Six weeks ago I resigned from my position at Outspoken. Since then I’ve been thinking more about the other moments that have shaped me along the way. Maybe it’s because I know I’m in the middle of A Moment right now – after all, saying “yes” to any of the offers on the table will change my course – but this is also the first time I’ve been unemployed since I was a recent college grad. And while eight years later my situation and my circumstances are (thankfully) quite different, it seems inevitable that the memories from that time would creep back.

And they have.

We all have those moments of consequence, those defining stories that, when you put them together, create your story and your lens. It’s your job to remember them. Even if at the time all you want to do is forget.

I remember sitting in an oversized green chair at that Starbucks in Camarillo, CA waiting to meet her.

I remember staring at my resume, staring at my references, and staring back at the floor, in loop.

I remember trying to convince myself that I deserved this help.

Then my case worker walked through the door. I had a case worker now.

Her name was Pat and she was with the Department of Rehabilitation Services, an agency that provides advocacy for people with disabilities and helps them become employed in their communities. She was warm and genuine. She was my case worker. She was going to help.

Pat ran through the standard set of introductions, seemingly careful not to stray from her state-mandated script. While she did that, I thought of everything it had taken me to get here. The two years of driving across LA and surrounding areas for unsuccessful interviews. Prospective employers who openly laughed when I couldn’t get the words out. Assistants who hung up on me when I called. The abusive boss I had who told me I should complain less because I had no other option but to work for him.

I was in this Starbucks to prove them wrong. And to prove myself right. That I could do more.

Once Pat finished, it became my turn to introduce myself. I went through my own script while she followed along on the intake application she had in her hand.

My name is Lisa Barone. I’m living in Ventura, CA but I’m originally from the East Coast. My family, friends, and everything I know is still back there.

I moved out to Los Angeles before the ink on my journalism degree from Emerson College was dry. Things weren’t great back home. I can’t go back.

I have a stutter that I believe is impacting my ability to find quality employment. I know that it is illegal for someone not to hire me based on my speech, but it is happening.

I currently work for a man who sells vinyl records out of his home. I clean, list, and ship records. I also vacuum his house, do his dishes, dust, and perform other tasks I don’t believe are in my job description.

The fact that I am in this Starbucks is a testament to how out of options I am and how badly things have gotten. I had never identified as disabled or handicapped before. No one had ever informed me that I was legally disabled until a college professor forced me to register as such to pass her class. She didn’t sign my name on that dotted line, but she printed out the form and gave me the pen. When authority is abused it can be hard to spot.

By walking into that Starbucks, I was again admitting to a disability.

Back in the moment, Pat congratulated me on taking a bold first step toward finding a position I deserved. She then handed me a packet that would be our game plan. It outlined the steps we’d take together and the steps she would take on my behalf to serve as my advocate. It felt good to have someone on my team. Before we could officially get started, I’d have to visit her office to sign some paperwork.

A few weeks later I ventured in to see her. We huddled together at a small round table while she read the forms that I was to sign. I remember that she laughed nervously and apologized in advance. She said that while many of the forms “wouldn’t apply to my situation” I was required to sign them anyway. For legal reasons. It was standard procedure.

She apologized again.

On this day I was asked to sign forms promising that:

• I would not bite people in my new office.
• I would not become physical aggressive with my coworkers
• I would not throw or break things.
• I would not have tantrums.
• I would remember to groom myself and to shower regularly.
• I would wear deodorant and appropriate clothing.

Two years earlier I had graduated with honors from one of the best journalism schools in the country. Now I was facing a moment of consequence - reject the dehumanization happening or silently consent.

Even in that moment I recognized I was being given a second chance to take back the rights I handed over to that professor years earlier. Back then, I should have voluntarily failed the class. I should have stood up for myself and my own rights. I should have been my own advocate. But I wasn’t. I consented like she knew I would. Here I could make a different choice.

But I didn’t.

Instead of asking for what I needed -- to hold on to my dignity through this process -- I signed the form. And then I smiled at my case worker, thanked her for her time, and walked out of the building with shoulders sunk.

By the time I reached the parking lot I knew it was too late. I would never again walk into that building or allow them to help me. I wouldn't allow anyone else to help me. I knew how they saw me.

Luckily, I got a break.

Soon after, I was called in for an interview with an SEO company located in Simi Valley, California. My case worker asked if I wanted her to contact the company before my interview and “explain my situation”. I asked her not to and I opted to interview blind. Two weeks later, I was notified I had the job. Two seconds after that I informed my old boss that I would be leaving. Because I could do better.

I would do better.

As I sit here contemplating what will come next after resigning from a perfectly profitable company, I won’t pretend that these fears and these moments aren’t still with me. They are. A small part of me is terrified. But the larger part of me knows that we all have to act as our own advocates and fight for the things we need, when we need them. Even when it’s hard. Maybe especially then. That’s what I’m doing.

I’ve received a lot of messages from people over the past couple of weeks congratulating me on leaving what was comfortable and comments they wish they could do the same thing. You can. Maybe for you that doesn’t mean quitting your job and taking on an unknown future. But I guarantee you it does mean identifying what you need and advocating for yourself. We should all be doing that. Just because someone hands you the pen doesn’t mean you can't draw your own damn picture, whatever it may be.

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If you haven't watch Ze Frank's An Invocation for Begninners, carve out three minutes of your day and do so. There aren't too many pure voices left out there on the Web. But Ze's is one of them. And I couldn't be happier that he's back making videos. And I couldn't be happier that he's made this video. Watch it and then be it.  

I've transcribed some highlights below, things that stabbed me in the chest and stayed with me.  I'm sure you'll find your own soundbytes. But only if you're smart enough to hit play.

"Let me think about the people who I care about the most. And when they fail or disappoint me I still love them, I still give them chances, and I still see the best in them. Let me extend that generosity to myself."

"Let me find and use metaphors to help me understand the world around me and give me the strength to get rid of them when its apparent they no longer work." 

"Let me thank the parts of me that I don't understand or are outside my rational control like my creativity and my courage. And let me remember that my courage is a wild dog. It won't just come when I call it. I have to chase it down and hold on as tight as I can."

"Let me remember that the unintended meaning that people project onto what I do is neither my fault or something I can take credit for." 

"Let me remember that the impact of criticism is often not the intent of the crtitic. But when the intent is evill, that's what the block button is for." 

"Let me not think of my work only as a stepping stone to something else. And if it is, let me become fascinated with the shape of the stone."

"There is no need to sharpen my pencils anymore. My pencils are sharp enough. Even the dull ones will make a mark."

"And, God, let me enjoy this. Life isn't just a sequence of waiting for things to be done. "

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It was the summer of 2008 when I received that first email from Rick Calvert. He was working to put together a Blogging for SEO panel at the second-ever Blogworld. Lee Odden had been tasked with casting it and, somehow, my name came up as a possible speaker. It wasn’t the first time I had ever been asked to speak at an industry conference, but it was the first conference where I wanted to say yes. And that presented a problem.

Or, more accurately, it presented a meltdown. Because at that point in my career no one knew that I stuttered.

My initial reaction was that I wanted to do it. That this was the right opportunity and the right audience. But before I could agree to the panel, I felt it was only right to let both Rick and Lee know about my speech difficulties and to make sure they were comfortable with it. To their credit, neither one of them blinked.

Unfortunately, I did.

I told them I wanted to think it over.

And I really did think it over. I consulted with close friends and colleagues and asked for their advice. Most told me to go for it. That I’d be great. That people could benefit from what I had to share. Two people told me to let it pass. That I wasn’t ready. That I needed to start smaller. That they didn’t think I was ready for the comments that would surely come about the girl who can’t talk.

And because it’s easier to listen to the people who confirm your fears than those who challenge you to break them, I chose not to speak.

Three years later, I still haven’t.

It’s assumed that I haven’t spoken because I’m embarrassed. Or ashamed. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. For me, being ashamed of the voice I was given, something that is so a part of me and that has shaped me, would be a waste of my time. It would also be majorly ridiculous.

My “fear” of speaking was and always has been concern for the audience. As I discussed in a podcast interview a few months ago, I’ve chosen not to speak because I’ve never wanted to be the one that takes away from a conference. I recognize that people are there to learn about marketing or SEO or blogging, they’re not there to be educated about stuttering. My fear was that someone would spend thousands of dollars to attend a conference and then feel disappointed if they weren’t able to comprehend the information I was giving or if it took me longer to say it than it would someone else. So I’ve always opted to step aside, to lets others share, and to save my thoughts for the blog.

But that doesn’t feel right anymore. It doesn’t feel right to keep missing opportunities.

And when I say that, I don’t mean opportunities to become an “expert” or a “leader” or whatever the cool kids are trying to become these days. I’m missing opportunities to connect with people and to do what I love to do more than anything – to tell stories. To start conversations. And to do it with the folks that are asking me to on sites like Twitter or Facebook or at the shows I’ve previously always turned down.

So I’ve made the decision to speak.

Do I have panic attacks just thinking about it? Yes.

Do I know that there will be loud voices angry that I’ve been put on that stage? Yes.

But fear is a pretty shitty reason for not becoming what you could be. And it’s hard to be too scared when you have people like Rick Calvert in your corner. Or Ric Dragon. Or Shane Ketterman. Or any of the people who have been monumental in pushing me toward this decision (and there have been many of you).

In a few months things will come full circle when I speak at BlogWorld on the Content Creation track and then come home to immediately take the stage and present at TedxAlbany. I wish I could tell you that when I present at BlogWorld my stutter will be gone and that I will hit it out of the park. That the audience will leave in tears amazed at my strength and true brilliance. That it will be some kind of defining moment for everyone and that Disney will make a movie about my glorious triumph (I've always wanted to be a princess!).

But that’s probably not what’s going to happen.

Because unlike what The King’s Speech tried to tell you, in real life stutterers don’t master their speech in time for the war-time speech. They simply choose to take control of it. It’s my hope that when I speak at BlogWorld and TedxAlbany to share the stories that I have prepared that you’ll find value in them, and that you’ll find that my unique struggles make me more qualified to talk about voice, not less. That’ll you’ll see the content, not the struggle. But if you don’t and if you’d prefer to hear from someone who speaks more fluent, that’s fine too and I completely understand. I don’t mind chatting with the people who do want to listen, regardless of how small that number may be.

I’m sure as both BlogWorld and TedxAlbany come closer I’ll have a lot more to say and share on this topic but the above is a start.

I’m speaking now because I want to start telling stories instead of just writing about them. So that’s what I’m going to do.

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While I’m focused on separating the soggy label from my beer on a visit home, my dad recounts my childhood stories. Conjured up is Liz Farkas (my once-best friend), John Matthews (the boy who promised to marry me at 5), but then he mentions one story I wasn’t expecting.

“Remember when you stole thousands of dollars from me and moved to California?”

My beer shatters hitting the concrete.

You have to know that this isn’t the man I grew up with. Age and disease have given him a kindness and a light in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

Growing up, my dad was the type to hit, break, and ask questions later. When you have money, the hole in the wall is a remodel. It’s that you wanted a new television, not that it shattered at the bottom of the stairs. Money makes rationalizing easy. So easy that you don’t notice the nervous wife or the three shaking children behind her.

But we always stayed. Like many abused women, my mother didn’t work and had been cut off from friends since before I was born. I’d sit with her on the couch as she’d rock herself back and forth in the dark. She’d cry for her freedom, always calling him by his first name. As a child, that’s how I learned to separate them – Frank and daddy. When I reached my teens, the lesson she was giving seemed obvious: If she had money, we could have left. Money made you safe.

So I became a hoarder.

My mission became storing as much money as I could. Luckily, Frank used money to control us – in life and in menial tasks.

$10 for eating dinner at the table like a family.

$5 to get the morning paper.

$2 to put the milk back in the fridge.

Looking back, had I devised my plan earlier, I’d be retired now. But all I wanted was an exit strategy.

The plan was to save my father’s money and use it to leave after college. Avoid getting stuck.

First, I needed a place to store the money I was saving. The pink metallic cash box that sat on my dresser wouldn’t work. Too obvious. I needed something a nosy little brother wouldn’t notice. I grabbed a white envelope from my father’s desk drawer, scribbled GOOJF in permanent marker, and hid it under a piece of loose carpet in my closet.

The Get Out Of Jail Fund was born.

From then on, every time my father gave me money, I’d do the best I could not to spend it. If I got $20 to see a movie - $11 went to the movie, the rest to the GOOJF. The money he’d give me for a new outfit or a CD? GOOJF. Easter money, birthday money, Valentine’s money, Christmas money, Dad’s In A Good Mood money – Saved.

The hoarding continued in college, though it became more difficult. Sure, I got the occasional check to make sure I wasn’t starving, but I was 4 hours away and not around for the day-to-day stuff. Checks were also harder to hide. Since I had set up a checking account before 18, my parents had access. I didn’t think my father would check, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d deposit the check and then withdraw small amounts over time, just in case.

Halfway through my junior year, the money stopped. My father had become suspicious of the boy I was dating in California and feared I’d save up and leave. I didn’t tell him I planned to move west once I finished school, but he knew. He believed that if he didn’t give me money, I’d be forced to move back home. Back with him.

So for a year and a half, I spent nothing.

When I graduated, it became time. I sat with my father and told him of my plans to leave. I thought maybe he’d be proud; instead his lip just went thin, just like it always did before he struck.

He had just five words:

“I’m not paying for it.”

But he had.

When no one was watching, I had saved just over $7,000, five dollars at a time, straight from his hand. It would be enough to buy the one-way ticket to California, a car, and to start a whole new life on my own terms.

I had gotten out.

And though Frank was angry, my dad, the man seated across the table now, looks decidedly proud telling the tale.

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Five days in New York City and my body, my brain and my mind need a break. Summoned down for business, I’m heading back to Albany fresh out of firm handshakes and forced smiles. I grab my bags, exit the Hilton on 6th, and hail a cab a few blocks away from the hotel congestion. This isn’t my first rodeo and I need to get out of here. Almost instantly, a cab stops.

“P-penn station, please”

I slink into the backseat low enough so I can no longer see my driver in his rearview mirror. It’s easier for me to turn off if I can pretend he’s not there. I let out what I’m sure is an audible sigh. He surprises me by responding:

“Do you know that you’re blessed?”

Please, not now, I think. He repeats himself.

“Do you know that you’re blessed?”

“Yes? I mean…What?” “Are you familiar with the story of Moses?”

Three years at St. Anthony’s High School on Long Island, memories of spirited debates in Mr. Kelley’s 7th period Theology class and one itchy Confirmation dress remind me that I am familiar.

Moses is the stuttering prophet. I’ve been discovered.

But I lie and say I’m not. Because I believe when someone has a story they want to tell you – you let them tell it.

His eyes light up as he recounts the Old Testament. In Exodus 4:10, after the Lord tells Moses to free the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, Moses looks toward the Lord and speaks, “unto the LORD, O my Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue.”

Though the Lord trusts Moses to deliver His message, Moses does not trust himself. The Lord tells him he may bring his brother Aaron to speak to the Israelites on his behalf.

My brothers would have told me to shove it, I think.

I’ve adjusted myself at this point and the driver smiles through his rearview mirror for the grand finale, delivering it like a math equation.

Moses was blessed by the Lord with a tied tongue. And so were you. You are blessed!

I smile. Say thank you. I’m used to being preached at, but I get the feeling he really means it.

===

Back in Albany, I have a message from my mother’s best friend. Growing up, Alice was the woman I wanted to become. She was strong, had a voice, and stood up for herself. As a child, she promised me I’d get out from my father’s rule and I promised I’d dedicate my first book to her. But that was then. It’s been years since we’ve spoken.

Delirious, I assume Alice is calling to talk about her daughter’s upcoming wedding. A year apart, we were raised sisters, though I haven’t seen her since my failed engagement five years ago.

I guessed wrong.

Alice tells me about her granddaughter, Emma. At age three, she’s showing signs of stuttering. First she’d stumble over a few words, but now she can barely speak and covers her mouth when she feels stuck. I hear the grief in Alice’s voice. The fear that her granddaughter would be teased, that she wouldn’t date, that she’d never lead a normal life. She had many questions (Do I know anyone who can help her? Is there a program?), but really, she had just one:

How can she fix her?

I did my best to reassure someone who had always reassured me. Emma will be fine. Seventy-five percent of children show signs of stuttering, but grow out of it. Even if this is more severe, the window for language doesn’t close until age 10. Address it now and the odds are in her favor. She’s not ruined.

Inside, I wonder why she’s coming to me. If she viewed her granddaughter as broken, she views me the same. Had she always believed that or is the reality of the situation just hitting her? Did she respect or pity me? Am I her worst case scenario?

This isn’t the time to ask.

Emma will likely outgrow her stuttering. But if not, she will grow up blessed. Blessed with a unique voice, an unrivaled sense of compassion, and chance encounters with people, like my cab driver, who want nothing more than to gently remove her hand from her mouth and remind her of her superpowers. Emma won’t need to rely on a brother, which is fortunate, since brothers are otherwise pretty useless.

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Last week Twitter bud Ryan Knot sent me this video. In it, TED speaker Sharon Emery talks about the disabled listener and how the reaction of a fluent speaker (I like to call them “show offs” ;)) can impact a stutterer’s speech and the size of our voice, without the other person ever realizing it.

Please watch.

If you don’t stutter, you probably just winced your way through that. If you are a Person Who Stutters (PWS), you giggled. Because you know. There’s a lot I could and would like to say regarding that video, but I thought I’d start with this:

I have no interest in playing the role of The Stuttering Friend in the Lifetime movie of your life. And I’ll stop talking to you if you try and make me. :)

I’m told often that I’m “brave” or “courageous” because I speak in spite of disfluency. To me that’s not bravery. Brave is my father learning to walk on two prosthetic legs at the age of 65. That’s pretty gutsy. I’m just using the voice that I have. Same as you. There’s not really a livable alternative if you think about it.

I think that’s one common misconception that people have about stuttering. The idea that because I speak differently that it’s some great feat that I do or that I surely must view myself as disabled. I don’t, I never have, and I’d kick myself if I did. I don’t need fluent speech; I need you to listen to me.

And that tends to be difficult for some fluent speakers. It’s not your fault. You probably don’t even realize that you’re staring at the floor instead of me when I speak, it just happened. Because you were uncomfortable. Or you weren’t sure what was right or wrong to do. It’s a natural reaction. I get that. And it’s okay. You shouldn’t feel badly about it.

Lots of people in my life have commented that they wish I would have told them how to respond sooner. That, perhaps, some tips would have come in handy so they wouldn’t have embarrassed themselves. It’s not something I would have ever thought to do but…okay. Below are some rules for dealing with a stutterer. I hope it helps. 

Rule 1: Please don’t finish my sentence: I can’t imagine what it feels like to be you. What it must feel like to watch someone struggle to finish a word, to gasp for air, and to not be able to do anything to help them. Finishing my sentence must feel like the most humane thing in the world to do. But I need you to let me do it. You finishing my thought reinforces the idea that I need you to help me speak. That I don’t have my own voice. I do. And it’s this one. Let me use it.

Also, if you try and guess my thought and get it wrong then we have to start over. You probably have dinner plans you’d like to make.

Rule 2: Eye contact is crucial: Without sounding like your father – look at me when I’m talking to you. I know it’s difficult. I know it may be uncomfortable. But I need you to. It tells me you’re listening, that you haven’t gotten bored, and that you remember I’m still standing here. I’m putting up a lot of energy trying to get these words out. Just give me a sign you’re tuned in. Otherwise I may start stuttering harder on purpose to keep you here. Okay, I won’t really do that.  

Rule 3: I stutter; I’m not deaf or dumb: You don’t need to yell or draw out your words. My hearing is fine. We don’t need to both make spectacles of ourselves, k?  

Rule 4: If you didn’t understand me, don’t pretend you did: I realize that sometimes when I stutter on a word, it may become harder for you to understand what I just said. This is normal and it’s not your fault. It’s not even my fault. It’s just one of those things. If you didn’t understand me, please ask me to repeat it. Do not pretend that you did. Not only is it kind of rude to pretend we’re having a conversation we’re not, it reduces the odds that you’ll ask me the same questions five minutes later. Because then I’ll really know you didn’t understand me. Awkward!

Rule 5: Don’t tell me to “relax” or “take a breath”: My parents had a family friend who would put his hand over my mouth when I stuttered and advise me to take a breath. No. I’m serious. He’d even take an exaggerated breath first allowing me to mimic him in case I had forgotten how, in fact, I was supposed to breathe. He doesn’t come to the house much anymore.

Rule 6: Don’t offer a disclaimer about me: An old friend would offer a disclaimer to people before they met me. For example, if she knew I was about to meet someone I hadn’t met before, she’d drop them a line or give them a call to let them know that “Lisa stutters…” Again, completely well-intentioned, but also kind of asinine if you think about it. Also doesn’t say too much about the people you hang out with if they need to be warned not to stone me on sight.

Rule 7: Have a question about my stuttering? Ask: This stutter? This is my entire life. I mean, the stutter isn’t, but funny situations like this are. If you have a question or want to know something – just ask. You have my word I will not break out in tears, I will not call you rude and I will not walk away. It actually empowers me when I get to talk about it and open up about what my life is like. Because while it’s different, I like who it’s made me and I have some AWESOME stories about getting hung up on, people thinking I was shivering, and interesting encounters with drunks at bars. I’d love to tell you about them so you can laugh too. Preferably over a beer.

The TL:DR version of what’s above is pretty simple: Focus on what I’m saying, not how I’m saying it. And if you want to know something – ask. In return, I promise to give you the same respect which means speaking to you instead of at your giant nose/zit/weird eye/etc. It’s the least I can do.

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My father lives confined to the surgical bed in my parent’s den. A tough existence for anyone, but harder for someone who once ruled Barone Manor with sharp suits and an iron fist. A father who was always loved by his children but, if we’re being honest, they were also smart to fear. 

But that was then. Before a disease got the edge. Today, suits have been replaced by undershirts and he only leaves the house via the ambulance that carts him to dialysis. If you knew him then, you barely recognize him now.

Seven years ago my father lost his left leg, toe-by-toe, to diabetes. He’s spent the last eight months restricted to his at-home surgical bed fighting to save his right leg. Despite staying off it as ordered, the foot is dying from lack of oxygen; it’s becoming septic. The doctors haven’t told him yet, but he knows. We all know. It’s time to save his life and take the other leg. But he’s vowed he’ll die before he sees it happen. Content to avoid the conversation and the anger, the doctors, for now, pretend there are alternatives.

In town for a few days, I visit my parents. My mother and I powwow in the kitchen out of earshot to talk options. When terms like “nursing home”, “rehab” and “long-term solutions” are discussed, I poke my head around the corner to watch him. He looks defenseless, childlike even, chewing his shirt, talking to the people on TV and riffling through his “camp bag” – the blue tote that holds his books and movies for dialysis. He catches me watching him and waves his stump hello like an elephant maneuvering its trunk.

It used to turn my stomach. Now I can’t help but smile.

On good days, my dad is playful. On bad ones, he’s angry. But on all days, I am his Favorite. His only daughter sandwiched between sons, I am his constant defender and his champion. I send him my recent press clippings, knowing he uses them to flirt with the hospital nurses and to fight for his choice of prime dialysis chairs.

Noticing his good mood, I grab his Jet Checkers set and challenge him to a game.

“I won’t let you win”, he says.

Checkers is a new ritual for us. The game gets his mind going and sparks conversations we don’t have otherwise. As we play, my dad talks. As his daughter, I listen, storing his lessons over time.

He tells me:

• We are Italian, which means you must marry Italian – at least 75 percent or it doesn’t count. Your first child will be named Frankie, a sign of respect for your father.
• When I die, take care of your mother and your brothers. You’re the strong one. You get that from me. You get your nose and feet from me, too. No one’s perfect.
• Start an IRA now. You should have started it five years ago, but you don’t listen. Who knows what the future will hold? Health doesn’t last forever, kid, and you have to be prepared.
• Don’t root for the Red Sox. You were raised a Met fan. There’s nothing more important in life than loyalty.
• Learn to make sauce from scratch. And rice balls. That’s how you keep a husband.
• Stay beautiful. Your mother caught me by shaking her ass. Worked well for her.
• Make your own money, but don’t become too independent. Let him think you need him, even if you don’t. Especially if you don’t. Money makes the rules, but you need someone to open the jars.
• Don’t change your last name when you get married. You’re Frank Barone’s girl. That means something.
• I don’t care how much you like him, if I catch you living with him, I’ll kill you. If I catch you giving him those eyes, I’ll kill you both.
• Always call on Election Day so I can tell you who to vote for. Don’t vote for a woman.
• Travel the world; start now. You may not have time later.
• Trust your daddy above anyone else. And visit more. I won’t be around forever.

The Checkers game we’re both pretending to play is up. Despite his shameless cheating, my father’s backed himself into a corner, opening up a triple jump play. One move and I sweep the board.

“Let me win or get nothing when I die.”

I smile, make my move, crush him. Never show weakness. Another lesson from my dad and I know he wouldn't want it any other way.  

[In March 2011, my father lost his battle to save a useless leg, but regained his freedom. Today he's back to ruling Barone Manor – this time with the help of a red mobility scooter that he goes "off-roading" with in our backyard to command over the peach trees. Interrupted, perhaps, but never defeated.

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As I mentioned last week I was asked to read my piece The King and Us, Myth and All as part of the Bookmark series that took place during Troy Night Out.  My friend and follow unicorn Pam was kind enough to film it for me.  If you're interested, check it out below.

Overall, the experience was a really positive one. I think it was powerful for people to hear the words and the voice simultaneously and to be able to connect them. I had several people come up to me after the reading and say they had seen the article in the TU but that they really enjoyed hearing my reading of it.  It was important - both for them and also for myself.

This also marks the first time I've seen myself stutter in quite some time. It's always a bit funny to compare how you think something went in your head to how it actually played out.  I felt good reading it and I'm very comfortable with the video version. It's not perfect, but it will never be. What's important is that I shared my story and that a conversation was opened.  That's worth taking a risk for.

It was a great night. One where many inspiring stories were shared and where I could introduce friends and connect a few circles.  Thanks to everyone who came out to support me. It meant a lot to have so many good friends there and people whom I'd be lost with out. 

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A bit of an update:

The King's Speech was released earlier this year and opened up an opportunity for those of us who stutter to have a real conversation with the public, one we, perhaps, haven't had before.  On the heels of the movie and before the Oscar's took place, I wrote a piece about the myths I thought were perpetuated through the film and where I thought we were actually moving the discussion backwards. I was lucky enough to have my article picked up by The Time's Union.  If you're interested in reading it, it's entitled The king and us, myth and all and is accessible on the TU Web site.

Also worth noting, if you're local to Troy, NY,I'll be doing a reading of that piece for Troy Night Out (TNO Facebook page), reading aloud and then answering questions about my process writing it and, I believe, what goes into writing memoir as a whole.  That's taking place Friday, March 25 at 7pm at the Art's Center of the Capital Region.  Do stop by, if you can. A few of my classmates will be reading pieces they've written and they're going to be fantastic.

Other than that, with busines and life settling down, expect posts more frequently over here, though perhaps not as polished as the ones previously posted. We'll see.

Stay tuned. ;)

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When I was forcibly entered into my college’s speech therapy program, I didn’t fight them on much. When you’re offered up as the sacrificial lamb, acting like a sheep seems all too natural. Polite, even. But there was one instance where I did make a sound. It was when my therapist dropped that tape recorder on the table. Clunky and archaic, it shook not only the table, but my insides. The only thing more painful than the act of stuttering, is having to listen to yourself doing it. Because the machine erases you from the equation. All you hear is the defect.

I had fought my entire youth and adulthood to be Lisa. Just Lisa. She wanted to strip that way in just one session. Screw her.

We made a deal. I’d allow her to record me, but I’d never be asked to listen to the tape. No negotiation. No guilt trips.

“But it will help”, she lied. “Trust me.” She wasn’t even close to having a clue.

What people don’t understand is that I don’t hear my stutter. I may feel the blocks, the repetitions, the tightness, but the message in my head is clear. Most stutterers are fluent when they sing or when they talk without an audience (aka to themselves). That’s the voice that exists in my head. It’s the one I recognize and the one in my dreams. If I were to hear the tape, I’d hear it. I’d hear me. She could go back to her life and catch the latest soap. But I’d be forever changed. I’d now be a Person Who Stutters (PWS). I wasn’t ready for that.

I’ve run from that label my entire life. And the people around me have enabled me to do so. Growing up, my stutter had been treated as a non-issue. My parents never spoke of it, teachers didn’t allow extra time, and I wasn’t carted off to speech therapy. When others don’t allow you to make excuses, it removes your instinct to make them for yourself. It allowed me to believe that I was like everyone else. It was empowering, but also limiting. Not being able to identify my stutter, also meant not being able to reconcile who I was..

If I listened to the tape, I’d be forced to do both.

On the tape I’d hear my voice. I’d hear what others hear every time I open my mouth. I’d become an outside observer to my own disfluency, experiencing the breaks, the blocks and the burden the way that others did. I’ve seen the faces of strangers. The ones that looked not only uncomfortable, but pained. I’ve seen them look down, avoid eye contact, bite their lip. Anything to not have to watch. I didn’t want to see myself the way I knew they saw me. There’s accepting what’s different about you, and then there’s inviting your abuser over for tea.

The college had already forced me to view myself as different, placing me in this program and later requiring that I enroll as “disabled”. They were trying to do it again in this room and I wouldn’t let them.

But you can’t run forever.

Last month fate knew I was ready and brought a new friend into my life. Her name is Pam and, like me, she’s a unicorn - an adult female stutterer. She’s part of a local group who meet monthly. She challenged me to come along. Without realizing it, she put the tape recorder back on the table.

Fight or flight? Fuck it, fight.

In my 28 years, I’d never met anther unicorn face to face. Suddenly, I was surrounded by them. In talking to the unicorns, I heard myself. I saw my stutter inside theirs. I saw their broken voice, the tics, the involuntary movements. And it became okay. It became a sound and an identity I no longer had to run from. If I could accept the sound of their voices, I could accept the sound of mine. If they were okay, then so was I. Even the parts that are hard to hear.

Meeting the unicorns showed me that I am one. I’m a Person Who Stutters. And I don’t have to run anymore.

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As I stand in line, I take a few deep breaths, gently bouncing my leg to work up a rhythm.  “We can do this”, I whisper.  I’m at my favorite hideaway cafe in Troy. It’s been a hard day and I’m certain the answer to my problems are tucked inside the Almond Joy Latte I’ve been dreaming of all afternoon. I need the sweet combination of mocha and coconut to rescue my nerves and lull me into the evening. My boyfriend playfully nudges me toward the counter - it’s my turn. I take another deep breath.

“Hi. Can I have an Aaaa...Aaaa... a vanilla latte?”

I’ve earned a reputation among my friends for being indecisive. I’ll spend all day talking about the guacamole burger I want for lunch...only to get the grilled chicken pasta when the time comes to order.  My friends think I’ve changed my mind under pressure or developed situational amnesia. They don’t understand what’s really going on. How could they?

Word swapping is the part of my stutter they can’t see.  It’s the mental scrabble I play any time I open my mouth to speak. It’s when I have to match the word I WANT to say with the word that I CAN say.  It’s not always graceful, but it is effective. Sometimes.

Even as a child I knew the importance of word selection. I’d answer the phone with a cheerful, “Thanks for calling!”, not to be clever, but because the breathy “h” of “hello” was too much to bear.  When I’d tattle on my brothers, it was never that they “pushed” or “bugged” me.  P’s and b’s were too hard. Instead they “repeatedly touched me without consent”.  Did this occasionally earn me talks about accusing people of inappropriate touching? Sure. But I was silent during those talks. My teachers seemed especially confused. They didn’t understand how I’d do so well on exams, but would always reply “I don’t know” when questioned in class. I didn’t understand why they couldn’t grasp it. It was obvious.

Animals are given claws to protect them from predators. Similarly, I was a walking Thesaurus.

Growing up, my stutter never prevented me from enjoying life’s greatest pleasures. Things like ice cream, pizza or hamburgers were mine for the taking. I owed this to my father. He had little patience for my stutter and preferred I point to things on the menu so he could order for me. This should have landed me in therapy, crying about how my father never understood me and how boo-hoo-traumatic it was. But I loved it. I loved the attention and the secret dinner pow-wows on my dad’s knee. I’d point to what I wanted, whisper any instructions in his ear, and he’d order it for his stuttering Lisa Pizza. Our system was flawless.

Or it was until I outgrew the age where it was socially acceptable to eat with my parents. Suddenly my word swapping was a liability. To me and my stomach.

Word swapping goes hand-in-hand with my people-pleaser gene. Through word swapping, I ease not only my own struggle, but other people's in dealing with me. I order food I don’t like because it’s easier for me to say and for them to hear.  I don’t correct people when they mishear me and accidentally answer a question I didn’t ask. At restaurants, I drive my boyfriend crazy by eating things we both know I didn’t order.  As a teenager I’d buy LIRR tickets to Northport when I really wanted to go two stops over to Huntington. Word swapping was a way to take the course of least resistance, but I know there’s been a price.

Back in the cafe, I sip my second-choice latte and watch my boyfriend as he reads the paper. I would recognize him anywhere. I know him by his favorite lyric, his favorite smell, his favorite sound.  I don’t have that.  

My favorite lyric is the one that’s shortest.  My favorite smell is one that doesn’t start with a vowel. He’ll never know me the way that I know him.  I’ll never know myself the way that I know others.  Somewhere, without realizing it, I did what I promised myself I’d never do.  I became recognizable for my stutter instead of the things that make me.  That’s what my father was trying to protect me from.  He wasn’t shielding my speech from others, he was trying to shield his daughter from it.

I don’t worry about that tonight. I’m tired and right now this vanilla latte has to be like so many of the word swaps that have come before it -- a delicious workaround.

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As if often the case, it took one lap around the room during a freshman public speaking class for me to be outed as damaged and dropped into the Robbins Center - an on-campus, training program for grad students in the Speech, Language and Pathology department. The students need someone to test and finding an adult, female stutterer is like stumbling across a purple bedazzled unicorn in the middle of Times Square. You can’t let it go. My professor made the arrangements for me. I know because one day I received a phone call saying they had heard about my interest in the clinic.

I had never heard of the Robbins Center.

I also didn’t care about the Robbins Center. Had no interest spending my days reciting mono-syllabic words and having my intelligence demeaned with fake phone calls to my customer service reps inquiring about the ‘burgundy sweater with the four brass buttons located on page 142 of their catalog’. I was in college. I was supposed to be reprimanded for my bad choices, but not because I forget to take a breath before initiating a vowel.  But, along with being a person who stutters, I’m also a people pleaser.

So here I sit, twice a week, for three years.

The Robbins Center is hidden on the 9th floor of one of the buildings on campus. When I arrive, I take the stairs. I want them to see that I’m stronger than them.  My voice might not be, but I am.

I come out from the stairwell and sit in the waiting room. It’s filled with small children. Seventy-five percent of kids with speech disorders will outgrow them; just one percent of the adult population will wear their stutter as a badge.  Mine must be showing because as soon as I walk in the parents stare. I am their worst nightmare. They would rather their lisping, stammering children grow up to be murderers, rapists, puppy killers. Anything but an adult who cannot speak. A girl who cannot coo. I smile at them.

The silent confrontation ends when I’m summoned into a tiny therapy room and seated at a small wooden table. Each semester I am passed to a new graduate student like a worn pair of jeans. But the face of the grad student doesn’t matter, because the routine is the same. We’ll start with breathing exercises, progress to reciting words, and then move to structure sentences. If I’ve made progress, we’ll end by going to the Dunkin Donuts across the street so she can eavesdrop my ordering a vanilla latte. She’ll linger a few feet, not-so-silently instructing me to breathe, to speak slowly, make eye contact. She pretends other people can’t hear her, but it may as well read, “STUTTERING BABOON” on my chest. Because that’s how I feel.

Therapy isn’t all useless. Sometimes I pick up new tricks. Things that seem helpful at first, but really only live to separate me from the outside words. It starts innocently enough.

    “Do you ever singe your sentences to help get them out”

No? Should I? Is singing better than stuttering?

    “Do you find rhythmic motion helps you speak more fluently? Say, tapping a finger?”

I tell her no, but then make a mental note to see if it helps. It does! Until, like a junkie, I need something stronger. So I move my whole arm. Then my foot. Pretty soon I’m shaking my whole leg every time I speak. Tics I can’t unlearn. Thanks. Therapy is making things worse, but I don’t tell her that. She wants so badly to help. I pretend.

I don’t know how to tell her I’m okay. That I’ve stuttered my entire life and make no apologies for it. My stutter is me. She thinks I’ve been teased. I haven’t. She thinks doors have been closed. They haven’t. I haven’t been isolated. It’s she who isolates me. Locks me in this room. But I don’t know how to tell her that. So I don’t. I do her exercises, smile, thank her for her time. Because besides being a Person Who Stutters, I am also a people pleaser. That’s what I need her to fix. And in three years, she can’t.

The speech program I was placed into during my college years changed me, but probably not the way my professor had hoped.  It taught me something I had never known about myself - I was different. My stuttering was an inconvenience to others, others like my professor and the people who worked at the college speech center. Looking back, I can’t help but wonder if this was a lesson I would have been better off not learning. Because it changed everything.

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