I am Kassandra. So are you.

When I was a little girl, I loved attention. Okay…I still really love attention, but there was simply not a moment in my childhood when I could let a moment pass in a crowded room where I didn’t take the opportunity to “perform.” I would speak authoritatively about why I liked certain music groups or show off with a memorized poem or monologue. My parents had always encouraged my antics, and I didn’t mind the opportunity to be noticed. I loved when adults would tell me how charming, smart, and creative I was. “What a little grownup!” they would say. This is when my appreciation would start to wane a bit. “She’s 12 going on 21!” they would whisper loudly to the other adults in their company. I was well aware of the condescending tone that was being used, but would never confront anyone on it for fear of losing or alienating my audience. Any platform would work for me.

A couple of years later, I started high school and I wanted to be more involved in organizations in my life; particularly school and my church. Since I had just been confirmed in the church (the milestone that declares that you are now a full-fledged member of the community), I felt it was my chance to jump in with both feet and advocate for issues and ideas that mattered to me. I decided to run for Parish Council as a junior member, and won (perhaps because I ran unopposed, but no matter—I was now going to be a member of the big dogs)! So, during our first meeting, we sat around the board room of the church and they passed out the agendas and informational materials. My heart sank as the person to my right reached over my head to pass on the materials to the person to my left. I cleared my throat hoping someone would notice I was there. I made a dramatic head toss to the person next to me to look over their shoulder at the meeting agenda. I was given a look…then ignored. A few minutes later I found my voice and asked for a copy of my own. Everyone looked up surprised as if I had just arrived. One of them grudgingly passed over a copy of the notes to me. This was to be a pattern.

Every meeting, I waited patiently for a chance to speak. I had so many ideas. I wanted things to be different—that’s why I ran for the position. I thought I was being offered the chance to be among peers. It didn’t take long for me to see the reality of my gratuitous and token position. I was still really a child—less than a person. I was to be seen, but not heard. However, I did not walk away. I’m not a quitter, I told myself. I will be respected. I will be believed.

It took four years, but eventually the council entertained an idea for a new ministry that I thought would make the church more welcoming to members and visitors. I wanted people to feel like we wanted them to be there…to be part of our community. The council gave me their blessing to move forward with my idea, but said I would have to make it happen. I rallied. I made posters. I wrote advertisements. I called meetings. The problem? No one came. I was devastated. The council was not surprised. “People just aren’t ready for this kind of thing. You have to accept that things aren’t always going to work out the way you want.”

I went off to college knowing I tried, but maybe I had to admit it was a terrible idea. I came home to the church over break that first semester and what did I see? Something that simultaneously filled my heart with happiness and frustration. The ministry had been enacted—just not by my hand. It was apparently something that needed to be championed by someone with influence—with a voice.

This was not an isolated incident as I was growing up, nor do I think it is an unfamiliar one for most people.

When I eventually became a teacher, I made a pledge to myself that I wouldn’t forget to listen—really listen—to my students. I wouldn’t make them feel stupid, useless or inferior because I felt they didn’t fit my expectations for being in a specific role. We are all students to some extent, as well as teachers. In both cases, we are charged with a delicate responsibility. We must listen to each other, and believe each other. That sensitive balance of trust is not one that is easily or naturally attained. It comes from years of practice. It takes time and a very patient vision that we recognize the humanity in each other and ourselves.

That is what I believe the Kassandra Project is about. We may sense that we are marginalized—even as adults. We must not lose our faith in our humanity. We must not lose faith in our ideas or ideals. We must not lose faith in each other. We all speak truth. Now we must believe.

#respect #ageism #listening #voice #frustration #failure #truth