My report cards were covered in A+’s and A’s. Yet the column labeled “participation” was glaringly different. “Needs improvement”

My youngest aunt was in high school at the time and very busy with her art course. She had to create a unit book with pictures focusing on a certain topic. She chose selective mutism as her theme. I remember how she kept snapping photos of me and how happily I posed for her. One memorable photo was a portrait of me with my lips pursed. She zoomed in on my mouth and printed it big, labeling it: “This is my selective mute niece.” She took another one of me jumping rope in my grandmother’s back garden to show that I was a normal kid. I enjoyed looking at her depictions and paintings of me, too young to be embarrassed of my situation.

Looking back, I feel lucky that I had friends and was a well-liked girl, despite my nonspeaking nature.

During recess, we would all go out to play in the yard. I would stand in my spot near the big tree at the far end of the school garden, hands tucked in my coat pockets, observing my classmates running around and playing, wishing longingly to be able to join in their fun. Now and then, a sympathetic classmate came up to me and asked me if I wanted to join in their game. I declined time and time again with a shake of my head, while inside, my heart was crying to say yes.

“Why don’t you talk?” they asked me daily.

If the teacher on duty wasn’t looking in my direction. I dared to answer quietly, “I don’t know… I just can’t!”

They didn’t understand it. I also really didn’t either.

In class, I continued to act like part of the furniture. I saw the agony on my teachers’ faces every time they would try to squeeze a simple nod or shake of the head from me.