For most of the 1990s I was involved with a brilliant group for children and teenagers called The Woodcraft Folk. Woodcraft is a national organisation that believes in cooperation and helping boys and girls to enjoy the outdoors. Our group used to go hiking and camping as often as possible, and in the early summer we would spend a special weekend at a local campsite, learning about pitching tents, collecting wood, building a fire and cooking outdoors. On Saturday night everyone would meet around the campfire and sing songs and act out sketches that the children had been making up and practicing throughout the day.

That particular Sunday was going to be a day of challenges for the youngsters: climbing trees, working in a group to all get across a muddy bog on a log, swinging on a very high zip wire, archery and crossing a deep gorge on an aerial walkway. We split into groups of six youngsters and two adults and did the rounds of the various challenges. The children in our group were aged 10 to 12 and everyone joined in with the spirit of the physically challenging activities. We had a long chat beforehand about how you didn’t have to join in with anything you thought might be too risky, and no-one would say anything if you found something a bit daunting.

When I was a child I loved climbing high trees and being up high on tall buildings. It gave me a great sense of exhilaration. But just occasionally I would look down and become strangely paralysed with fear. Then I literally couldn’t move and had to talk myself into a state of relaxation and try and somehow get down. As I became an adult, this feeling increased, and now I really don’t relish being up high working on a ladder, or on a rollercoaster or any ride at a funfair that involves heights. In fact, if I’m quite honest, I can feel quite terrified. It’s not rational: it’s just a feeling that overtakes me.

So it was our group’s turn to try the aerial walkway. It consisted of three wires secured 20 feet up a pine tree, stretching across a wooded dip about 30 feet deep. You were given a crash helmet and a harness to wear around your waist. Attached to the harness was a clip that secured you to the middle wire, so that if you slipped you wouldn’t fall and severely injure yourself. You lifted your hands up above you and grabbed onto the top wire to steady yourself, while you gradually shuffled your feet sideways and moved along the bottom wire: a bit like being on a tightrope, but sideways on.

So the children took turns, one at a time, to climb up a ladder to the starting point, where an experienced youth leader clipped the child onto the middle wire and off they went across the wire to the other side, about 20 metres away. Five children did it no problem. Although it was quite nerve racking, they all enjoyed having met the challenge. I had been across first and had found it quite fun, as long as I concentrated on moving my feet and didn’t look down. The group down below shouted positive comments to anyone up on the wire, which was quite helpful.

Stevie Wonder : Higher Ground

Then it was Hannah’s go. She was absolutely fine until she got halfway across and then suddenly stopped. We could all tell from down below that she was in the grip of the deadly fear. What to do? Do you shout encouraging messages like, ‘It’s easy really! We all did it, so you can do it too!’ Or ‘Don’t worry! Don’t be scared!’ The children were saying things like that, but we could see that poor Hannah was becoming more and more terrified.

Our leader sprang into action. Or to be exact he told me to spring into action. “I could go up there”, he explained, “but you know her best and she will listen to you. Stand beside her and tell her she will be OK if she takes one small step at a time. Tell her she is a good girl and say, ‘well done’ a lot. Don’t hurry her and then she will relax and maybe even start to enjoy herself.”

So up the ladder I went. I must admit I was feeling quite worried: not for myself, but about what would happen if I didn’t succeed and we were both stuck up there. Would I suddenly get the terrors and have to be rescued as well? Once I got close to Hannah I could see that she had completely lost it. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. Then I looked down and started to feel the panic rise up from my feet. “Well”, I said in a confident voice, “we both got this far, so we can go a bit further. Let’s move our feet slowly and concentrate on taking one small step at a time. Good girl. Well done. Now let’s take another step.“

That’s what we did, and we both lived to tell the tale. What was very interesting for me, and showed the skill and sensitivity of the young leader, was that he immediately explained to the whole group how fear can overtake you at any time. Even the most experienced climbers can suddenly start to dwell on the danger they might be in and then start to feel panic rising. But with practice you learn to overcome your fear and can begin to enjoy yourself. He congratulated the group on being so supportive of each other, and we all ate some chocolate. What I was so glad this young man didn’t do, was to make light of Hannah’s fear and say, “Well, now you’ve done it once you should have no problem doing it again!”

Play for Change’s amazing version of Higher Ground

I often remember this experience when I think of children who have high anxiety about talking in public or those with selective mutism, who can talk well at home but may be completely silent in school. They may be gripped by an irrational fear, and if those around them are putting pressure on them to speak, the anxiety increases. If all adults can come to a shared understanding of how the child feels, and agree not to put pressure to try and make her talk, then she will start to relax.

Senior staff need to make sure that everyone has the same positive approach and ensure that nobody makes light of the child’s fear of talking, or believes that ‘If only she could be made to talk once then she will be able to talk all the time’. In the case of children with confirmed selective mutism, the school will benefit from support to set up a programme to take the child forward towards talking, a step at a time. This whole process is explained brilliantly in a DVD called ‘Silent Children’ available from the Selective Mutism Information and Research Association (SMIRA).

And what happened to Hannah? She recovered quickly from her ordeal, but said she felt silly for panicking. Later in the day she had a go at various other risky activities, including crossing the muddy bog on the log, and was fine. We were all very pleased for her. The Woodcraft Folk’s motto is ‘Span the World with Friendship’ and at the end of each camp they get together in a big circle and hold hands and sing a song called ‘Link Your Hands Together’. The last line is ‘Should anyone be weary, we’ll help them along.’ It’s a great message.

Click here to watch the incredible Stevie Wonder session in full!

Take care out there.

Michael

I remember when The Monkees first went massive in the UK. I was minding my own business in the playground of St. Ursula’s Primary School in Harold Hill.  I was nine. A big girl approached me at random and demanded an answer to the burning question of the day: ‘Which do you like: The Beatles or The Monkees?’  She was ten and I was under pressure. Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway had yet to be written, so I was scared. My response was, ‘Why are you asking?’  Years later I attended a course on lecturing and explaining, and learned that this is a useful technique for dealing with questions from the audience that you don’t fully understand, or suspect that the questioner is trying to catch you out. I was 27.

Me: Why are you asking?

Her: I’m asking ‘cos if you give the right answer you can be my boyfriend. If you get it wrong I’m going to pinch you.

Me: The Monkees.

Her: Oh Yea? Prove it. What’s your best Monkees song?

Me: (Panicking, because I had never heard The Monkees: but sensing I could bluff my way into this girl’s affections.) I Love My Dog.

Her: Never heard of it.

Me: (Sensing an advantage). My big brother just bought it and it’s really good.

Her: Wow! Lucky for you that I want to believe you. You can be my boyfriend for the rest of playtime!

Me: Thanks, but can we just hold hands, and no kissing?

The Monkees: I’ll see it when I believe it!

Around about the same time I had a very confusing experience. I was in a family who only watched BBC TV. My mother told us that ITV had programmes that were ‘Not Suitable’. This included wrestling: where paunchy men in swimming trunks theatrically pretended to hurt each other in front of a small audience of northern grannies. (Boxing, which was on the BBC, was OK: even though muscular men beat each other to a bloody pulp in front of a baying crowd.) Films on Sunday afternoons, which featured ‘suggestive language and kissing’, were an absolute no no. I now know that if you prohibit children from watching something on telly and give a hint that it is a bit naughty, as soon as your back is turned they are going to try and find out what it’s all about. So at three o’clock the next Sunday I sneaked into the front room while mum and dad were in the garden. And got really confused.

The forbidden fruit I took a tiny bite out of was the classic 1957 film The Girl Can’t Help It, starring Jayne Mansfield as a blonde bombshell who doesn’t realise why she is the object of so much male attention.

Jayne Mansfield: it’s not her fault

I was flooded with questions: What can’t the girl help? Why was Little Richard singing about a girl when Jayne Mansfield is unmistakeably a lady? Why did the milk bottle in the milkman’s hand explode as the lady walked by? Why did a man’s glasses shatter when he looked at the lady? And why is this film ’not suitable?’

My Dad came in. ‘Now Michael, you know that’s ITV and not suitable. What are you watching? That looks like Little Richard. Let’s watch him singing and then you can switch the telly to BBC, or go outside.’ I switched channels. Arthur Negus was explaining why a table with Queen Anne’s legs was worth a small fortune. BBC 2 had not been invented; otherwise I could have watched Frank Muir being very clever on any number of panel game shows hosted by Robert Robinson.

Years later I was a Speech and Language Therapy student visiting a secondary school in London, to observe a social skills group for teenagers. Sitting quietly in the corner of the room was a girl of about 13. She had a smile on her face, but looked very nervous. ‘People say she’s an elective mute’, whispered my supervising therapist. ‘She’s here to see if she can pick up some social skills from this group.’ Everyone was practicing shouting ‘No!’ at the tops of their voices. I was 22 and this was the late 70s.

I thought a lot about this girl. Her name was Molly and she had been in the UK for six months: having moved from Wicklow in Ireland. She was living with her parents and her little sister in one room in bed and breakfast accommodation for homeless families. She had very dark eyes, which you could just about make out while she busily studied the carpet, and tried to avoid making eye contact with me by hiding behind her long dark hair.

No one had heard Molly speak in school, and teachers were describing her in the staff room as ‘stubborn, manipulative and controlling’. A man in a suit announced, ‘I read somewhere that elective mutes are silently crying out for help: so they can draw attention to some trauma or ongoing dysfunction in the family. If only we could get that elective mute to speak:  then we might be able to unlock some of those secrets. It’s so difficult when girls choose to be silent. You don’t know what they are thinking, and the rest of the class pick up on their negative attitude and behaviour, because they sense that the teacher’s authority is being challenged.’

Have you ever had that experience when a song suddenly pops into your head and you don’t know why? I was hearing the Girl Can’t Help It. My supervisor didn’t say anything, but looked very uncomfortable. Back at the clinic she asked me what I thought of Molly.

Me: Could it be that she can’t help being silent? Might she be afraid? She looked very unhappy and vulnerable. Maybe she imagines that other youngsters will laugh at her Irish accent? Might she have a speech and language difficulty? Or a hearing loss?

Therapist: Good questions. How might we find out?

Me: Visit her at home and ask her parents?

Therapist: Good thinking.

Me: Who was that man in the staffroom, telling us that Molly was a problem?

Therapist: The Deputy Head Teacher.

Me: Where would you start?

Therapist: Believing that Molly would love to talk, but at the moment doesn’t know how to. Then explaining to the Deputy Head that there is no such thing as elective mutism. Children don’t elect or choose to be silent. Better to talk about selective mutism, where certain people or situations create severe anxiety within the child about talking. That might help the Deputy Head become a believer too, so he can spread the message to his colleagues.

Me: (Thinking to myself) Does my supervisor like The Beatles or The Monkees?

I moved to another clinic placement a few weeks later: so never got to find out what happened to Molly. Or if my supervisor succeeded in what are the essential first steps in supporting children with selective mutism: helping adults to believe that this child is doing her best, but has somehow developed a fear of hearing her voice in public; that Molly would love to talk in school, but feels under pressure to speak; that she feels very deeply the negative atmosphere that is growing around her: where adults blame her for having a problem over which she has no control.

I like to think that the Speech and Language Therapist was able to have some influence on the staff. Maybe she helped them find out what subjects Molly enjoyed, and encouraged those subject teachers to take Molly under their wing: by giving her extra support so she could really excel in what she was best at. Or that she visited Molly at home to assess her verbal comprehension and processing skills: just to check that there wasn’t an underlying language difficulty that might be creating and fuelling her anxiety.  Or that she facilitated the member of staff who ran the social skills group to visit Molly at home and build a supportive relationship between family and school.

Whenever I hear I’m a Believer I remind myself of the importance of believing that quiet and anxious children would dearly love to sort out their difficulties, and that we can begin to help by

• Trying to understand what it is like to be them
• Everyone in school working together, with outside support, to come to a common understanding of the nature of the problem
• Working out a realistic plan to help the child enjoy participating in groups.

I grew to love The Monkees, and I’m a Believer is the ‘theme tune’ at the beginning and end of my Supporting Quiet Children training sessions. Because you will see it when you believe it.

And here’s Eva Cassidy Singing Dark Eyed Molly.

Whether this story is true or not, we will never know (It doesn’t get mentioned on Wikipedia, so there must be some doubt). However it’s a good story that illustrates a common misconception about quiet children: ‘If only we can get them to talk once, then they will be fine about talking in public from then on.’ The foundation for this line of thinking is that very quiet children, and particularly children with selective mutism, are in full control of their silence, and are exerting enormous willpower to refuse to talk at school.

It’s just not so. Children who are very quiet in school, and who are unhappy about it, are probably shy or are introverts. Children who are totally silent in school, but talk a lot at home with their family, may have selective mutism. What’s the difference?

A shy child is keen to join in, but is anxious about how other people might react to them having a go at something, or talking in a group. Their anxiety can be so great that it stops them from joining in.

A child who is an introvert will enjoy being with other people, and may join in, but will be energised by being on their own: to think their own thoughts and to ‘do their own thing’. Or they may operate best when working in pairs or small groups because they prefer the company of a few people at a time.

A child with selective mutism has developed an extreme anxiety about talking outside their home. They may have developed a dread of talking, or have become terrified at the possibility that someone will try and make them speak. They can be so anxious that they may ‘freeze’ physically and be unable even to move.

Evie and her Grandad’s canal barge

I had a bit of a ‘Walter Scott’ moment in a small infants’ school once. I was asked to do a presentation to the whole school, to celebrate Gypsy, Roma and Traveller History Month. My show was all about where people live, including bow-top wagons, caravans and canal boats. I was getting a polite reception from the children, until I brought out my model of a canal barge. Then we all got a shock. Up jumped Evie from Year 2: “My Bampy’s got a barge like that, and it’s the same colour! And he takes me fishing! And we have toast! And he lets me feed the ducks!!!” Evie had a quick look around, went bright red, and promptly sat down. There was a collective gasp from the adults (who were all smiling).

Naturally I was very pleased, and started to ask Evie questions: “What’s it like being in Bampy’s boat? Has it got an engine? Etc., etc.” Nothing. Evie was steadfastly avoiding my gaze, and I felt like the lecturer who locks his eyes on a student and addresses his lecture to that unfortunate person for the entire hour.

As you can imagine, there was great excitement in the staffroom afterwards. It turned out that Evie was very quiet, and only usually spoke in small groups or one to one with an adult. Some staff were worried and thought she might have selective mutism.

So what was wrong with Evie? Well I would guess that she was a mixture of shy and introvert. Her teacher had the presence of mind to give Evie the option of painting a picture of her Bampy’s boat, or making a scale model out of cardboard. She was allowed to do both, and had plenty to say all afternoon.

The moral of the story: find out what children know about and they are likely to have plenty to say to you… just don’t push them.

For more information about quiet children read Supporting quiet children by Maggie Johnson & Michael Jones, published by Lawrence Educational.