My Name is Ella                  Ella McCrystle
  
Tonight begins a new class – graduate students, some quite
mature. I weave my way eyes glued to tile, toward room 40,
they scuttle to the back. One stands surveying, finally forced
to drag a chair – second to last row is now the best. I foolishly
sit as soon as I can get my butt in a chair and now center
the room, like a giant lime in the midst of Beluga caviar.
 
Some of the women clearly know each other, chirping “hi”
as they rush to saved seats in the final row. All in black skins,
sleek scarves. The Grad School Clique, I somberly deduce,
even in ivy-vined halls, they rule: ladies whose names end
with chipper “ee” sounds.  I’ve not been sent the dress code,
stupidly stand out in overalls and chartreuse turtleneck.
 
Reminders of fourth grade, I was “one” then – idle bird chat,
nothing real to say. Now I sit head down, a fluorescent wallflower
willing a fade to black. Once again, I’m the stuttering kid, bruises
hidden under knee-highs always pulled too tall for cool, no
explanation for fashion sense. My orange hair stands on end,
shaking until my silvers chime in with staccato syllables, fly
senselessly, jab inner ears until all balance is lost, and I will
these hands to stay away from thundering temples.
 
They aren’t talking about me – it’s the isolation that impairs.
I am eight again, a forgotten birthday, too shy to tell the class
while Kathi K, who dots her “i” with a smiley, receives a
piñata two days early and I celebrate for her instead.
 
The teacher enters – they’ve always been my saviors. This one
looks young and ill-prepared to bandage the skinned esteem
of a 37-year-old woman with orange hair and lime shirt. She’s
young and smart and intimidates me too. We read. I know
the authors but cannot speak, their names have gone foreign.
I am clumsy, stupid, inept – incapable of expressing thought
when she lands on me – undeserving of opinion. My head sinks,
shrink to a green pea and roll out the door home-free in my dream.
 
On “free-write” we introduce ourselves through our names.
Purposely positioned last, I’m terrified as always to read aloud.
I will stutter, eyes will blur, voice will break: I know the role –
class fool. They do not let me go, and I cannot breathe. First words
inaudible, “my name is ella,” the next jerk loudly “I HATE IT.”
 
Silence. Then oddly, I see my writing, know my tale, my sounds
are my words, follow the voice of my pen. No stammer –
like singing stopped my stutter at six, music saves me again.
The silence becomes hush, punctuated by appropriate laughter,
a couple of audible gasps, and I sing my words to the end.
 
Finishing, I flip pages of second-hand notebook, stare hard
at corners, and when the silence sticks, I glance up –
they are looking, and they actually see me.
 
My name is Ella, I said, and they heard.
 
Ella McCrystle, 2005