Teenagers are their worst at six o’clock in the morning. They’re ornery and slow and their eyes are only half open. Maybe that’s why they never see me.
I can recall Margaret Saunders saying my name once. It was the day Sister Culligan gave us Almond Joys. She told us that the gospel was a "joy" to our lives. Mine was lying on top of my Book of Mormon. I couldn’t eat it now. It was too early for me to eat anything. But not Margaret. She did not hesitate to pick up my Almond Joy and begin unwrapping it before she asked, "Hey Dawn, can I have this?"
I didn’t really give an answer. I looked at her and then looked down at where the candy once lay: on my Book of Mormon. It wouldn’t have mattered at all what I said. She’d have eaten it either way. That’s been my problem for years. They can’t hear me. Even though I really do have plenty to say, I’m just white noise. The buzzing of the heat vent above my head. The ringing in their ears. The high-pitched whine of the television set when it turns on and off. I’m like one of the metal chairs. Furniture that breathes.
Sister Culligan was furniture too. At least to people like Margaret and Caleb and the Markham twins. They don’t see her either. But I see her. I listen to her bearing her testimony -- pouring out her heart -- to those kids. Kids who are almost not even there. They’re in their world of chewing gum and skateboards. Of ripped jeans and science homework. And that’s only the beginning. I think the one word they hear out of all the lessons is their own name. Once, when Sister Culligan was giving a lesson about the seventh chapter in the book of Mosiah:
"Could you read verse five for us, Caleb?" She asked, looking up from her glasses.
Caleb sat in the corner. Sarah Morgan was lying on his lap, her eyes closed. And he was talking to Mitchell Markham. Directly under the stare of Sister Culligan and the four other people on the other side of the room. He was mumbling. He always mumbles. But it’s so loud that the whole class can hear that monotonous mumble mumble mumble. It never stops, except when a prayer is being said.
Sister Culligan asked again. "Verse five. Could you read it for us, Caleb?"
This time he heard his name. He looked up and said "Yeah" with a giant grin on his face.
Some of the other class members giggled. Sister Culligan just asked again, "Could you read the verse for us?" Her face did not change a bit.
Caleb’s smile began to fade for a moment, but then it returned when he said, "I don’t have my scriptures."
"Then you can borrow Sarah’s. They are right here." Sister Culligan walked over and took up Sarah’s scriptures from where they had been lying idle on the seat beside Caleb. She opened them to Mosiah and pointed to where the scripture was.
After Caleb finished reading the verse Sister Culligan turned and walked back toward the front of the room. Caleb returned his attention to Mitchell and began to mumble once again. That’s how I see it every day. That’s Seminary. It makes me sick. But I don’t say anything. What’s the point? They can’t hear me. I don’t even think Sister Culligan sees me. I think she only called on me to pray twice. And that was at the beginning of the year. Maybe she thinks I’m asleep. But how can anyone fall asleep with all that mumbling and shifting of papers and the voice of Sister Culligan getting louder and louder and louder as the kids got more and more and more noisy? No, my eyes are wide open. I see everything.
And that’s how it is today. Today we’re in Alma. Alma Chapter 60. It’s a Wednesday. Class starts with a song. It’s "I’ll Go where You want me to Go". Sister Culligan is at the piano. She is the only one singing. I try to sing, but only my lips move. Caleb puts his hood over his head and buries his head in his arms on the desk. Margaret begins to doodle on her folder. Sarah and Mitchell Markham begin to giggle back and forth when the song ends. Then Sister Culligan stands up and returns to the front of the room.
"Well, Spencer’s not here to give our devotional," (no one is ever here on time if they have to give the devotional) "so Margaret, would you give the opening prayer for us this morning?"
Margaret looks up at her. It’s a look that she gives to anyone who has ever dared tell her what to do. She cocks her head to one side and says, "I don’t feel like praying."
Sister Culligan doesn’t answer Margaret directly, but she sighs and turns to the other side of the classroom. "Caleb, would you pray for us?"
Caleb raises his head from his desk, puts on a smirk, and looks side to side at Sarah and the Markham twins. Then he slides up from his chair and lazily folds his arms.
Just before I close my eyes to pray, I look around me. No one else is folding their arms. Mitchell doesn’t even take his hat off. I finally look at Sister Culligan. A lonely, pregnant bead of water is falling from her left eye. I close my eyes.
Fifteen minutes later, Margaret does it again. This time it’s when Sister Culligan asks her to read. She slowly raises her eyebrows and says, "I don’t feel like reading, today."
This time Sister Culligan looks apprehensively at her. "Margaret, I would deeply appreciate if you would read for us, please."
Margaret says, a little louder, "But I don’t feel like it today."
"Your scriptures are right there. Why don’t you just read that one verse?"
Shocked anger grows on Margaret’s face. "You can’t tell me what to do. Get Dawn to do it. She’s got her scriptures open, too."
I immediately sink three inches into my chair. That was the second time Margaret had said my name. I look up at Sister Culligan, expecting to see her turn towards me and ask me to read. But she’s not. Today Sister Culligan just stares at Margaret, not blinking. "Margaret, I don't think I should have to give you the points unless you participate. Please read verse 20."
Now Margaret is back to doodling on her notebook, her eyes downcast. "Get Dawn to do it." She says, firmly.
Sister Culligan raises her head. "I didn’t ask Dawn to do it. I asked you to do it."
I had never seen Sister Culligan like this before. Usually she just lets the kids go, thankful that they were there, let alone participating. I don’t know what has happened, but Sister Culligan is not herself today. Today she’s confronting Margaret almost like a fear that she just has to face. Now she is more than just a preacher to empty seats. She wants this lesson taught.
"Get Dawn to do it." Margaret says again. She raises her eyebrows.
"No, you can do it, Margaret. Just verse twenty. It’s right there."
"Get Dawn to do it."
I begin to worry. My name keeps on coming up. The more I hear it, the less I like it.
Sister Culligan inhales loudly. She steps toward Margaret’s seat. "Margaret. As a teacher, I am asking you to read the scripture."
Margaret looks up at Sister Culligan. Her eyes are wide, and her lips are tight and almost the color of the skin around them. She reaches out her hand, touches her Book of Mormon, and slowly pushes it away from her. Further and further away. It slides easily across the table until it reaches the edge. Then it slowly tips, falls, and lands with a thump on the carpet.
"I’m not reading." Says Margaret.
Then she gets up, grabs her backpack and notebook, and strides out of the room.
The room is silent. Caleb has stopped mumbling and Sarah has stopped giggling. Not a word is said as Sister Culligan turns to face the rest of the class. Tears are in her eyes again. She looks up at the ceiling. She shakes her head and opens her mouth as if to speak, but then shuts it in frustration and shakes her head even harder.
No one sees me.
Caleb glances over at Sarah, whose eyes are wide with amazement. Mitchell Markham has a smile on his face. He chuckles to himself. He thinks it’s funny. He doesn’t see me either. No one looks at me.
No one sees me as I stand up. Not even Sister Culligan.
No one sees me as I pick up my Book of Mormon.
No one sees me as I open my mouth.
"’Have ye forgotten the commandments of the Lord your God? Yea, have ye forgotten the captivity of our fathers? Have ye forgotten the many times we have been delivered out of the hands of our enemies?’"
Sister Culligan looks at me, shocked.
"’Or do ye suppose that the Lord will still deliver us, while we sit upon our thrones and do not make use of the means which the Lord has provided for us?
"’Yea, will ye sit in idleness while ye are surrounded with thousands of those, yeah, and tens of thousands, who do also sit in idleness, while there are thousands round about in the borders of the land who are falling by the sword, yea, wounded and bleeding?"
I look for a split second around me. Sarah and Caleb’s eyes are right on me. They are looking at me. At my body. At my lips. They hear me. Mitchell’s smile is gone. He hears me, too.
"’Do ye suppose that God will look upon you as guiltless while ye sit still and behold these things? Behold, I say unto you, Nay. Now I would that ye should remember that God has said that the inward vessel shall be cleaned first, and then shall the outer vessel be cleansed also.’"
Then I walk around my table, pick up the Book of Mormon on the floor, and set it gently on Margaret’s table. I turn around, walk back to my seat, and sit down. I look down at my Book of Mormon.
They see me, now.
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