#That one stuttering song full#

вЂњItвЂ™s an annual conference for people who stutter-itвЂ™s always held at some big hotel in a cool city. HeвЂ™d made so many friends through the organization, he said, and he offhandedly mentioned someone heвЂ™d met at вЂњthe conference.вЂќ Hope.ДЇinally he talked about the NSA-its hundreds of chapters, decades of advocacy, and extensive offering of events and programs. This was the opening of a portal, the discovery of a possible future. Even in adulthood, he shared my frustrations and anxieties, but he still seemed so adjusted. The self-portrait that Dan painted offered an alternative. I no longer saw just myself in Dan, but a path forward. Tears now spilled conspicuously from my eyes, but I didnвЂ™t care-this was big. He was employed and loved and appreciated-all things he thought impossible when he was my age-with a calendar punctuated by NSA meetings and get-togethers with members. Then Dan described his own life, anchored by a rewarding job, a prestigious masterвЂ™s program, a wonderful marriage, and a new house.

In a year, IвЂ™d be off to college-what then? Disfluency would doom my grades, internship interviews, potential friendships. The adult world, of which I was on the precipice of entering, wouldnвЂ™t accommodate me. Until I met Dan, I saw disfluent speech as an immutable barrier not just to success but to normalcy. Yet here he was, unfazed and unashamed to admit that his life looked a lot like mine. It was too embarrassing to say out loud and too absurd to earn anyoneвЂ™s empathy. IвЂ™d also given fake names to baristas, been hung up on by receptionists, nearly thrown up when asked to introduce myself even in the most mundane situations. In Dan, I saw myself reflected back in uncanny detail. He recounted giving fake names at Starbucks the insurance agent who hung up on him because she thought the call dropped when he paused between words ordering a meal he didnвЂ™t even want because it was easier to say the chest-cracking panic he felt when a realtor benignly asked, вЂњWhat was your name again?вЂќ I didnвЂ™t realize I was crying until I felt a tear slide warm down my cheek. This had never happened before, and he was sorry I couldnвЂ™t meet some of the regulars for my first meeting, but I could meet the gang next month.ДЇirst, he told me about his stutter. Tonight, he said, was a strange anomaly: All the regular attendees-there were usually between six and twelve of them-had canceled.

#That one stuttering song full#

In this space, they found commiseration and counsel, a room full of people who talked like them, who listened with rare understanding. The chapter met once a month for two hours to talk about what was important to them-challenges theyвЂ™d faced, victories theyвЂ™d claimed. In a warm, Southern rhythm he asked, вЂњAre you here for the support group?вЂќДan introduced himself as the group leader of our local chapter of the National Stuttering Association (NSA). At a large oval table sat a lone man with bright orange hair and dark-rimmed glasses. IвЂ™ll let you know.вЂќДЄt the designated hour, I arrived at a squat brick building on the campus of my local state college and entered a small, muggy room.

Two nights later, car keys in hand, I told my mom, вЂњIвЂ™m going somewhere to do something that could be really great or not. Whatever it was that I entered into Google-probably some combination of вЂњstutterвЂќ and вЂњhelpвЂќ-the very first search result was promisingly actionable. I was going to stutter the rest of my life, and I saw no way in which that life could be a good one.

Despite years of speech therapy, I still stuttered as much and as noticeably as ever. I donвЂ™t remember exactly what I typed into the search bar I only remember being seventeen and hopeless. This is dis/fluent, a column by Sophia Stewart on stuttering, self-understanding, and disability in private and public spheres.