I learned to speak

At 6 months

My mom tells the story.

I was playing with her shirt buttons.

Babbling, I blurted,

“Button”

Everyone was amazed.

That a babe,

So young,

Could say something

So clear.


I didn't talk again that year.




I was five.

Just one line in my class Easter play.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bauter,

Jesus didn't stay dead. He came alive again.”

12 words

And trepidation.

I stumbled off the stage, sobbing.

At the first grade speech meet

I stammered through an entire chapter from Isaiah.

Still not quite sure

How I managed that one.

I didn’t talk again that year.


I developed a stutter.

A stutter that would, will, haunt me

Every day of my life.

At first, just a whisper,

My tongue became unruly,

Progressively more painful

As the words became tangled

Caught deep, here, inside

Forcing me to hide

My thoughts, my feelings

My childhood pride.

I didn’t want to talk again that year



In fourth grade my exasperation

Grew. We were assigned this presentation

I spent months working on it.

I practiced..and practiced..and practiced, but,

Speaking,

I broke down.

Crying, I stumbled from the room.

Terrified of tripping over the words.

Scowling, my teacher confronted me,

“Fourth graders don’t cry.”

I still do.

I never wanted to talk that year



Speech therapy two times week.

Breathing exercises and enunciation, e-nun-ci-a-tion. Enunciation!

God, I said that so many times.

Standing up at the school geography bee

I began to fret, bitter tears, disqualified.

I suffered as student, by student, by student

Was eliminated to questions I knew the answers to.

They gave me a “participation” ribbon.

My younger brother scrawled in his journal

“It was the most embarrassing moment in my life.”

I didn’t blame him.

I wish I never talked that year



Poetry and I first met in middle school.

I was hesitant, but she grew on me.

We chose our favorite poems to recite aloud.

I chose mine and stuttered…the very first line.

A classmate mocked me, st-st-stuttering, and I started to cry.

If you’re noticing a pattern, that’s okay.

I once wrote a story, 17 pages long.

I worked on it for a month, carefully choosing my words,

Crafting details to make a harrowing tale bound to entice my readers.

When asked to share our stories, I raised my hand.

Could someone else read it aloud?

I didn’t want to strip the words from my masterpiece with my stumbling voice.

The story when unshared.

I hated talking that year


An awkward freshman boy,

I garnered the courage to ask this girl

“Will, will, will you go to the dance with me.”

She laughed in my face and walked away.

Friends had pushed, “The worst she can do is say no.”

God, were they wrong.

Yet, those same friends still push me

If not to overcome, then to welcome

The rhythm and cadence of who I am.

Older, more confident, my stutter wanes.

Hiding behind the speech I give today.

I’m glad I talk this year