During my teaching career, I faced a moment Ill never forget. There was a boy in my class named Charlie. Hed been born with a string of health challenges: developmental delays, a heart condition, and to top it all offa cleft lip and palate.
Up until he was four, it was almost impossible to understand a word he said, but after years of sessions with speech therapists and specialists, by six his speech had improved enough that you could just about follow him, though his voice was nasal and guttural. Still, at least he could finally make himself understood.
It was during his last year at nursery school, right before Mothering Sunday, when the idea came up: lets give Charlie a part in the schools recital and let him recite a poem. Hed always been so self-conscious about the scars on his lip and about the way he spoke. We knew we were taking a risk, possibly putting too much pressure on him. But how else could he ever find the courage to believe in himself, if not by trying? You cant wrap a child in cotton wool forever.
He wanted it toodesperately. Whenever the others recited poems, he mouthed the words quietly along with them, almost shyly moving his lips.
Charlie was given a passage from a poem about mums. His own mother was over the moon when she heard; shed never expected her son to be chosen. Charlie himself thought there was no way theyd trust him with anything at all, since he was so different from the others.
They both worked so hardreciting the poem every day, over and over. In front of the mirror, to each other, quietly, loudly, with their family, even racing one another to see who could say it fastest.
Then the big day arrived. Charlies turn came at last. He was positively shaking with nerves, but stood his groundhe said he meant to perform for his mum, and for her alone. Thats why hed learned the poem.
Out walked little Charlie, all dressed up in a proper suit and bow tie, standing proud at the front. He started off strong, delivering his lines clearly. Then, partway through, he stumbledperhaps it was nerves, or tirednessand began to falter at one of the trickier words.
He reached the lines:
From the stairs, answered William: ‘Mums a pilot? Well, why not?
Charlies mum, for instance,
She is a’ (he screwed up his face, fishing for the hard word)
She is a con-di-tion-er!
There were stifled giggles from the audience. Charlie flushed red, dropped his gaze, shoved his hands into his pockets, and puffed out his cheeks, but he kept on reading.
And both Tobys and Veras mums are
Conditioners too! someone yelled cheekily from the back row. This time, people couldnt hold it in and the hall erupted with laughter.
Charlie turned and fled. I caught up with him by the staircase. He stood with his face pressed to the wall, furiously wiping away tears with his sleeve. I bent down and told him quietly that the person had been silly and just made an unkind joke. I asked if hed like to give it another gofor his mum and for me.
This time, I said, he could say policewomanand if he got stuck, Id be right there to help. He shook his head, sniffling, but then, after a moment, nodded and said he wanted to try again for his mum, but he was so frightened.
I promised Id stand beside him, hold his hand, and give him whatever help he needed.
Charlie agreed. I handed him over to the classroom assistant so she could dab his tear-stained face, then hurried back into the hall. When the next performance ended, I stepped out to speak to the parents. My legs were trembling, I remember it as if it were yesterday, though it was years ago.
I said, Charlie is six years old. And most of his short life has been spent in hospitals and clinics. Hes had more operations than birthdays. It took him years just to be able to speak clearly, and only this year did he find the courage to stand here and recite a poem for you all. He wants to performbut only for his mum. Please, support himjust listen. He finds this incredibly hard and frightening.
The audience fell silent. I led Charlie out from behind the curtain; he dragged his feet, staring at the floora funny little chap: small, sturdy, with his lip still swollen and scarred. He was red-eyed and stubborn, but stood tall and silent.
Go on, Charlie! called his mum.
You can do it, Charlie! echoed that lively voice from the back. I crouched down and took his hand.
Go on, Charlie, I whispered. For your mum.
Charlie took a deep breath and began, right from the top. He made it through the lines, blushing but relentless:
From the stairs, answered William: Mums a pilot? Why not!
Charlies mum, for instanceshes a po-lice-woman!
And both Tobys and Veras mums,
Theyre engineers!
And he stared down the audience with an air of challenge.
The applause that broke out then was like nothing our nursery had ever heard. Everyone clappedparents, children, teachers, nursery staffeven some standing. There was so much cheering, Charlie couldnt have continued even if hed wanted to.
But he didnt need to. Hed proven himself already.
After the performance, our music teacher pulled me aside.
You deserve a good telling off, she said.
Tears that Id been bottling up all day burst out. She shut the door behind us, sat me down, and went on, You nearly ruined the event, true, but winners are never judged. You and Charlieyoure winners today. Wipe your nose and get back to the children.
Why am I remembering it now, thirteen years on? Because, not long ago, I bumped into Charlies mum on the street and she recognised me. She told me Charlies just started university this yearon a scholarship, earning top marks in every entry exam. And youll never guess what subjectEnglish Literature!
She passed on his words for me: If it werent for that day, Id never have stopped feeling like an invalid.
And whats the heart of this story? Determination, backbone… Most of all, that a boy who started out disabled grew up whole and confidentand not in spite of, but thanks to those around him. Lets be kinder and more patient with each other.
