When I was in Elementary school, our day started with a moment of silence (as well as the pledge of allegiance, and perhaps the telling of some other noteworthy information like birthdays and school goings-on).
I’ve since come to understand these moments of silence as space intended for prayer and self-reflection. But I would just sit in it, thinking about whatever came to my mind, looking around the room, I’d wait for the moment to pass.. As an adult I am very content sitting and existing in my mind, with my thoughts, in the silence. As a child it felt like punishment, like we were all being told to hush for being too loud and disruptive. Only the day hadn't even begun. This wasn't a punishment for something we'd done, but a warning not to be disruptive in the hours following. I clearly did not heed this warning, as I was a chatty kid. That chatty kid became a chatty adult who relishes moments of silence, but still struggles to provide space for them in shared company.
What follows is the story of the moment I finally began to learn this lesson that wasn’t actually a lesson, but was something I knew, somewhere deep down, was a valuable trait.
10 minutes of our lunch were also silent. The idea was quite straightforward: Stop the kids from talking, remove this distraction, and they will use this time to eat. Whether it worked or not I don’t remember. I was a picky eater as a kid, but I ate my lunch (except the nasty stuff like jello with misc canned fruit in it). I think we all did.
I remember one of the more elderly faculty/staff would cut our apples for us if we asked. I loved when she cut my apple for me, and adopted her method when I started cutting apples at home not too many years later. When I was in High School at a friend’s house, I was cutting an apple like this and my friend’s mom told me -- quite aggressively -- to be careful. “You’re going to cut yourself,” She said. But I knew I wouldn’t. At least, I hadn’t yet, and continued as I was, cutting the apple into my hand rather than using a cutting board. That moment with my friend’s mom, and many others in the years that have followed, showed me how parental anxieties can impact childhood development of autonomy and confidence.
Even (or perhaps especially) when those anxieties come from places of love and genuine concern. It is difficult to recognize when a helpful act causes more harm than it intended to prevent in the first place.
But this isn’t the moment of silence I most want to talk about.
Sometime in late 2020, I was working with a 4-year-old boy (we’ll call him Benjamin) whose parents also provided a safe environment. The amount of love for this kid was clear in their behavior, but it was also evident in the permissions and restrictions that were in place. Intended to avoid minor mishaps and temporary pain, he’d missed out on 4+ years of essential horsing around.
What seemed like family like-nesses regarding cautious behavior was unveiled to be very one-sided in the process of exploration and play. Roughhousing is essential to proper development of the vestibular system. No doubt there are many causes for delays in the development of this system, but as the Pandemic took Benjamin (and me, as I would attend with him) away from his Occupational therapy appointments, I found myself filling the roll. First through regular zoom appointments, with his therapist on the screen, then exclusively one-on-one, as we took his homework very seriously to simply “play.”
And play, we did. Rough, silly, and active; we tumbled, jumped, swung, climbed, and pushed our comfort zones (which, for a fairly protected child, isn't too far). I was not a very sit-still kid, myself. Whether I was outside or inside, I knew only one way to play, and it was by moving.
The Moment Of Silence That Changed me Forever
The moment of silence came one day after school. Perhaps we were in 2021 by this point, and Benjamin was no longer 4, but 5. Quarantine had ended and Benjamin had developed enough familiarity with me to act “as himself.” That is to say, he did not hide his emotions nor did I encourage him to do so. Like most kids, Benjamin didn’t enjoy being tasked with things to do. And I honestly couldn’t blame him.
“Don’t forget to put your backpack away and bring me your lunchbox.” I likely said please, but won’t give myself that much credit here.
The backpack had already hit the floor. I was not getting that lunchbox without, in the least a groan, if not a full meltdown.
“Beeenjaminn” I said his name. With an attitude of frustration and deliberate expectation of his behavior.
Groan “What Laura?” He’d heard me, but it didn’t stick. What I said had gone in one ear and out the other, and now the task felt like a chore. At this moment, We were not a team. The recollection and power of my hierarchy over him created an immediate and unfamiliar, power-driven, palpable stress..
I repeated myself. He groaned again. We were getting nowhere.
For whatever reason, I decided to take this moment to test a new theory. I looked in his eyes, trying to communicate through connection, and he looked away. Our combatting verbal dialogue seemed to only sever our ability to communicate. I wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy.
“I’m not going to talk until you’re happy,” I said. (spoiler: wrong move, Laura)
“I’m happy,” he said.
My eyes widened in the questioning, doubtful, untrustworthy way that adults sometimes do. I shrugged, signaling that “happy” was not the emotion that I was receiving, and I started to sign something about putting the backpack away and bringing his lunchbox to me (we were learning some basic ASL signs, but mostly this was charades).
“What?? I’m happy!”
More signing
“WHAT?! I’M HAPPY! I’M HAPPY!!!” We were getting nowhere.
This wasn’t working, so I spoke again. “I’m not going to talk until I’m happy.” I closed my mouth, pretended to lock my lips with an invisible key, and opened my eyes wide-- a successful attempt at showing him that my attention was on him. Rather than what I was trying to communicate, my attention would be on him and his words, and he was the only one permitted to break the silence.
I would sign, and he would guess. My attention was on his words, but his words were his direct comprehension of what I was trying to communicate, so in a way, my attention was on both his words and my communication. Not on what was being sent nor received, but the magic in the middle--the communication and connection between us. (One day I’ll explore and write about how this moment changed me as a communicator)
If I wanted to “say” something, I would have to act it out, and if he didn’t want to listen, all he had to do was walk away. I would only know he was listening if he was looking at me. I would only know if he heard me if he communicated it back to me.
“YOU’RE HAPPY!” I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head to signal that I wasn’t happy. This he couldn’t argue with, nor could he feel personally offended or disrespected. If he said he was happy, I was going to trust that he was telling me exactly what he wanted me to know, whether I believed him or not. Whether he was happy or not. His feelings are his feelings, and only he has the right to label them.
I continued to sign. He stopped trying to convince me to “use my words” (as many adults tend to do), and started to guess what I was trying to communicate (as few adults would even consider). Of course he could have walked away from the situation, leaving the backpack on the floor and me in a bad mood, but he didn’t. Because even though we weren’t acting like a team in this moment, he still loved me like a teammate.
And this was a puzzle -- figuring it out was a game.
This was the moment that changed everything. The moment I started to become the next new version of myself. The first authentically me version of myself. And I owe this change to two things: Benjamin and moments of silence.
Successful teams support one another in their low moments. When faced with a problem, the best teams don’t point fingers, assigning blame and assuming a culprit. Rather assuming equal responsibility in reaching a solution, regardless of whose "fault" it was to begin with; offering no space to harbor resentment. Successful teams learn to silence their egos. Sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically, the individual ego will grow in strength, gaining confidence in the team and the process of collaboration.
Benjamin and I have never talked about ourselves as a team (not then, and not now) -- he hadn’t had the experience of a team (it was Pandemic, after all) for such a metaphor to resonate. Nor do most childhood teams operate this way.
I've considered this moment over the years since, believing he hadn't walked away simply because he wanted attention. Because he wanted my attention. And the only way he was going to get it was by looking at me. And so he didn’t walk away. We had each other’s undivided attention now.And there was a puzzle to solve. Because, even though we weren’t acting like it, we were still a team.
Walking away, I’ve come to realize, would only result in pain; adding irreparable stress to our relationship. Changing the fabric of who we are as individuals and as a joint unit. Whether or not he was conscious of it, I believe he felt this. And that feeling is what directed his behavior.
And this unapologetic connection to their humanity is what sets children apart.
This moment changed me. I began to notice how often we may hear, but we fail to listen. If we don’t consciously catch the words before they’re out of our head, they may be lost forever. Speaking to Benjamin in moments of stress and foul mood, therefore, proved to be completely futile. He wasn’t listening to me. Not because he wasn’t hearing me, but because I wasn’t listening to him either, and we were both just desperate to be heard. To be listened to.
Words are powerful, providing us the opportunity to gain or lose control over a situation.
And so, my attempts to communicate my request for him to put his backpack in the closet became a game of charades.
Before we knew it, we were laughing. I would sign something, and his guess would be wrong. I would shake my head, tap my finger on my temple, signaling that I was thinking of a new way to “say” it, and he would guess. Again. Getting closer, and I would signal his near guess with excitement.
We were dying laughing by this point, but I still didn’t talk. I don’t remember if it occurred to me that I was “allowed” to talk, but figured it was best to have left this way. He must have been enjoying the game as well as he made no attempt to remind me of the no-talking-until-I’m-happy rule. And I was clearly happy
“My lunchbox... ON THE COUNTER!!!”
YES!!! I nodded my head and jumped up and down as he delivered the lunchbox to me. But still didn’t talk.
He looked at me, puzzled, why isn’t she talking? he seemed to think...
“And... MY BACKPACK IN THE CLOSET!” He ran away, hung it up, and ran back “YOU CAN TALK AGAIN!!”
“YAY!!! THANK YOU BENJAMIN!!!” He’d rescued me from my silent existence. A curse that I’d placed upon myself, but he joined in the effort to solve.
And just like that, we felt like a team again. Not after the conflict, but through it.
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