Little Sparrow

There’s a girl, Zara, in my second grade poetry class whose voice is as tiny as her body. When she stands, she hops from foot to foot like a nervous little sparrow. With her eyes wide and head tilted, she speaks so quietly I can’t hear anything she says, even when I put my ear close to her. She wears glasses but today she forgot them. 

After I give the kids their assignment, she looks confused and blinks uncertainly as she always does, even when she has her glasses on. She comes up and whispers something.

“Can you say that again, Zara?” When she moves her mouth and I still can’t hear a word, I say, “Can you speak louder? I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” 

When I still can’t hear her, I try different variations of that, even using the tried and true, “I’m old and I don’t hear as well,” and then dropping into “What?” but nothing works. She just keeps asking her question in her tiny voice.

Finally I say, “Tell Mrs. L and she’ll tell me,” as I figure the classroom teacher has probably found a way to hear little Zara. Plus, Mrs. L. is about twenty years younger than me. But all bets are off as even some of the kids tell her to speak up because they can’t hear her either.

Zara keeps looking at me, mouthing words, apparently thinking she’ll eventually get through to me if she just keeps it up. So I make a guess and give her a suggestion to get her started on her poem. Her face breaks into a smile of relief and she skips back to her desk to where her pencil and paper are waiting. 

The kids sit in quadrants at the spread of tables that are placed in two-thirds of the room. The last third is left open for creating a makeshift stage, complete with mic for the students to share their poems. 

I choose one child from each quadrant to read today, including Zara whose poem covers both sides of her paper. She always turns this circle: first she is confused and blank, but then once she gets started, a stream flows onto her paper and she has written two or three times as much as the other kids. 

When it is Zara’s turn, Guillermo, the emcee of the week, introduces her and gives her the mic. She stands on tiptoes, hopping from foot to foot, and puts her paper close to her face so she can see what she has written. But even with the mic, her voice is too soft for anyone to hear.

“Louder,” calls Diego encouragingly from the back, mimicking what I usually say to help the kids perform better and keep their audience’s attention.

She tries again, but it’s still too soft.

“Zara,” I say, going up to her and speaking softly, “read like you’re an adult.”

I move away, and suddenly the room booms with her voice.

Sometimes I’m so hungry I could eat this whole room.

Sometimes …

And she continues in this voice until she’s read the whole poem. The class breaks into cheers and applause. After it subsides, it breaks out again while she stands there, squinting and beaming. 

Zara has found her voice.