Where do all the unspoken words, the things we never say, go? Sometimes it's a timid "hello?" butterflying in the stomach or a rampant "YAWP!" harnessed in the lungs, and, sometimes, it is a simple "thank you" trapped in the throat. Where do these words that we never manage to utter, the ones we never really mouth, reside?

As a child, I was notorious for the vein that would bulge from my forehead when my temper was inflamed. I remember following my older brothers and sister with my eyes as they walked down the gravel driveway and boarded the yellow school bus each morning. At age 4, all I wanted most in the world was to go to that magical place that Mary, Michael and Matthew referred to as "school," and I shouted after them every day to remind their principal to let me in! They only laughed and hollered back, "Believe us, Michelle, you don't want to go to school."

Unconvinced and angry, I held my breath and felt my face begin to boil over. "Ousai oy, look at that vein," my mother tsked. Reaching up to my temple, I felt it pulsating beneath my fingertip and I became convinced that all the words I ever wanted to scream and yell were throbbing there in that thing bursting from my forehead. I thought that someday, when I went to school, I would find the words to express how I felt and I wouldn't have to hold my breath anymore.

As a 4-year-old, I thought that I would find the words to truly express how I felt when I went to school, but all I have learned is that sometimes words fail us. My parents have sacrificed so much for me. No words, in English or Vietnamese, could even begin to express my appreciation. In my family, we never say "I love you" to each other. Not because we don't feel it, but because it's understood. If you were to ever come visit me in Kansas, you might be confused at first because my family has sort of developed our own language-something between Vietnamese, English and just plain body language. In fact, my friends often tease me about my excessive use of hand gestures and facial expressions to get words across, but it's just something that remains with me from childhood. It comes from striving to explain American customs and traditions to my parents, but lacking the vocabulary in Vietnamese to express them. In light of my middle name Thi, which means poem in Vietnamese, I think Robert Frost explained it best when he said that "Poetry is what is lost in translation."

Entering the front lawn of the Academy from the class of 1910 gate, one sees a tree, the first really substantial one on the righthand side, with a knot in its trunk that bears a striking resemblance to a skull. It caught my attention that first week of prep year because it looks so much like a head emerging from the woodwork. In a similar way to veins, it bulges from the rest of the tree, and over the past four years whenever I happen to pass it, I like to tap it lightly. At Exeter, it has been my secret place-a place to put the words I have left unsaid, in this part of the tree which looks like it should have a branch, but doesn't because then it would be blocking the path. Especially on my Sunday morning walks, I like to tap it on my way back to Langdell and think about how much I love my family and friends-everything and everyone in the world.

In my first week, I worked hard at learning the names and ages of the 100 kids and their parents who lived in Vista Nueva, a residential facility for formerly homeless families in which at least one parent is also coping with mental illness. I struggled to remember who belonged to whom, but that came in time. The building welcomed me. My charge for the summer was to create activities for the children, so we took trips to the library and the zoo and spent time doing crafts and playing games. I helped them with their homework, making up lessons to better their understanding of math concepts and improve their reading skills.

One afternoon, I was sitting with Billy- a 4th-grade boy who was failing math and reading and who risked being held back a year-helping him with his homework. As he began to understand the concepts, I excitedly told him I was sure he'd be headed for MIT soon. He asked me what MIT was. I told him it was a college, and he looked at me in puzzled disbelief.

"College? I'm not going to college."

I asked him why not.

"Because . . . my momma can't pay for college."

Again and again, whenever I mentioned college, or becoming a lawyer, or a doctor, kids as young as 5 all had the same response: "Yeah, right. My mom doesn't have that kind of money." I tried to show them it wasn't hopeless. I showed the older kids community resources for college planning and scholarship programs. I made sure all the kids I worked with knew that I had an unshakable faith in them. I continued to work with Billy every day after school all summer, insisting that he could do everything he was asked to do. His mother began coming to the office, sometimes tearing with pride, to show me the spelling tests that he was acing and even sometimes getting extra credit for when he got the challenge words right.

At the end of the summer, the families I had been working with threw me a surprise goodbye party. I was moved by all the people who came and wrote me cards. But the two nicest surprises came as I was emptying my desk after the party. The first was when Billy came running into my office, beaming. He had received all Cs and one B on his report card. His teacher wrote a note at the bottom saying that he was showing a renewed interest in learning and that she had high hopes for his continued improvement. Then, right before I went home, my supervisor informed me that Tyrenzanai-an 11-year-old girl who had given me one of the most cyncial "yeah, right" responses a few weeks earlier when I asked about college and beyond-had told her mother that she had decided she wanted to do well in school and become a psychiatrist so she could help people.

When I heard that, I remembered how powerful it can be when individuals join together to improve the world. Somewhere between age 7 and 17, I had forgotten that while I could not single-handedly save the world from all its problems, I could be part of something larger than me. I daydream about Tyrenzanai now, imagining her in her late 20s, working in a hospital with people suffering from the same illnesses she sees her mother and neighbors struggling with now. I see her reaching out, letting patients know that she has faith in them. I think about how many lives she may touch, how many people she may inspire to go out and help others. Those hundred children at Vista Nueva are only a minuscule portion of the children living in low-income families whose lives are affected by mental illness. But if I played even the smallest part in inspiring just one of them to go out into their futures with confidence, ready to make their own positive impact on the world, then that number increases exponentially. And when people join together, great changes can occur.