How the Canary Learned to Sing
There are times in our lives when we don't have words, and at that time, the silence speaks for us.
A good deal of my childhood was spent in frustration; I lacked the necessary communication skills that would have spared me from pushing friends and family away when I was upset. This awkward, bottled energy pushed me to be the best at whatever I tried, so that when (not if) words failed me, actions could proclaim my intent. Close in age and in spirit, this hurt my older sister most. She was the academic brain, the social butterfly, and the joy of our mother, as any good parent cherishes the value of a well-elocuted child. In school, I tried desperately to find my way without words. I could spit numbers, run laps around the fastest of boys in sports, and outclimb any of the neighborhood kids. But I still could not get out of trouble when it came to words.
I almost failed the 5th grade. The teacher loved me, her son (also in the class) loved me, and I was the highlighted forward of my soccer team -- it was a great year. The only problem was my family. Because the school knew our situation (small town gossip, go figure), my sisters and I all had to sit in counseling (individually) for an hour every Thursday afternoon. I hated these sessions beyond measure not because of the peculiar child-therapist that smelled of rose petals and cooking oil, but for the simple reason that I was angry and did not know how to say it. I laugh when I think of the children who knew me, who would probably to this day describe me as a violent individual, because I communicated best with rocks and punches, because I was meaner than hell when I needed to say something. I don't know that I have ever told anyone, but what saved me was Mr. G. Though he may have broken my family in more ways than one, he gave me something that I had never known before -- the power of words.
Aside from my grandfathers, he was the smartest man I had ever met, and he introduced me to the world of music, art, and poetry. He was a Master of Divinity, a collector of world treasures, a "trucks-only" kind of guy, my sports fan, my first solo-performance accolade, my savior from sisters, and, to date, the only person that I have solo-travelled with for more than 3 hours (20 hours in one trip). In the three short years that I knew him and observed his day-to-day life, I learned two skills: verbal communication (including various methods between strangers and friends) and independence. It wasn't that my mother and mentors hadn't been trying to teach me these things, it just so happens that I prefer unconventional methods. When we left him in December 2001, I felt like I was kicked back into the dark ages. I lost weight, countless hours of sleep, and the valuable communication that I was building with my sisters. In a way, I blamed him for making me believe that my lot in life could change. I hated him for leaving me when I needed his help most. After a few months of despair and reclusivity, I realized that I was complaining for no reason. I now had all the necessary skills to meet new people, join in public discussions, express various emotions, and even enter speech competitions. The greatest indicator by far was my family; I didn't have the back-up I would have preferred, but I knew the importance of sharing my life with those around me.
A lot of time has passed since the day we pulled away from his house, the day he never saw coming. And though my sisters would probably not speak to me if they knew, I need to say that I still miss him and wonder what became of the man that was my hero.
I have since graduated high school (magna cum laude with English honors), taught multiple languages to large classes in a school outside my native country, been elected as a public leader/representative of the people on numerous occasions, and developed a desire to be an omniglot and an ambassador. Special thanks to LRGilmore, an important part of my character and leadership development.
A good deal of my childhood was spent in frustration; I lacked the necessary communication skills that would have spared me from pushing friends and family away when I was upset. This awkward, bottled energy pushed me to be the best at whatever I tried, so that when (not if) words failed me, actions could proclaim my intent. Close in age and in spirit, this hurt my older sister most. She was the academic brain, the social butterfly, and the joy of our mother, as any good parent cherishes the value of a well-elocuted child. In school, I tried desperately to find my way without words. I could spit numbers, run laps around the fastest of boys in sports, and outclimb any of the neighborhood kids. But I still could not get out of trouble when it came to words.
I almost failed the 5th grade. The teacher loved me, her son (also in the class) loved me, and I was the highlighted forward of my soccer team -- it was a great year. The only problem was my family. Because the school knew our situation (small town gossip, go figure), my sisters and I all had to sit in counseling (individually) for an hour every Thursday afternoon. I hated these sessions beyond measure not because of the peculiar child-therapist that smelled of rose petals and cooking oil, but for the simple reason that I was angry and did not know how to say it. I laugh when I think of the children who knew me, who would probably to this day describe me as a violent individual, because I communicated best with rocks and punches, because I was meaner than hell when I needed to say something. I don't know that I have ever told anyone, but what saved me was Mr. G. Though he may have broken my family in more ways than one, he gave me something that I had never known before -- the power of words.
Aside from my grandfathers, he was the smartest man I had ever met, and he introduced me to the world of music, art, and poetry. He was a Master of Divinity, a collector of world treasures, a "trucks-only" kind of guy, my sports fan, my first solo-performance accolade, my savior from sisters, and, to date, the only person that I have solo-travelled with for more than 3 hours (20 hours in one trip). In the three short years that I knew him and observed his day-to-day life, I learned two skills: verbal communication (including various methods between strangers and friends) and independence. It wasn't that my mother and mentors hadn't been trying to teach me these things, it just so happens that I prefer unconventional methods. When we left him in December 2001, I felt like I was kicked back into the dark ages. I lost weight, countless hours of sleep, and the valuable communication that I was building with my sisters. In a way, I blamed him for making me believe that my lot in life could change. I hated him for leaving me when I needed his help most. After a few months of despair and reclusivity, I realized that I was complaining for no reason. I now had all the necessary skills to meet new people, join in public discussions, express various emotions, and even enter speech competitions. The greatest indicator by far was my family; I didn't have the back-up I would have preferred, but I knew the importance of sharing my life with those around me.
A lot of time has passed since the day we pulled away from his house, the day he never saw coming. And though my sisters would probably not speak to me if they knew, I need to say that I still miss him and wonder what became of the man that was my hero.
I have since graduated high school (magna cum laude with English honors), taught multiple languages to large classes in a school outside my native country, been elected as a public leader/representative of the people on numerous occasions, and developed a desire to be an omniglot and an ambassador. Special thanks to LRGilmore, an important part of my character and leadership development.
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