I didn’t give the C.H.A.M.P.S. program much thought when it was implemented at our school. It’s just another assembly when someone spends an hour discussing decisions and their repercussions. Everybody has heard it before.
Then Deputy Harris arrived, though.
He didn’t live up to my expectations. He wasn’t dull or stiff. There was no script for him to read. He spoke to us as though we were genuine people with lives and issues of our own. Perhaps he was aware that some of us were returning home to chaos that we would never publicly acknowledge.
He arrived with stories every Thursday. Real stuff, not the frightful “this could be you” variety. regarding his brother becoming entangled in matters. He nearly left the academy around that time. About how he nearly failed to leave his community as well.
They snapped a photo with the school’s new sign, “Entering C.H.A.M.P.S. Territory,” at the conclusion of the program. After the picture, he drew me away, and I hardly paid attention.
“You have more going on than you let people see,” he observed. Don’t wait to be saved by someone else. You’re intelligent enough to operate it on your own.
I didn’t even respond since I was so stunned.
Then he gave me a little object, which at first glance didn’t appear significant.
Later that evening, however, I understood its true meaning.
And I haven’t disclosed it to anyone yet.
Deputy Harris handed me a small silver whistle on a keychain. There was something unique about this that made it look like one of those cheap carnival trinkets. The words “Sound Your Call” were engraved on the side. I initially believed it to be a simple motivational trick, the type of thing professors do to get you motivated without having you do anything worthwhile. However, it struck me more forcefully than I had anticipated when I sat by myself in my room that evening, flipping it over in my hands.
A deputy named Harris had spotted me. actually saw me. The true me, not simply the one I presented to the world—the reserved child who remained unnoticed because it was safer to blend in than to stand out. The person who was always worried about money, bills, and whether Mom would return home late and with a disappointed and cigarette-like odor. The person who always felt too little to try but had a strong desire to do something significant.
That tiny whistle came to represent everything I tried not to think about: accountability, bravery, and transformation. And even though I wasn’t really sure what it signified yet, I made the decision to keep it.
After a few weeks, things returned to their normal pace. Mom worked long hours, school dragged on, and I mostly used my leisure time to quietly complete my homework or assist her around the house. However, I would occasionally catch myself gazing at the whistle that was resting on my desk. Like it had unresolved business with me, it began to bug me. I eventually tucked it inside my pocket and took it to school one day during lunch.
I didn’t realize why until later that day.
I saw some children gathered close to the corner store as I made my way home from the bus stop. Even though they hardly recognized my existence and weren’t my buddies, their body language caused me to take notice. Malik, one of the boys, was yelling more loudly than the others. His fists were clenched tightly, and his face was flushed. A smaller, younger-looking child stood motionless before him, tears running down his cheeks.
Unsure of what to do, I also froze. I didn’t fight this. I didn’t even know these individuals well. I just wanted to carry on walking and act as though nothing had been noticed. However, as soon as my palm touched the whistle in my pocket, I heard Deputy Harris say, “Don’t wait for someone else to save you.”
I moved on before I could doubt myself. I cried out, my voice shaking, “Hey.” Everyone, even Malik, turned to stare at me. There was silence for a minute. Then Malik scoffed. “What are you looking for?”
I tried to sound bolder than I actually felt when I said, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever it is, it’s not worth it.” Don’t bother him.
Malik chuckled, but it was a sharp laugh. “Remember to mind your own business. No one questioned you.
I tightened my hold on the whistle in my pocket. I felt as though my heart may explode from the force of its beating. But rather than retreating, I advanced one more step. “Perhaps no one asked me,” I answered, startling even myself with how composed I now sounded. “But someone needs to speak up.”
I briefly feared that Malik would attack me. Instead, he walked away with the rest following him after shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. After giving me a wide-eyed look, the younger boy said, “Thanks,” and fled in the other direction.
I remained there for a while, panting, holding on to the whistle as if it had somehow saved my life. Perhaps it had.
News of what had happened, or at least a version of it, traveled swiftly. By Monday morning, it appeared that half of the school was aware that I had confronted Malik. Depending on how they were feeling, some individuals made fun of me by calling me bold or foolish. Others gave me respectful nods as if I had merited a badge of honor. To be honest, I didn’t give a damn. It was more important that I had taken action because it seemed right, not because I was trying to get attention.
Later following week, I was discovered at lunch by Deputy Harris. At first, he approached my table with a knowing smile but said nothing. At last he spoke in a forceful but gentle tone. “Heard you blowing the whistle.”
Confused, I blinked at him. “I did not blow it,”
He pulled up a chair and remarked, “You didn’t need to.” Sometimes we don’t hear the loudest noises we create. We take action on them.
After that, we spoke for a long about Malik, fear, and how taking a stand might occasionally result in rejection or mockery. He served as a reminder to me that courage is doing the right thing in spite of fear. He also said, “Marley, keep using that whistle before you go.” even if you’re only thinking about it.
In the months that followed, I began to see chances everywhere—to speak up, to lend a hand, to change things. Some were significant, such as participating in the peer mentorship program or volunteering at the community center. Others were minor, such as picking up rubbish in the park or consoling a distressed classmate. I kept the whistle with me every time, allowing it to serve as a reminder of the pledge I had made to myself as well as to Deputy Harris.
I got a letter in the mail one day, almost a year after the C.H.A.M.P.S. program concluded. It was written in Deputy Harris’s recognizable handwriting and addressed directly to me. Inside, he explained that he had been elevated to a leadership position in the department and thanked me for inspiring him, as he put it. A picture of him standing next to a brand-new sign outside the station that read “Sound Your Call Community Outreach Program” was attached to the letter.
As I read the note, my eyes welled with tears. Not only had Deputy Harris transformed my life, but I had also unintentionally influenced his. And I came to the stunning realization that courage is about making ripples that have the potential to become waves, not just about making noise.
We will always face obstacles in life, times that will try our will and force us to make a decision about our identity. Sometimes moving forward, even when it seems like the entire world is watching, is the bravest thing we can do. I learned from that little whistle that even the tiniest deeds may have a profound effect and that real power comes from having faith in our own abilities.
My challenge to you is to locate your whistle. Cling tenaciously to whatever it is that serves as a reminder of your ability to change the world. Use it frequently. And when you do, keep in mind that you’re altering yourself as well as the world.
Please tell someone who needs to hear this tale if it spoke to you. Let’s spread the word that everyone can experience courage and that we can all rise to the occasion. ❤️
