I’m one of those kids a teacher would call a wallflower. I sit as far back as I physically can, and duck my head hoping I’m not the one that’ll get called on next. Now all I can do is wait, nervously I stare at my desk sometimes knowing the answer but too afraid I might be wrong. My plan worked this time; great it’s an opinion he’s looking for this time. I hope the plan works twice, duck down lower. Desperately trying to blend in with the background. It didn’t work, what should I say? I don’t want to sound dumb. There’s no getting out of it. Suddenly, the whispers turn to quiet talking, the quiet talking turns into a dull roar. Now is my chance: now or never.
I believe that the unspoken are just unheard.
The teacher didn’t hear me and because of that the others are quiet and I have to repeat what I just said. There’s no way out this time, so I say it again. Mumbling until I find what little courage I have and finally get all the words, out loud enough to be heard. It’s not that I don’t like to say what’s on my mind, just that, there’s so much I put at stake when I do. It’s not just my thoughts and ideas going out there. There’s my feelings and hope for apparition and acceptance. So much on the line for a few simple words. That’s why I talk when I can’t be heard or so low no one can understand me.
I’m still nervous, still wondering when I’m going to get called. I still wait if my opinion is the one that’s good enough to be remembered for a later date. It’s the deer in the headlights look. The sudden lack of thoughts an deep ringing in the ears. The only thing I can think of, why should I have to answer. You’re the teacher; you’re the one that’s suppose to have all the answers. Up until high school the only thing a teacher wanted or cared to know was if you still know what you were just taught five minutes ago. Now they care about you’re opinion and what you like to read and why.
Most people would say I’m one of the unspoken. It’s all because they can’t hear my words. Sometimes they truly can’t understand them either. My words can’t always just be words alone. My words can’t just be black and white. My words lie in each stroke of paint, in every fine and erased line. My words are often misunderstood, and not easy to make out. They’re still my words and feeling.
Because I don’t always say what’s on my mind I’m one of the unspoken. Because I’m not as loud as I could be I’m one of the unspoken. Questions are answered for me without my consent. Am I really one if the unspoken? Does this mean I have no words or my own? Others call me unspoken, so that I am spoken for, but I’m not unspoken just unheard.
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