Without A Voice (Based On A True Story)

A New Beginning

My plan was working well for my benefit throughout the remainder of elementary school. I avoided recess with my classmates and completed my assignments in a safe place. However, the adults in my life were very concerned with my recent behavior. My teachers often asked if everything was okay and why I didn't finish my assignments. I responded with a shrug and an expressionless face.

Mother was disappointed me and practically disowned me. She would always tell me that I am a disgrace and should "get my act together or will end up homeless". Now, that sounds a bit strong to most people but this is fairly normal where I come from. Academics is held in high regards and importance. Failing and missing assignments are signs of a future failure. Lectures upon lectures, she gave me the same speech and didn't realize my plan. I ended up thinking to myself: I'm 10  years old. How am I outsmarting adults? 

I later became acquainted with the school's counselor; her name was Mrs. Johnson. She was an older, middle-aged woman with short blonde hair. She always had her white cotton sweater on because her office was too cold for her. Her office was a incredibly small, almost a closet. 

She and I met during lunch and I did my assignments. Within five or ten minutes, I would finish my assignments and my lunch. She was stunned by my efficiency, then began to ponder.

"You're done?" she asked. I nodded, then resting my head on my folded arms. "That was really fast. So you know what you're doing?"

"Yes." Her eyes widened. I knew that teachers painted a discouraging picture of me. My teachers thought I was a lazy kid who was slower than most of the other kids. They just didn't know me well enough. 

"So why don't you do your assignments?" Mrs. Johnson asked. I simply shrugged my shoulders. I easily could have explained my plan to her, but wasn't liking my odds. She could report this to my teacher and it trickle down to Mother. Calculating the odds and possible scenarios, I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Our class has a daily current-events assigbment, where each of us report on a news article or story from the week. It was my week to present and I couldn't care less. So I chose an article in the paper about school research, something simple. However, my classmates didn't approve of my selection.

This was also the day after Pope John passed. A tragic day indeed, but I wasn't aware of the news. I am a Buddhist, therefore not very aware of who the Pope is or what his importance is as a child. My family didn't expose us to the Catholic faith, and that was their choice. However, we live in a predominantly Catholic town, which made my lack of awareness a sign of disrespect.

The other kids ridiculed and yelled at me. For the entire year, they said I was going to hell for not mentioning the Pope's death. I genuinely felt bad for not mentioning his death, but I felt worse that everyone had another reason to hate me. I couldn't win with these people. In their eyes, every decision I made was the most absurd, offensive thing anyone ever did. 

Regardless, I managed to graduate from elementary school and advance to middle school. I attended Williams Middle School, which was in a different, neighboring school district. Meaning, no one knew me or my past. I was just handed a chance at a fresh start. I wanted to take advantage of this clean slate as much as I possibly could, especially since my English was exceptional at that point. I wanted to meet everyone and make friends right away. But there was a huge problem standing in my way. 

The years of bullying, silence, and solitude prevented me from learning much needed social skills to talk with people. My logical mind couldn't hold a conversation with others; no one wants to hear facts on the first impression. I was instantly discouraged, but I had to get out of my head. 

Sadly, I again slipped into background. It wasn't because the other students found something wrong with me. I never made an effort to fulfill my goal, embrace my new surroundings. When I worked in groups, I sat silently and answered when spoken to. I did my work at an average rate, not to draw attention to myself. I did mediorically in my classes ( getting C's and D's with the occassional F). I pretended to be average; I held myself back to be normal. I was satisfied with my adequate life, but not happy.

Mother wasn't pleased either. She would get notices in the mail from the school stating my poor performance in class. She lectured me night after night on my potential future if my pattern maintained. I felt horrible inside to see her so furious at me, but she couldn't know what trepidations I endured through daily.

Few months into my eighth grade year, she had enough of my poor academic performance. She threw my backpack into the backyard, ordered me to go retrieve it, then locked me outside. I desperately tried to open the sliding, metal door to no avail. I balled my eyes out, begging Mother to open the door. She refused.

"You want to be homeless so bad," she shouted, "there you go! This is where you will end up!" I cried harder and harder. My throat was inflamed from all my wailing. "Get out of my face! I don't want to see a homeless person crying!" My heart dropped as she pulled the blinds across the door. What made matters worse, Jacob saw the entire thing. He cried and begged for mercy too. I let him down. That thought brought a scary feeling, then I blacked out. I came back to reality with bruised hands and dents in out old playhouse. The house was made of a tough plastic which withstood us collectively sitting on it, and I put dents in it. I sat along our house, scared at my power. I craddled my knees, fearful of another outburst. How did this happen to me? Why can't I remember? When I thought I couldn't cry anymore, a single tear streamed down my cheek.

Hours later, I see a pair of legs appear in front of me. I looked up to see Mother scowling at me.

"Have you learned your lesson?" I nodded sadly.

"I'm sorry for letting you down." I apologized, crying into my knees. Mother knelt down and hugged me.

"You have to do better, James." I felt a drop of water on my back. Mother was crying with me. "I don't want you to end up on the streets, okay?"

"I'll do better. I promise." She helped me up, and I winced in pain. She looked at the dark-purple color of my knuckles. She was deeply concerned, but horrified when she saw the victim.

"D-did you...?" she stuttered pointing at the damaged toy house. I solomnly nodded, ashamed of my actions. "H-how did you...?"

"I don't remember." I admitted. I couldn't afford to lie to her after all that happened. "I blanked out and snapped back to this." Worried about my well-being, she grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. She made two ice packs and rested them on my hands.

"We'll see a doctor in the morning." I agreed and headed towards my room. I stopped in the hallway and looked back at Mother.

"I love you, Mom." I said with a half smile. "I'm sorry I'm not the son you wanted." Before she could respond, I walked down the hallway and into my room.

The next morning, Mother and I went to our family physician, Dr. Lang. His office was right next to Mother's workplace, so it was convenient for us to walk to and from there during appointments. Dr. Lang was an elderly man with big-rimmed glasses. He was kind and humorous. He always rewarded our bravery withstickers and balloons. He made us all feel welcomed.

He inspected my hands, testing my mobility. While doing that, he asked what happened. I told him a lie about play-boxing with my brothers and accidently punching walls. He bought it, but I surprised Mother by how quick I was when it came to lying. He took x-rays to inspect for broken bones, and found nothing wrong. Mother and I walked out of the office (with a bright blue balloon) towards her office. Along the way, she instructed me to never lie like that again. I accepted her terms and promised.

I knew from that day on that things needed to change. I can't let Mother down, but more importantly I can't let Jacob down either. He saw the traumatic scene of me getting kicked out of the house. I never want to put him through that again. Then, I had an epiphany. The first day of middle school wasn't my new beginning; this moment was my fresh start. No longer should I fear being different. I needed to embrace it and show the world what I could do. I didn't need a fresh start. I needed a turning point, and I found it before it was too late.