My Countless Faces: The Cure for "R"

Here's another rough draft segment from my current memoir project.  I apologize for any mistakes; keep in mind, it's still going through a lot of editing.

My speech coach wore half-mooned glasses that were attached to a gold chain that dangled behind her ears and rested on the back of her neck.  I could tell by her raised eyebrows and wrinkled forehead that she was completely dedicated to curing me of my malfunction.  Every once in a while, I would say “car” instead of “caw” and her eyes would soften, leaving a faded imprint of her previously determined wrinkles.  She would quickly say “that’s it!  Hurry Mitch, say it again”, only to be disappointed by “caw” once again.  My therapy homework seemed to be extremely easy however.  My parents would listen to me as I repeated sentences like, “The wed headed giwl was happy with hewr fwiends.”  They had grown so accustomed to my impediment, they couldn’t hear it anymore.  They would close their eyes and listen intently, then sign my paper saying, “I dunno Mitch, it sounds good to me!”  I felt accomplished, only later to be disappointed that really I hadn’t improved at all.

My entire life “forest” was “fowest”, “girl” was “girwl”.  Growing up, I was told that I sounded cute.  Hell, my grandpa liked how I talked so much, he would pay me to sit down with him and have conversations.  We would sit at his bar like counter, eating leftovers, talking about my favorite subjects: soccer, recess, and my spy missions.  He would ask me over and over again to repeat all the counties of Utah that I learned in my classes.  We would sit there, while the sunlight that shined through the dining room window wrapped itself around the roof of the house and was starting to find its way through the living room on the opposing side, casting newly formed shadows that slowly increased in size.  I knew he would be sad the day my “accent” was cured. 

I received praise at home, and hurtful words at school.  Tired of being pointed out as different by all my friends, exhausted from the tears shed in bathroom stalls from kids mocking me, and worn out by my constant effort and lack of improvement, I decided to mask my insecurity.  Rather than curing the placement of my tongue and the shape of my mouth, I would stop using words I couldn’t say.  In my little six year old brain, my plan was flawless.  Soon, I was memorizing synonyms for all the words that my tongue refused to pronounce correctly.  “Forest” became “woods” and “friends” became “buddies”.  This tactic worked for the most part, and at my age I figured it was better than my speech therapy course.  This new fascination with synonyms and language led me to good grades in my English assignments, and helped me to drop my speech therapy course, and continue attending class like everyone else.  Finally, I was normal again.

My Countless Faces: The Sound of "R"

The following is an excerpt from a short memoir I'm currently working on.  The full memoir will be posted upon completion.  For now, here's a short piece I've been writing this passed week.

I wasn’t different, until someone pointed it out.  Early on, in maybe second or third grade, I was told that my “R’s” were different from my friends “R’s”.  I was told that often, it was even hard to understand what I was trying to say.  I was told, “You need to change, and try sounding like everyone else.”  The soft tone and warm smile of my teacher couldn’t keep her words from feeling cold, leaving me frozen and alone.  Soon, I found myself being asked to leave class in the middle of the day.  I looked in my dark desk trying to find my black notebook with the capital white letters “Speech Therapy” that seemed to scream, “You don’t fit in”.   I reached for my generic pencil and closed my eyes to say a little prayer before I shamefully began making my way out of the room.  This daily terror was just another reminder that I was different.  As I walked, the surrounding silence was swept away with the sounds of kids turning in their colorful desks to stare as I walked down the aisle between them.  This moment always gave me a headache, both from fighting so hard to hold back the tears and from the heat of all the eyes searing a hole in the back of my head.  Once I finally made it out of the room, my muscles relaxed, and I gasped for a long awaited breath.  When I was alone, even if just in my school’s hallway, I fit in..