so much pain,” he says. “I just need to change the environment around me. Your environment can run your life. My environment made me this way. That’s why I’m in Denver. To change. To make something of myself.”

 
Bernard’s poem is below.
 
“I’m Tired”
by: Bernard Lee
 
I’m tired of this pain,
I catch enough just to go insane,
But instead of giving a frown
I smile the smile of a crazed clown.
 
Some people say I’m as soft as a cloud,
Some people say I’m the golden child
Just a little more buck wild.
 
It’s time for a change.
 
It’s time to stop thinking with my d***
and using my brain
But when I use my brain, all I see
Is these dirty hoes tryin’ to play me.
 
What I was taught—there’s nothing stronger than game,
And just as damage does glass
I know words can bring pain,
You do wrong once, it’ll come back twice.
 
Now it’s my turn to roll the dice.

To my nephew

I never knew love until my nephew was born.

There is something overpowering about holding a child who is so deeply connected to you. In fact, even his name is a fusion of our (my youngest brother Devin and me) names--Jacin. I am thankful every day for him, and pray I have the opportunity to be the type of uncle to him as my uncles were to me. I intend to be. But just in case life intervenes with my intentions, as life often does, I wrote this poem.

Love you for reading.

To Jacin (a letter I hope you never have to read)

 
If we somehow separated
or you sprouted through adolescence
without aid of your uncle’s water,
know I left you with the first
half of my name, a reason to find you.
 
If your grip upon a ball is unguided by
my words, coached to you by some stranger
on a sideline of summer grass,
know the pattern of your fingers on leather mimics mine,
as does the placement of your pen as you write our last name.
 
If you ever felt abandoned by the food of Being,
the drive of our Pulse, that very love once used to fill
a dry tin—which now only yields reflections of a hungry heart—
know I reached my arms to you, packaged my soul
and sent it forth in the carriage of a prayer and demanded careful speed
 
of a messenger boy’s bicycle, one that would suit you
had I been there to teach you how to ride; and I watched it
coast into the wind with the whimsical wonder of a dandelion wish,
faith of an accompanying, divine request
heaved to the sky each evening.
 
Know I never felt so selflessly small
until your entire hand swallowed my finger, and that
I never gave a kiss with true meaning
until my lips pressed against the crown of a head shaped like mine,
your face gently pressed against the pillow of my chest;
 
know I never saw family so clearly
until you wore great-grandfather’s chin
beneath a smirk that revived faces
of great-uncles you’ll never meet,
who raised our fathers in a line of men
 
tough like Kentucky clay, strong
as steel fastened to the earth
like the tracks of Burlington’s line, the lengths of which
I would travel if I had to give the second half of my life,
or my name, just to find you.

The Aurora Series

The following poems were written in the Roundhouse, downtown Aurora. The first is an ode to my great grandfather, Lloyd Hansen, a railroad machinist who passed away before I was old enough to gather much of who he was. The second is a reflection on today's generation, including myself.

I love you for reading.

JN

City of Lightning
I remember little of his face
something of his voice,
but see all of my Great Grandfather
sitting in his wheel chair
demanding my left fist cover my left eye and
twisting his hips,
grunting that I do the same and send my right hand
thrusting, clenched, into his leather palms
he held above his jagged elbows,
 
his callouses thick like the bricks
of this building where he used to toil,
his stubbornness thick like a machinist’s
hands coated in oil or like these walls,
built ascending to heaven to house railcars
but now to house fermenters
and tile floors, the rafters perfumed
with aromas of coffee beans
 
as I sit above his footprints
and sip a drink that steams
like old rail engines, warm and fast and jolting
like its name, or sparring jabs
or the memory of him.

Waiting Generation

The boys and girls whisper
of Tomorrow, flick nickels
into wish pools that ripple
toward Tomorrow, send fickle prayers
for labormen to lay brick roads
away into that ever-promising day,
 
and they wait and wonder
with still feet, weak souls and growing worry
as the sun sets and casts  the caveat of Yesterday,
the haunt of unsavored time,
a shadow more daunting and certain than
bright and wishful promises of Tomorrow.