Sun Hwa Tamashiro ’24
Olive
One of my earliest memories is the first day of Kindergarten. I sat alongside 24 other students in a circle and one by one each of them went around saying their names and favorite color. I practiced what I would say in my head over and over again, “My name is Sun Hwa and I like pink and yellow, my name is Sun Hwa and I like pink and yellow,” played repeatedly in my mind. Finally the teacher looked at me and smiled, “Ok, it’s your turn sweetie.”
The entire class also looked at me, and suddenly I felt my face grow hot and my throat close. I opened my mouth to speak but the words I’d repeatedly practiced suddenly seemed to fall away. After a few seconds of silence, she cleared her throat awkwardly, and smiled as the other kids waited, impatient to continue their introductions.
“We can get back to you later, ok?” she finally said, and I nodded.
What I initially thought would be a one-time incident slowly became a part of my life for the next three years, which were filled with frustrated and confused teachers, calls to my parents, therapist appointments, curious classmates that bombarded me with questions, and finally, the conclusion that I had something called selective mutism.
Selective mutism is an anxiety disorder in which an individual is unable to speak in certain social situations. It affects less than 1% of the population of the United States, most commonly appearing in children ages 2 to 4.
As school started to become a continuous part of my daily routine, I tried to calm myself down and be less anxious about talking. Once, as I sat on an old dusty rug in the middle of my classroom, the teacher sat down with us, asking simple questions for our Spanish lesson.
“Can anyone create a sentence using the phrase ‘Me gusta?’” she asked the class. I’d been mentally preparing myself to step out of my comfort zone and talk for once.
“Just say, ‘Me gusta perros,’” I thought to myself, “It’s easy, I just need to raise my hand and say it.”
Before I knew what was happening my hand shot up and the teacher looked at me, surprised by my sudden participation. She motioned for me to go ahead, and as I opened my mouth I felt my hands grow clammy and a sudden surge of fear run through me. Everyone looked at me, expecting this to be the first time they’d hear my voice.
“Not again,” I thought to myself. I opened my mouth again and tried to make out the words I’d practiced in my head but my efforts were fruitless. As the silence continued a voice spoke out, “Why’d you raise your hand if you don’t ever talk?”
I wanted to disappear and let the world fall away in that moment. The teacher scolded my classmate and the attention turned from me to the next student, who could actually answer my teacher’s questions aloud.
All the questions about my mutism drove me further away from everyone around me, until eventually I realized I was alone. But if loneliness was the price I had to pay to not have to talk, it seemed I would have to accept it. From that day on, I spent most of my recesses sitting on the ground making soups out of sand and collecting interesting rocks I found. Although I told myself I didn’t need anyone to play with, it eventually got quite lonely.
*
On a day like any other, I met someone who changed that. As all the kids were being let out for recess, I started to make my way over to my favorite spot to collect rocks when a pile of jump ropes lying on the ground caught my eye. During gym my favorite activity was to practice tricks with a jump rope. I made my way over to them, noticing a smiling woman standing in front of the pile.
I cautiously approached the jump ropes, ignoring the woman altogether and hoping she wouldn’t scold me for taking one. As I approached and realized there was no way for me to avoid her, she bent down and smiled at me.
“What’s your name?” she asked, I could smell her flowery perfume and her long black hair was so frizzy that little strands touched my face as she looked at me.
I looked around awkwardly and felt a lump form in my throat. Was I in trouble? Maybe these were for other kids and I was taking from them? How would I tell her it was a misunderstanding if I couldn’t speak? I felt my hands shake and my eyes begin to water as I waited for her to reprimand me.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to tell me,” she looked calm, almost happy. I stood there, confused. “You want a jump rope?”
I cautiously grabbed a jump rope, making distance between me and the woman. She patiently waited for me to get situated and watched as I jumped. After going on for a time I tiredly set down the jump rope.
“Great job,” she exclaimed, looking around the school yard. “Looks like it’s just going to be us today.”
I looked around and noticed that there were more adults scattered around the school yard, holding various toys and props to use to play with the children. They all have the attention of multiple kids in front of them, laughing and cheering as the lady and I stood alone together.
“I’m Olive.” she said, and I nodded. I looked back out at the yard, worried that she might ask me to say her name.
I’ve never called a grown up by their first name before, I thought to myself.
*
I grew up with the naiveté that we all seem to be born with, the idea that adults are all knowing and are never wrong. But since I couldn’t speak, I learned to listen and see. As I did, I noticed the frustrated lines on my teachers’ faces as they reprimanded me, I noticed the stress and tiredness they’d express with my unwillingness to cooperate, and I’d understand the passive aggressive announcements about class participation being required. I quickly realized that, just as my classmates, the adults around me would ask uncomfortable questions and make comments about my mutism. In those moments I realized the ways in which adults are often not always right, and the ways in which adults can act just as children do. This made me develop an air of caution around teachers and adults—but Olive made me question everything I thought I already knew.
The recess days I would normally spend alone were instead spent in the schoolyard of my elementary school, hopping with a jump rope. Olive would watch as I jumped excitedly, giving the occasional praise for my (admittedly, mediocre) jump rope skills.
Olive made me feel less alone about being, well, alone. Because she, just like me, had no one else in this schoolyard to call a friend, or at least that’s what I assumed. We had each other, and she never minded if I couldn’t talk to her.
“Can I join too?” two girls came over to play with us, one afternoon. I continued jump roping pretending not to mind but inside I was secretly saddened that I would have to share my only friend. Olive excitedly gave both of them jump ropes and they jumped, giggling and talking to her about school and how their days were so far. As I jumped, I felt my heart sink deeper into my stomach, anxiety clouding my thoughts as I realized I might lose my only friend. She had found better kids now, one’s that could actually talk to her.
The next day I headed straight to the recess yard. I’d taken time to think and realized that I could just share Olive with the other girls. They would talk to each other and I could listen, Olive would still be my friend, and everything would be okay.
As I headed to the spot where Olive usually was, I noticed there was instead a crowd of children, hopping excitedly on jump ropes. As I came closer I saw Olive handing out jump ropes. She smiled when she saw me and handed me one. I took it reluctantly and stood off to the side, away from the children, careful to have my own space hoping they just wouldn’t notice me. My plan however failed, as they immediately recognized me as “the kid who never talked.”
“Why do you never talk?” asked one of the children. A few others looked over at me and stared, waiting for an answer. I stopped jump roping but didn’t say anything, instead looking at the ground. I wanted to disappear, I hated when they would ask me this.
I don’t know, I thought to myself.
“She’ll talk if she wants to,” Olive’s voice rose above the quiet chattering of the children. “Right?” She looked at me for an answer and so did all the other kids.
I nodded my head. That answer seemed to suffice because all of the kids then turned back to what they were doing.
Until that point Olive hadn’t acknowledged me at all, too busy with the other children to compliment my jump roping. I had felt that she probably no longer considered us friends, maybe she never did at all, and was starting to let anxiety get in the way. However, at that moment I felt like I had a friend again.
Rarely had anyone spoken up for me like that. Usually, I was just stared at until the kids could tell I just wasn’t going to answer. I looked up at Olive. She was a really good friend.
As recess came to an end and the bell rang, I handed Olive my jump rope and turned to go back inside.
“Hey wait,” Olive said. I turned to look at her. She pulled at her finger and opened my hand. In my palm she placed a silver ring, and in it’s center it had a swirling colorful gem. The light reflected it in a way that made it look like it was changing colors.
“It’s a mood ring,” she said. “The colors will change when you’re happy or sad.”
I looked up at her. She had a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She looked down at me and patted the top of my head.
I smiled at her and ran back to school, excited to try out my new ring and to see what kind of mood it detected.
*
The next day, I ran to the exact spot in the recess yard that I’d been going to every day. She was nowhere to be found. The children around me chatted and went about their days as usual and I sat on the ground that I’d excitedly hopped on the day before, waiting for my friend to arrive.
“She’s pretty nice,” I thought to myself, “maybe today I’ll talk to her.”
I’d never spoken to anyone in school prior to that moment, but she was my friend, and I felt comfortable enough to do so. I sat excitedly in the same spot where we had always met and waited for her to come so that I could finally tell her my name, but eventually the bell rang and recess was over.
The next day I looked for her in the recess yard; maybe she and the other adults I’d seen were just somewhere else. But there was no one to be seen. As I went back to my old spot where I’d find rocks, the sting of loneliness returned, stronger this time. As I looked at my hand and saw a bright glowing purple swirl, I knew that I’d never see her again, but that I’d always remember the lady and the ring. Although the ring is long gone, probably hidden away in a secret corner of the elementary school where it’s been lying for the past 13 years, I’m always reminded of how much it meant to me to have a friend.