In the fall of 1997, I met one of the most courageous people I have ever known. His name was Julian, and he was ten years old.
During my military career I met men who had received Purple Hearts, Silver Stars, and even one who was awarded the Medal of Honor. Yes, those gentlemen were undeniably courageous, but they were adults. They were men, not children.
I was a fourth-grade teacher at an independent school in Florida. From the outside, my classroom looked like an old cottage. It was white with green trim and three wooden steps that led to the door. It was a cozy environment for my twenty ten-year-old students and me.
One of the experiences that my students looked forward to was creative writing. To ignite their imaginations, we would first play a game called ‘Wizard.’
I usually, but not always, went first. It went something like this.
“There once was an old wizard, dressed in a golden cape and a silver hat, who sat at the top of a tall mountain. While sitting there quietly, he felt someone tap on his shoulder.”
This was an example of a Wizard story starter.
The children had written their names on Popsicle sticks and placed them in a lunch bag earlier in the school year — I used the bag to choose kids for various activities randomly (especially at recess, where choosing teams could be a painful ordeal for some of the children).
After I finished the story starter, one of the children would select a Popsicle stick from the bag and read out the name.
On this particular day, the name chosen was Julian’s.
Whoever’s name was selected had to pick up the story where the story starter ended. You could say just about anything so long as it was reasonably connected to the context and was, of course, appropriate.
Each storyteller (child) could add a piece to the story that was as short or long as they wished. The idea was to shut down the voice of that child’s inner critic.
Upon hearing his name, Julian froze. He had never gone first before — there had always been several other of his classmates who, with their additions, had already formed a storyline. But not this time.
All eyes were on Julian, and almost instantly, my heart fell into my stomach. This little boy was shutting down.
Within seconds, Julian crawled under his desk in the corner of the room and wrapped his arms around his head as if he were preparing for an attack.
I intervened immediately, trying not to focus attention on Julian, and selected another child to continue the story. After one child finished his or her piece, they would choose a name from the bag, and that child would add another link to the story.
After about five minutes, the Wizard story chain was complete, and the children took out their pencils and notebooks and began to write quietly. Writing and reading were sacred times.
While the kids were writing, I walked softly back to Julian and joined him underneath his desk. That simple act, I would later find out, was a pivotal one in Julian’s life.
“Hi, Julian, I whispered. Can you share with me what you are feeling right now?”
He replied, “It feels like big pieces of concrete are cracking in my brain. I just can’t come up with any ideas for a story. It hurts, it really hurts. I want the noise to stop.”
I began to cry.
Julian was already crying.
With tears rolling silently down my face, I said, “I have an idea that comes directly from the Wizard. Do you want to hear it?”
“I would like that, yes,” Julian said quietly.
“How about you imagine a story that is all about what it feels like to have that painful noise in your head? Imagine that you are talking to the Wizard himself. What would you say? Is that an idea that might work for you?”
Julian didn’t respond verbally, but he did physically.
He left the safety of his desk cocoon on the floor and sat back down. He took out his writing supplies and began to write.
That ladies and gentlemen, ranks as one of the most courageous things I have seen a human being do.
Later, at recess, I asked Julian to sit down next to me on a bench for a few minutes. I had something I needed to share with him.
“Julian, do you know how truly strong and courageous you are? You have stood up to a giant. That giant was creating all that painful noise in your head. You looked that giant in the eyes and said NO, I am a writer, and you will not stop me.”
Twenty-seven years later, I still get chills writing those words.
I don’t remember exactly what Julian wrote about that day, but I do recall that it was a stepping stone for creating his own book.
Later that afternoon, I called Julian’s mother and asked her to join Julian and me in my classroom for a Writer’s Summit (that’s exactly what I called it). Puzzled, she agreed.
When she arrived, the three of us sat on the floor on a blanket we often used during reading time.
I began. “Julian, can you tell your mom about the giant in your head and what you were able to do today? I think she would love to hear about it”
“Mom, I got scared when I had to think of a story today and hid under my desk. It was safe there. But I didn’t stay there — I stood up to the giant.”
I’m leaving out some of the details here, but you have to envision two adults, sobbing like little babies, hugging a tiny ten-year-old child. It was a beautiful moment.
I ended the Writer’s Summit like this.
“Julian, the giant doesn’t want to hear this, but you need to know the truth. YOU ARE A WRITER. Writers turn fear into stories, stories that change people’s lives. I have a challenge for you, Julian. Do you want to hear it?”
Julian nodded.
“Today, you created the first chapter in your book.”
Julian’s eyes danced.
“Your challenge is to finish the story you began today. You wrote about fighting back against the giant and how hard it was. Many people, old and young, would love to read your story because they, too, have giants in their lives. Are you willing to accept the challenge?”
Picture a loving mother just melting.
“I can do that. I can write about the giant and me. When do I have to finish it?”
I didn’t give him a due date — that would have turned it into a routine academic assignment. There was nothing routine about this challenge.
About two weeks later, before school began, Julian and his mother greeted me at my classroom door. They were carrying a large manila envelope.
When we sat down, Julian handed the envelope to me.
“I finished my book!” he exclaimed, the world’s most incredible smile spreading across his face. “I did it!”
“Well, Julian, I think you are ready to join the Wizard’s Writing Guild. Very few people are brave enough to be members of this secret society. I have something to give you.”
Sensing that this day would arrive sooner rather than later, I prepared a large certificate with his name written in large calligraphic letters. At the top, it reads “Wizard’s Writing Guild Member.” It was signed by the Wizard (me) and sealed with a gold seal I had bought at a Hallmark Store.
I handed the certificate to Julian and pronounced him a writer.
Fast forward eight years.
Julian was valedictorian of his class. He got up in front of two thousand people and delivered one of the most stunning speeches I have ever heard. In his speech, he recounted the experience of his fourth-grade teacher sitting on the floor next to him underneath his desk.
I leave you with this.
Tell me about the giants that live within you. Can you summon the same courage as Julian did to confront them? You can’t slay them; they are always hiding in the shadows. But you can do what Julian did and refuse to hide in those shadows.
Never fear your own voice. That’s what the giant wants you to do.
