Are You Hear Me?

"Mama, are you hear me?"

Came the little voice from the room next door.

Oh, God.  Please no.  It's too early.  She went to bed too late.

I groan, pull the sheets up closer to my neck and roll over.

"Mama, are you hear me?"

The voice is gaining strength with the moments of wakefulness until she is shouting forcefully.

Not out of anger, just need of acknowledgement.

And it made me think of all the years I spent in the classroom with teenagers who longed to be heard.

Who struggled for some acknowledgment.

By dating the wrong boy.

By blatant disrespect.

By choosing this drug over that drug.

By walking with an elevated or deflated sense of self worth.

Because no one answered them when they asked.

"Do you HEAR me?"

Do you hear my struggle to survive? To craft the person I want to become beneath all the restraints placed on me by my parents, by my school, by you?

Do you hear my chest, fighting to rise through the sadness of living in a home where anger is the only reliable trait?

Do you hear my fingers, beating against the desk, in anxiety and frustration, with no known cause, but I'm not doing it to annoy you, it's just, I'm afraid I will disappear if I stop.

Do you hear me cry to myself in the bathroom, because the friendships I have are too shallow to shoulder the weight of the burdens I carry?  They are so heavy I cannot lift my hands to finish the homework you assigned.

I heard a thousand voices go unheard as they traveled in and out of my classroom door.  Voices who felt as though no one was coming for them, so they had given up asking and had began seeking other, physical, active ways of speaking that attracted more attention.

I wanted to grab them and hug them all- assure them they were heard, they were valued.  Sometimes I wanted to shake them- but surely, that stems out of love as well.  Who gets angry with someone they do not love?

But mostly, I wanted to go back in time and grab the little babe versions of themselves and whisper,

"Sometimes it feels as though no one hears you.  But God always does.  And I promise, if you let me, I will always try."

I wonder how much of a difference it would make if children grew up feeling heard.  Not catered to, Not pumped up with a sense of entitlement, but HEARD.  Had a validation of their voice.   Acknowledged that God speaks to them and through them just as He does everyone else.  That they have ideas and feelings and love to share that is not only valuable, but integral to the community at large.

I wonder.

I wonder if I would have cried over so many poor choices my students made.  The sadness they wore before their football jerseys went on.  The pressure they carried.  The lie.  That someone, long ago, never answered when they asked with their words, or with their hands reaching up to be held, or with their tears needing to be wiped by someone who was not there to judge them, just to love them.

"MAMA! ARE you HEAR ME??????????????????"

Yes my girl.

I rip off my covers and stumble into the dark, toward the sound of her voice.

Yes my girl.

Yes I do.