Most Likely to Be Seen But Not Heard
On the last day of 6th grade my homeroom teacher had a tradition of giving her students paper plate awards. It was a final parting gift, meant to sum up our accomplishments and personality, and send us into 7th grade with confidence. We were all excited to see what she would say about us. I listened intently as she called the person Most Likely to Succeed to the front of the auditorium. I agreed when she introduced the person Most Likely to Make You Smile, and nodded when she called someone to the front who had never worn an outfit more than once to collect his award for Best Dressed.
Then she announced the next award, “Seen But Not Heard”. My cheeks began to blush. My hands began to sweat. She called my name. I sat and refused to come to the front. “Rachel,” she repeated. I shook my head to let her know I could not be moved. Gravity was on my side and the weight of my embarrassment would keep my feet firmly planted on the ground. My classmates turned around and began chanting my name. I think they thought it was helpful. I think they thought they were cheering me on. My teacher called my name again, “Rachel, come get your paper plate.” I rose from my chair, collected my paper plate superlative, and returned to my seat full of shame.

My eyes watered. There was a mixture of anger and sadness swelling inside of me. I kept hearing those words replay in my mind:
“Seen but not heard…”
“Seen but not heard…”
“Seen but not heard…”
I wasn’t angry because it was a false statement. I was angry that she had understood this to be my reality for 191 days and never bothered to ask me to speak. She had watched me sit in silence by myself for 191 days and never chosen to build a relationship with me. She’d read my file and knew that I was an outsider adjusting to a new school district. She knew that for 191 days I’d spent over an hour everyday commuting to sit in her class just to “be seen, but not heard.” She knew this was my first time being the minority in a school and not the majority. She knew my story, and decided it wasn’t worth it to connect.
That moment from 1994 is still etched inside of my mind as if it happened yesterday. I’ve been thinking about it the last forty-eight hours since my leadership coach issued me a challenge, “Write 500 words every day, for 90 days. No days off.” It was the most liberating assignment I’d ever been given. It was also the most frightening.
When you’ve been seen as quiet for so long, having permission to speak feels like screaming. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. For the next 90 days I plan to scream through my writing. No subject is off limits. I’d like to invite you to join me as I find my rhythm, and my voice, and throw the sentiments behind that paper plate away.
