Sometimes, the smallest voices ring the loudest truths.
She sits with her head tucked down, an effort to veil the intelligence in her eyes. She slumps in her chair and crosses her arms, folding herself into the shape of the little girl she is out-growing. Braces line her teeth, a metal gate that traps her inside herself. She only smiles behind the curtain of her hands and never laughs out loud, except in text messages.
A dozen plastic bands line her wrists. She is her own billboard advertising her opinions. Her backpack is a purple armadillo, shielded by pins and buttons. You might laugh, feel guilty, or learn something if you stop and read them. So, most people don't. After all, someone who wears so much eyeliner has to be two-dimensional.
She didn't win a trophy for the debate team last year. As a matter of fact, she didn't even try to join. But her notebook is a loaded weapon; she could shoot a hole in their logic from the other side of the cafeteria with less than an ounce of ink.
I barely hear her voice and I'm standing right next to her. "Yo creo que..." she whispers. She is learning to tell her opinion in a second language. I'm dying to hear the rest of the sentence, because what she believes and thinks matters.
Trust me, if nuclear warfare happens, you'll want her to have a voice. When you need a brain surgeon, you won't care how many piercings she has. Her tattoos won't matter when she lifts your child into the ambulance or when she talks your sister out of committing suicide.
Sometimes, the smallest voices ring the loudest truths. I say we give the girl a microphone.
No comments:
Post a Comment