I, too, have a voice.
But, nobody notices. Stuttering is a private occupation. I live to repeat and block words. I am not hesitant, but brave enough to take the leap down the rabbit hole of speech tangents. I ask for more time on the clock because that one word takes an eternity to utter. The stutters distract, confuse and bore the crowd to tears. A brief speech is all I have to offer.
Stuttering is my challenge, my coming of age gift. It’s that abyss of syllables that I cross, full of twists and surprises. When I open my mouth to utter my name, what I want to say never seems to come out the right way. I may not reach the moon with it, but I do land among the stars. It is my gift, not my struggle. A weakness draped in strength. Pronouncing my name out loud is one slippery vocation. It stumbles, mumbles and jumbles. I’m going there, but don’t ask me to slow down. Slowing down leads to a block…and a repetition until I apologize for just being me.
I s-s-s-tutter, but I do have a voice. A voice as fluid as a flowing ballerina in an ice rink. Listen, listen to the words beating themselves through the shaky yet resilient vocal drums. There is no cure to mend those broken blocks and the frustrations that well inside but there’s a lifelong will decluttering each day’s stutter.