How I Learned to Speak: Meeting Mrs. Deluccio

I had the recent opportunity to attend Speak Your Truth: The Improv Way co-conducted by visiting applied improvisation expert and lovely human being Belina Raffy  and Creative Director of Silly People’s Improv Theater (SPIT) and equally lovely human being Gabe Mercado. It was a wonderful, nerve-wracking, ultimately empowering experience where it was affirmed that the very best of stories come from our own truths, and we are able to reach others in a deep and powerful way when we share these.

This entry is my attempt to recreate, through writing, the story I told during our culminating activity of the day, about how my life was touched by an amazing teacher named Mrs. Deluccio. And although this cannot convey the raw emotion I experienced during the live and unscripted telling of it (I think I was on the verge of tears at the time!) nor the magical moment when you struggle for, then find the words to describe what is in your heart, I hope that the message comes across all the same:

Back in kindergarten, I was known as the girl without a voice. I was shy, so painfully shy, that it was so difficult to participate in class, talk to my classmates, or even raise my hand to ask permission to use the restroom. The latter led to a few embarrassing disasters in the classroom and my mother, who had to frequently pick me up with a fresh change of clothes, would oftentimes ask in exasperation, “Why didn’t you just tell your teacher that you needed to use the bathroom?” Time and again, this question would be answered by silence.

My teacher at the time even called my parents in for a conference to discuss my situation. She asked them what language I was comfortable with, and if I knew enough English to understand what was going on in class, to which my father answered, “Mrs. Lauterstein, English is the only language she knows.”

My silence in school continued, much to the frustration of my parents and teacher, and the wonderment of my classmates who called me “The girl whose tongue was stolen by the cat.” 

Then one day, I was a preschooler no more, but a worldly, grown-up first grader. I walked slowly into my new classroom and saw a petite woman with curly blond hair, sparkling eyes, and a warm and open smile. Mrs. Deluccio, she had written on the board in big swirly letters.

“Hello there,” she said to me, “Come and sit here in front.” I walked forward with shaking knees and sank into a seat right in front of her on the first row.

“You look like a princess,” she told me. I smiled back tremulously, feeling that all-too familiar lump in my throat. I couldn’t say anything. I just couldn’t.

“Petunia. Can I call you Princess Petunia?” She asked. I stared back at her. She smiled back widely, not noticing my silence. Or not seeming to mind, at least. I nodded.

And so I sat on the first row for the rest of the semester. For the first month or so, I still didn’t talk. This didn’t faze my teacher. She still referred to me as her Princess Petunia, oftentimes meeting my eye during class discussion to give me an encouraging nod or a playful little wink. I’m your ally, was what she seemed to say.  During seatwork, she would pass by and take a look at my work, never lingering too long, but always saying, “Good job, Princess Petunia,” or “You’re on the right track, Princess Petunia.” For the first time in my life, I felt like there was someone else outside of my family who truly knew me and understood what I was going through. Someone who didn’t judge me for my silence but accepted it, and cared for me all the same.

My silence eventually evolved to giggles over her jokes or little whispered side comments to a seatmate during class (Princess Stephanie, if I remember correctly). Then finally, on one fateful day, I raised my hand. And I spoke. And it felt good. As I looked breathlessly at Mrs. Deluccio, she smiled a smile with the warmth of a thousand rays of sunshine. And she said, “Princess Petunia. I’ve been waiting for that.”

Since then, I grew up and eventually dedicated my life to speaking up and sharing stories through my work with Make Believe, through theater, film, teaching, and writing. And although it will always and forever be a nerve wracking experience for this shy little girl at heart, whenever I am afraid or hesistant or unsure, I remember Mrs. Deluccio - and I, Princess Petunia, speak up J

 

She also came to my birthday party that year.
From left: me, Mrs. Deluccio, and my good friend Jackie

Thank you, Belina and Gabe, for helping me remember and speak this truth J