I want so much to hear Noemi’s voice.
I can’t imagine it. Is it high and squeaky? Surprisingly low? Do words tumble out in a rush, or is she as slow and hesitant when speaking as she is when doing her classwork?
I know she speaks. Her mother tells me that she is giggly and playful, that she loves Polly Pocket dolls, that she sings and dances at home.
At school, however, Noemi is silent. She doesn’t talk to classmates, doesn’t ask to use the restroom, doesn’t raise her hand for help. She’s never said “Good morning” to me, or even acknowledged my greeting in the doorway.
I make it my mission to make her talk. I will be so warm and non-threatening that she’ll eventually talk to me. I’ll break through.
When I ask Noemi a question, she locks eyes with me and doesn’t move her gaze until I look away. If I challenged her to a staring contest, I would lose. After a wait that seems eternal in a fast-paced fifth grade classroom, she eventually answers questions by moving her head, an almost imperceptible motion. If I look away, I’ll miss it.
“Would you like to read today?” I ask each time she comes to reading group, although I know she’ll shake her head no. Maybe she reads; maybe she doesn’t know how. It takes her so long to finish assignments that she rarely turns in any written work. I don’t know if she understands English well, although her eyes follow me intently around the classroom when I read aloud after lunch each day. It’s hard to assess her comprehension.
She struggles with math. When I give students multiplication drills each day, she painstakingly fills in the first few columns with a row of zeroes and ones. It’s clear she doesn’t understand what she’s being asked to do. One day, watching her work, I ask,
“Do you know how to multiply?”
She shakes her head a millimeter.
“Can you add?” She gives me the hint of a nod. “Subtract?”
Noemi is still for a long moment. She stares at me, her big brown eyes serious and unblinking. I venture a guess. “No? You can’t subtract well? Not big numbers?”
Relief washes over her face. It feels like playing charades, without the laughter. “We’ll work on it,” I reassure her, but turn away quickly as chaos erupts in another part of the classroom.
I wish we’d had more time. I have so many questions for her.
I watch Noemi at recess. She is alone, turning circles. She spins along the white lines painted on the playground blacktop and around the four-square court. Her eyes are closed, her arms stretched wide. Her long brown hair fans out behind her as she spins.
It is the closest I’ve seen her come to looking relaxed.
Her classmates devise ways to make her talk. It’s not mean-spirited; they want to be her friend. Girls print out Polly Pocket worksheets for her to color. They ask her to join them jumping rope. She stares at them, her facial expression unchanged, before shaking her head no. She goes back to spinning.
Noemi’s mother comes in one day after school. She holds out a cell phone. “Here’s a video of her talking and laughing at home. Noemi, can I show it to your teacher?”
Noemi takes the phone. Her finger trembles visibly as it hovers over the “play” button.
She extends her arm, pulls it back, extends and retracts it again. She slides her finger over the screen, and finally hands me the phone. Instead of a video, she displays a photo of herself; she’s added a filter which gives her dog ears and a little black nose.
Although Noemi is not an especially pretty child, the filter adds color to her face, and the dog features are endearing.
“That’s a great photo!” I gush. “Do you think you might let me see the video?”
She pokes at the screen again, cueing up the video. She moves her arm toward me a few times, then pulls it back, an invisible tug-of-war between letting me see the video of her talking and laughing, and becoming paralyzed by fear. It is almost painful for me to watch. “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her after an agonizing few minutes. “You can show me another day.”
Days after this exchange, Noemi is removed from my class, and switched to another school. Her parents want to give her a fresh start at a school where she has no history of silence, in a classroom where perhaps her eventual speech will not be met with gasps of disbelief or cheers of joy.
She talks the first day in her new class, her teacher tells me.
I never do hear her voice. I imagine it’s beautiful.
