4x14
This week on WRENCast we will be featuring the voices and personal narratives of four eighth-grade students.
I met these four extraordinary young women this Spring when I was asked to work with their class at the Housatonic Valley Waldorf School in Newton, CT at the invitation of their class teacher Laura Hayes.
A few episodes ago in my piece “Ignore the Five Paragraph Essay” I wrote about the time we spent together as a group discussing writing, but the majority of my time that week was spent in hour-long individual sessions with each of the eight students. In these individual sessions, I had the privilege of witnessing and encouraging the development of short, personal narratives they were composing for publication with the We Are America Project - Voices of the Nation’s Future.
Ms. Hayes had woven writing throughout her class’s middle school experience, and more than one student proudly told me that she was already a published author. Ms. Hayes has written some context about the class as they embarked upon the We Are America Project that, with her permission, I would like to share with you. She writes:
We took a real interest in the world in the last two years of middle school. We read biographies, we studied geography, we read the news and put the current events into historical context. We carefully studied phenomena in science experiments and learned about the anatomy of our human body. We repeatedly looked at the ideas and ideologies that influence today's American politics and society. Having a real interest in the world and the other person is fundamental in learning about one’s own identity.
In the last semester of the eighth grade, we turned this interest around and looked inside. Who am I? What has shaped and influenced me so far? How do I interact with the world around me? These were quite personal questions that the students aimed to answer. They captured their observations, musings, and profound stories in essays that then were published by the We Are America Project - Voices of the Nation’s Future.
I have worked with college students on writing for over a decade, but this was my first experience with 14-year-olds. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this age and in my mind’s eye, I was picturing something like a class of Enola Holmes/Tina Belcher hybrids.
The wisdom, creativity, self-reflection, and bravery exhibited by each of these students, in our conversations and in their writing, brought me tremendous joy and hope. At the end of our week together, I invited the class to share their pieces here on WRENCast, and today we will feature four of their pieces.
I should add that releasing these recordings today, Saturday, June 11th, 2022, has special significance, for today the class will graduate from Housatonic Valley Waldorf School. As is common in Waldorf schools, most of the class has been together since kindergarten. Soon they will embark upon separate high school experiences. So the pieces you will hear are at a moment of culmination, reflection, and commencement.
What’s more, as you know June is Pride Month, and I am thrilled to feature on WRENCast this month a piece from a young woman recounting her experience affirming her gender identity.
Please be aware that in most of these pieces, the authors grapple with difficult topics such as bullying, mental health disorders, and identity.
We will start with “The Bird Cage” by Beatrice Tucker, then “The Label That Finally Fit” by Billie Labriola, followed by “Not Right” by Grace Johnson, and finally “Exploring the World” by Solana Barnes.
Join me in listening to the voices of these four remarkable young people and celebrating their existence in this world. Here goes:
The Bird Cage
By Beatrice Tucker
“Write something meaningful to you,” that was the prompt I was given. “It must be meaningful, but don't over-share.” These words felt binding, because I knew what I wanted to write about, I knew what was meaningful to me, but something told me that is not the story people want to hear. But it is the story I need to write. True, it's not a happy story, and it's not exactly a pleasant one either, but it has meaning, and it matters to me.
Let's venture back a few months to a building with my not-so-fond memories hovering over its roof. The psych ward: when you hear that name you probably think of a home for crazy people. Some of us might have been crazy, but it wasn't all, and most likely it was from being kept in a windowless room for months. If you ever wondered what it felt like to be a bird rendered flightless by its cage, this is it. Never knowing when you will be set free, if ever, and practicing the same daily routine over and over until it is second nature. Friday was taco night, that was the first meal I had there. It wasn't bad, it was just unseasoned, quite like the room I stayed in. One window looked out onto a wall, a bathroom door that couldn't close, and a shower where I never knew if I was going to get hot or cold water. Every bed was made up of the same thin sheet and plastic pillow; the only rooms that looked different were the ones people had been living in for months. All I had from home was a stuffed animal cat, the Twilight series, a few pajama sets and a pair of laceless slippers. Every day was the same. Get up, check your vitals, eat the same breakfast as yesterday, and go to group.
At this point in my story, you might be thinking “Okay we got it, you were in a psych ward,” and yes, I get it, the story itself isn’t what I’m here to share. Going into a psych ward, most likely you are your own worst enemy, and that was true in my case as well. Everything around you seems distant and unimportant, all that matters is how much you hate yourself, but as I soon discovered, it does not stay like that for very long.
I was never given a warning that I would be going there, no one told me to say goodbye to my brother or friends, I just disappeared. Suddenly, I wasn't fighting against myself, I was fighting to keep me safe. Everything seemed to be sugar-coated, covering the ugly truth just enough that they convince you that you are cured, when in reality no one really heals in a psych ward. It's just daycare for the delinquent kids no one wants to deal with. All of a sudden I needed to keep myself as collected as possible. “Don’t cry, crying shows weakness and weakness shows you are unstable.” Such a motivating sentence to be told by a nurse on your first day. As time went on, I learned to control what I said and did, without losing myself to the routine, because that's all they really want, to break you in like a horse. I never let them, though; sure I followed orders and routines, but I didn’t let that take over who I am. Let me guess, “What's the point of this story?” So let me tell you. I am proud I managed to keep myself sane. My clipped wings grew back fuller than before. And although it might not sound like much, it kept me alive then, and that is why I wrote about it.
The Label That Finally Fit
By Billie Labriola
Since I can remember, I’ve loved wearing dresses, heels, and all things feminine. As a first-grade “ballerina” I loved dancing and twirling; it made me feel free. At home, I wore a long rainbow skirt on my head and a set of unicorn pajamas. I loved music and spent hours writing songs and singing my heart out. Behind closed doors, I knew who I was. Behind closed doors, I was free to be me. But outside my house, I felt like I had to be someone different.
When I was seven years old, I told my parents “I feel like a girl inside, even though I’m a boy on the outside.” My mom took me to a gender therapist to help me work through what I was feeling. After a few months the therapist said that she thought I may just be a very feminine boy. For me, that didn’t feel quite right. But wanting desperately to put a name on what made me so different from everyone else - I started calling myself a “girly boy”or a “tomgirl.”
Within a couple of years, I adopted the label of “gay” - which seemed to be more socially acceptable than the nuance of what I was really feeling. But even that didn’t come without consequence. After I confided in a good friend, she told our whole 5th grade class, which made me a target for bullies. To protect myself from the daily hurt, I started putting on an act… like I was playing a character on stage. I was confident, happy, goofy, and self-deprecating. I found that people seemed more comfortable and accepting of “me” when I was “performing.”
As time went on, it became harder and harder to live as two different people. I struggled to keep the real me locked away at home. So I confided to a group of friends who I thought were genuine. Turns out that they were more comfortable with the act too. Seventh grade was a blur of hurt, and confusion, and meetings with my parents and the principal. It ended in our local police station after a group of bullies took things too far, and the realization that I’d have to find a new place to go to school.
I’ve always had a very strong sense of self. I’ve known who I am, what I love, what makes me happy. But until a year ago, even being the “me” that I was at home, out in the world, didn’t seem possible. None of the other labels I’d tried on had felt quite right, because the label “woman” was never something I’d even considered possible.
Though it still feels too amazing to be true, I write this essay today as a strong transgender woman amidst a gender transition. As crazy as it sounds, I am grateful for the hardship and hurt, as it served as a guidepost - leading me away from a place where I had to hide the real me, and toward a place where I felt safe to let her shine. My new school - the Housatonic Valley Waldorf School - is the first place outside of my house where I feel peaceful and free. Full of people who not only love and accept Billie Paige but who celebrate her. Being here has given me the courage to get to know myself better, and the strength to share my true self with the world.
My year at Waldorf has helped me to discover what a major impact the people around me have on my experience. The teachers and students here gave me the freedom to turn their classroom into another home. By surrounding myself with people that encourage me to flourish, not ones who want to see me fall, I have taken control of my life and am so proud of who I’ve become.
Not Right
By Grace Johnson
Not right. I was sitting in my room after a long day of school and something didn’t feel right. I looked around my room and saw the door. It was open. I stood up and shut the door and began to walk away, but it still didn’t feel right. I turned around and repeatedly shut my door until I felt at ease. Why? Why did it not feel right?
I’ve had OCD for as long as I can remember. OCD stands for obsessive compulsive disorder. The dictionary definition explains OCD as a chronic and long-lasting disorder in which a person has uncontrollable, recurring thoughts and one behavior that he or she feels the urge to repeat over and over. But if I were to explain it, I would say: “Imagine wanting to do something but if you do it, something bad will happen to you or others; or you see something sweet and harmless like a baby bunny and your brain tells you to hurt it even though you really don't want to.” That’s the best way I can describe OCD to someone who hasn't experienced it. Although you may have some obsessive thoughts or compulsions (94% of all people do experience it at some time in their life) it does not necessarily mean you have OCD.
It was cold and dark, thoughts were racing through my head telling me about all the terrible things that would happen. I was alone and I wanted to be alone. I wanted no one to touch me or even breathe the same air as me, I completely isolated myself from my family. I was scared and tired and thought that nothing would ever feel OK.
Before Covid hit I never had a problem with germs. One day I was taken out of school because my father had gotten Covid. I immediately shut down. Why, why of all people did this have to happen to me? Not long after, my sister got it too. They were both fine and are completely healed now, but I will never forget the way I felt during that time.
I still have reactions like that one, like when a family member is feeling sick or ill. I make sure to avoid them. Sometimes my reactions to OCD also affect my friends and family. Certain words or triggers may cause me to seek reassurance, and others may cause me to perform certain “rituals” you might say. Occasionally, I will ask my family to partake in these “rituals.”
Some ways that OCD affects my daily life is with small things like having to touch a piece of paper six times, or having to purposely write a word wrong on my homework or else I’ll get the flu or something like that. A lot of times I can’t even talk, breathe, or look at anything, or else “the world will end!”
Although OCD is a big part of my life, it is not a part of who I am and who I choose to be. Lately, I’ve been working on not giving in to my compulsions or responding to my triggers or intrusive thoughts. I have had many therapists before and they have all taught me many different strategies on how to deal with my OCD. One of the strategies I was taught was to give my OCD a name. I named it Percedal. I named it that to make it less scary, and when you think of OCD as something else like another being separate from you, it feels more like a very paranoid friend who’s just trying to warn you and keep you safe.
The first step is to become comfortable with your OCD and the fact that you may not be OK, and that’s all right. To find comfort in discomfort is one of the hardest things you can do. And I will never stop working on these strategies and getting help until everything feels as right as it can, once and for all.
Exploring The World
By Solana Barnes
My eyes widen as I sit in the back of a cab on my way to the hotel from the airport, in Vietnam. I see more motorbikes than cars as the smell of exhaust makes my nose tickle. My mom and I chuckle as our vision focuses on a bike with a crate squashed full of live chickens and the sound of their squawks fills our taxi. I am eleven and I am overwhelmed with new sights, yet something about the experience feels familiar in a way.
When we had first gotten on the plane two days before, I was hesitant to leave my family for three long months but I knew I would have an amazing time. Our first stop was in Tokyo, Japan, where the airport was nothing like the chaos back in New York City. The airport even had nice, clean shower rooms, which was desperately needed after such a long trip. But when the person working the front desk told us the cost was 1,500 yen my naive eyes widened. “We don’t need a shower that bad, Mom!” I blurted. My mom laughed and told me that it was only about 11 US dollars. I sighed with relief and enjoyed the hot, floral-scented shower.
When we got to Vietnam, locals stared at us a lot, probably because we were the only Black people in the airport. Even though we stood out, I never felt judged. People were simply intrigued by us. Locals came up to us and asked for pictures, or they would ask to touch our hair. Whereas in a country as diverse as the States, if someone asked that I would not appreciate it, in Vietnam it was still weird but I understood it. It was a very new and interesting experience for me. While I was cherishing so much of this trip, I would FaceTime my family and miss being with them.
Our trips always had an element of engaging with the community we were in. In Vietnam, we visited an orphanage. We brought ice cream for them and played foosball. I loved it. My younger self just thought that we were doing something nice, but over time I have noticed the lesson of exposure like this. I think my mom wanted me to know that even though we stayed in nice places and experienced cool things, we always must stay respectful, empathetic, gracious, and appreciative.
In the past three years, my memory of this trip has faded, yet it is still one of my favorites. I do wonder, however, how can something be so lost and patchy, but still have an impact on your view of the world? Vietnam is not the only trip that I love to look back on. In the past three years I have visited many other places. They all were very different culturally but had similarities like kind people, good food, beautiful scenery, and amazing environments. I have come to associate different smells with different places. Vietnam had the scent of fresh cucumbers and pineapples; Mexico was cinnamon; and Morocco smelled of orange juice. Once in a while, I will smell something and think “it smells like Vietnam in here” and get instant nostalgia.
Traveling is one of my favorite things to do. I believe everyone should experience it at least once in their lives. It’s like you are in a completely different universe. Traveling gives people a better understanding of the world and people. It is an amazing feeling that I get to live with every day.
