This is an adaptation of a shorter piece that I wrote earlier in the year. It was up for consideration for Voiceworks #86: Other, but the editors were looking for more extensive analysis and research to raise the credibility of my personal experience. I figure I might as well share it here.
I don't think I've ever told anyone this: When I was a young child, I had speech therapy. I expect this would come as a surprise to the people who know me—and perhaps also to those who have merely met me—since I speak articulately and eloquently (usually). I speak with no stammer, lisp, or impediment of any kind. And I never did.
Apparently I was too quiet, too withdrawn, and people thought there must be something wrong with me. They thought maybe the reason I didn't talk was that I couldn't. My parents knew this wasn't the case, but agreed to set me up with a speech therapist anyway—neither they nor I had anything to lose.
We worked through a sketchbook and some flash cards. It was like a game. I had to identify the objects or animals, speaking their name aloud, or work through the alphabet and phonemes (like "th" versus "f" sounds). Sometimes, I'd get to draw or colour in an illustration. Or we'd do some scrap-booking, and paste pictures from magazines or newspapers. The therapist tried to make it fun for me, which, in retrospect, was probably the only way she could be sure I'd respond. And everyone emphasised that it wasn't a big deal—when I asked about it for this piece, my dad barely even remembered that I had speech therapy at all.
The speech therapy didn't last long—only a handful of sessions. I could speak just fine—perhaps even better than many of my "normal" peers. So I was sent to a psychologist, who quickly determined there was nothing wrong with me whatsoever. She was a very nice lady, if a little eccentric. We talked about life and people, and how I felt in certain situations. She tried to ease my mind about dealing with anxiety when I was expected to be sociable. She minced no words talking to me, and said, in no uncertain terms—indeed, in much the same words I use here—"Fuck the world."
I needed to stop caring so much about what other people might think—something more-or-less drilled into me by the frequent talk about me rather than to me by people outside my immediate family. That just made things worse. If merely being around unfamiliar people makes you feel squeamish, having to cope with the thought that they think you're "weird" or "different" can be enough to set off a panic attack.
I'd get panic attacks when I needed to stand up in front of class, or when I had to talk to an adult, or when I thought I was in trouble at school, or even sometimes before meeting a friend. The pressure to be like the other kids, when it was plain to see that I wasn't—I was shy, quiet, withdrawn, and small, but also intelligent, aware, and observant—crippled me. Sometimes knowing isn't half the battle, but the war in its entirety. I knew how I'd be received, and I knew it'd hurt to be rejected because of uncertainty or hesitation on my part, but I didn't know how to act differently.
In the time it'd take to figure out the “correct” (that is, expected) response, I'd already have stumbled in the eyes of the adults present, and so would begin the questions, "What's wrong with him?" Of course, what they really meant was, "Is he retarded?" Because no "normal" child would stare back without saying a word to the scary, giant stranger looking down at them and demanding an immediate response to some unexpected or confusing question (usually in the presence of additional scary strangers who have turned to look and listen to the exchange).
Sometimes my mum would step in and speak for me, but that didn’t really help. It just deflected the problem and delayed the inevitable questions—which would now take a form more along the lines of, “Why do you always speak for him? Is there something wrong with him?” I imagined they also asked, “Is he slow?” But I never got to hear anyone being that blunt. I had to learn to speak for myself, and I had to learn to deal with new people. Sooner rather than later, I knew it would catch up to me.
I couldn't change who I was, though, and neither could my teachers or anyone else, so I took the psychologist's words to heart. I stopped caring if people thought I was weird, and the anxiety, the shyness, the awkwardness disappeared in front of anyone who bothered to give me a chance. If they'd let go of their fears and neuroses, I'd let go of mine. And we'd both be happy that neither is drawing attention to the other’s shortcomings—whether they be self-diagnosed or socially conditioned.
What got me thinking about this is The King's Speech, a film about King George VI’s efforts to overcome a stutter (amongst other things) in preparation for a radio address to the people of the British Commonwealth. It seems to me that many (perhaps even most) issues kids have—particularly the ones that last into adulthood—are thrust upon them by idiotic institutions and "professionals" —and sometimes family members—who should know better, and who insist that all "normal" children should be a certain way—act a certain way. But this is a load of crap. We all grow at different rates and in different ways, despite the expectations and influences of society.
I didn’t know before watching the film that King George VI was naturally left handed (like me). Amongst other childhood traumas, he was forced to switch his predominate handedness (unlike me, thanks to my mother's intervention), which contributed to his development of a stutter. He wasn't born with a stutter, but sure enough—and soon enough—he had one. Which makes me wonder: how many other "defects" are thrust upon us in childhood or needlessly magnified by negative childhood experiences?
By the same token, how many of these defects or faults can be overcome by just one person taking an interest in us as individuals—one person who looks past the outer flaw or blemish to take us for who we are. In an episode of Boston Public that I watched recently, a nerdy misfit with a terrible nervous stutter ran for student president, despite his mother's objection. Ridiculed and laughed at, he was all set to give up until one of the prettiest girls in the school—who happened to also be a fellow candidate—pulled him aside and said, "Don't you get it? We're all freaks." That we are.
It saddens me that so many people feel the need to mock and belittle those with more obvious afflictions. But it goes beyond that—people who look or act or speak in a noticeably different manner to others in the community get treated as being "different," when really they should be treated as themselves.
So fuck the world. Be true to yourself, and always try to let others do the same. After all, we're all freaks in one way or another.
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