Why Didn't I Talk

By Leah Zanzucchi-Marroquin

This is reflective.  And to answer the question that irritated me throughout my childhood, “Why don’t you talk?”

I am not looking for pity. 

Why didn’t I talk? I started Kindergarten at the age of 4.  The school year started a few weeks before my birthday.  I was never in pre-school.  My parents didn’t believe it was necessary because they never were in pre-school themselves.  My dad was geared toward free things and anything to save money.  Though they started me in Catholic School (tuition based.)

I recall my dad asking me, “Are you prepared for Kindergarten?”

I wasn’t prepared, I said “No.” His response was “Oh, why!” or “Oh come on!” 

“I bought you a new backpack?!” The tone was incredulous and made me feel ashamed for not feeling prepared for Kindergarten because I did have new backpack. His response threw me off.  And here insert the idea that you are supposed to feel things you don’t.  I lost interest in talking to him on the personal matter. 

Before I continue, I am not implying that had I been prepared for Kindergarten I would not have had issues.  I can’t say that for sure.  

  

Ok, so back to my Catholic Kindergarten experience.  It was St.  Cecilia’s Roman Catholic Church in Rockaway, New Jersey.  I did not want to go.  But I panicked and broke down crying.  I cried.  I screamed.  I tried to get my dad to take me home.  The classroom had a lot of school desks not at height level.  It was the kind with the gap to put things in.   There were a lot of kids and it was noisy.  I did not know what I was supposed to do there.  Some days an Aide would pick me up and hold me.  I wasn’t sure about this either.  I didn’t want to look at her.  I didn’t know where I was supposed to focus my eyes.  I didn’t know where it was safe to focus my eyes.  This happened over a period of days to weeks to where I was informed by my parents I was moving to a new school.  It was going to be a smaller classroom, less kids.  It was D.B.O. School or Denis B. O’ Brien Elementary School in Dover, New Jersey.  It was a more relaxing atmosphere.  The classroom had comfy carpeting.  And there was a backyard play gym in the room, very appealing.  The eight or so kids was less chaotic noise.  Our Teacher was Ms.  Ryan.    

I did feel more relaxed here.  But I noticed it was because I was quiet. So I was peaceful.  I could probably hear myself think.  I didn’t want to break down crying like I did at the Catholic School because--for few reasons,

I knew it was an energy drain both physical and mentally and left me unhappy; I also hated myself for being that way and when I felt that way I felt hatred.  Ok, so I didn’t have the words for it, but I knew it. 

I also knew that if I got angry or scared, and I screamed I wouldn’t be able to stop.  So light bulb, keep quiet.  It worked for me, and I didn’t have any concept that talking was a thing to do. 

After a period of time my teacher informed my mom when she would pick me up--that

“She doesn’t talk.”  My mom was confused.  “Yes she does.  She talks at home.” My mom replied. 

Not talking here really means I said nothing from 8:30am-2:30pm all day while school was in session.   

Over time, I eventually got the label of Elective Mutism—the name changed in 1992 to Selective Mutism.  I don’t even think I had a concept of friendship.  I had no friendships outside my brother and sister.  My parents didn’t connect me anyway in this manner in until I was much older.  I liked this class however.  We got engaging lessons and a kind teacher.  No major problems with classmates in this class.  There was a Leigh who didn’t seem to like two Leah’s in the class and gave me attitude.  I didn’t care about immature rivalries even in Kindergarten.  Instead I would focus on the spelling of our first names and speculate the reason she was jealous was because she wished she had a name spelled like mine.  It wasn’t a major disturbing problem.  Ms.  Ryan acknowledged everyone in the class and believed in conflict resolution.  J