Sign Language Isn’t Only for the Deaf, Part II: The Enemies of Sign Language

Note: Big D for Deaf refers to people who identify themselves as culturally deaf. They will have a strong Deaf identity, attend schools for the Deaf, and mainly associate with other members of the Deaf community. Small d for deaf refers to the condition as well as to deaf people who identify more with the hearing or mainstream, and regard their hearing loss only in medical, not cultural, terms. From deafness.about.com

I think that trying to learn and understand ASL (American Sign Language) or any other recognized sign language is as difficult as any foreign language. The difference, though, is that the voice plays no part at all in signing. ASL, like all sign languages, is visual and manual. There is nothing oral about it.

It is because there is no speech in sign languages that there has been and still exists so much opposition to them. This stance against the use of sign languages has been born out of the ignorance and hurtful attitudes that always accompany any kind of prejudice. In this case, the prejudice has a name. It is audism.

As an academic, author, and lecturer on Deaf culture and communication, Tom L. Humphries coined and defined the term audism as an attitude held by people who hear and speak. Their opinion is that, because they can hear and speak, they are superior to those who don’t.

I have been a witness to audism my entire life. I see it frequently played out with parents who don’t learn ASL, even though they have a deaf or hard of hearing child. They expect their child to lip read or even speak. As a little girl with a horrible undiagnosed speech problem, I had the same experience with my parents. Even though I couldn’t even say my name to save my life, I was forced to answer phone calls and my parents expected me to speak normally.

Although there were deaf schools throughout the ages, they were always threatened by oralists. According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oralism, “Oralism is the education of deaf students through oral language by using lip reading, speech, and mimicking the mouth shapes and breathing patterns of speech, instead of using sign language.”

Oralism has been an enemy of the deaf for eons. Even the church in Spain in the 1500s banned the deaf from communion because they couldn’t confess out loud. In those days the deaf of wealthy families were disinherited to keep up appearances. The nobility sent their deaf children away to schools where they were presumably being taught to speak, holding the belief that speaking was representative of the higher class and, therefore, higher intellect. This was also interpreted to mean that signing was connected to the lower class and lower intellect.

Before the oralist movement ruined the lives and livelihood of many deaf people, there were deaf schools with deaf instructors. There were deaf doctors, lawyers, and deaf people held other respectable positions. However, in the late 1800s one of the worst oralists of all time began to wield his power. I was shocked when I learned that Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone, made the lives of so many deaf people utterly miserable.

Interestingly, Bell worked on inventing the telephone because his mother and wife were both deaf. He had experimented with different hearing devices and it was this work that led to his most famous invention. Yet, Bell opposed the teaching of sign language, as well as deaf intermarriage and reproduction. As a staunch oralist, he believed that the deaf must assimilate into the hearing world.

There is a very famous event in Deaf history known as the Milan Congress of 1880. It was in Milan, Italy where oralists like Alexander Graham Bell gathered and were able to force their beliefs onto society at large. Bell and his allies were able to begin closing deaf schools all around the world that taught sign language and replace them with oral ones. Not only did this cruelly force the deaf to try to speak and lip read, but it put deaf teachers out of work and, more and more, the deaf became uneducated and unemployed.

Fortunately, there were enough deaf students and adults who still used signing in their private lives. And, with the support of the manual movement by important people like the educator Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet (founder of the first school for deaf children in the United States), sign language was kept alive.

When I learned about all of this I was so saddened to hear how the deaf had to fight just to preserve their means of communication. But, because of my personal experience, I was not shocked. Even though I grew up in the 1960s, what we would think of as modern times, I was also forced to speak when I couldn’t. I was not allowed to learn ASL either. However, by studying this history I realized that millions of other people throughout history were viewed and, most likely, felt like me. Their families and society tried to strip them of their true identity, so they didn’t feel accepted for who they were. Like me, they must have felt isolated because there was no support. Like me, many of them probably felt like failures at times, simply because they couldn’t speak.

By looking at the struggle to keep sign language alive, I hope a normal speaker can better understand the kind of prejudice that has existed and still exists towards those who are physically unable to speak. It is a prejudice that blinds people from seeing that the inability to speak for someone who is speech disabled or deaf is due to a physical limitation and nothing more. And, if anyone should suspect

that the intellect is less because one signs and doesn’t speak, I suggest they learn how to sign as well.

Sign Language Isn’t Only for the Deaf, Part I: Personal Experience, Definition, and History

Even in our modern age, I find there is still a general assumption that ASL (American Sign Language) or any sign language is only for the Deaf. So, in an attempt to educate and enlighten, I am writing numerous blogs about this subject. Since there is such an overwhelming amount of information on sign language, I will only provide you with digestible amounts in each blog. This first part contains a short explanation of my history with it, followed by a description and brief history of sign language.

In September 2011 I wrote a blog titled Another Voice that touched upon my personal experience with sign language. I wanted to learn it as soon as I lost my ability to speak when I was a pre-teen, around 1960. At the time my parents couldn’t accept that there was anything wrong with my speech and wouldn’t let me learn sign language. I, however, accepted my condition from the minute my voice changed and from that moment on I knew I needed help for it. I believed that sign language could give me that help. It would never give me a normal voice, but it would give me what we all want and need. Communication. (See: http://princessfrogspeaks.blogspot.com/2011_09_01_archive.html)

Decades later, I learned ASL and I have been teaching it to deaf and hard-of-hearing children for the last five years. In addition, I have the privilege to work with children who are not deaf but, for one reason or another, cannot or do not speak. When I am with them, I am reminded of myself as a child – feeling helpless and frustrated because I lacked the ability to communicate. With this in mind, I try to teach these children signs as well.

The children that I work with and I are living proof that sign language helps the voiceless. Yet, although it is a full, living language, many people don’t understand what it is.

Sign language is not gesturing. A gesture is a nonverbal way to communicate with the face, hand, or other body part, but these movements are culture-specific. So, the significance of most gestures depends on where they are used. In the language of signs, the hands, arms, face and body are specifically oriented to say something that will be understood the same wherever that specific sign language is used. About 200 sign languages exist in the world today. Wherever deaf people live you will find them in one form or other. Some are legally recognized, and others are not. Like English or any other official language, sign languages have a complete and unique structure. One can discuss anything using sign language. One cannot do this with gestures. Gestures are random movements and, unlike sign language, they are not part of any standardized or official form.

No one knows who invented sign language but, according to Deaf scholar Paddy Ladd, “… aboriginal Australians have the oldest sign languages – some 80,000 years.”

According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sign_language, “One of the earliest written records of a sign language occurred in the fifth century BC.” This was in Plato's Cratylus where Socrates says: "If we hadn't a voice or a tongue, and wanted to express things to one another, wouldn't we try to make signs by moving our hands, head, and the rest of our body, just as dumb people do at present?”

Aristotle, Plato’s famous student, thought that the deaf could never speak and that speaking and hearing originated from the same area in the brain. This led him to assume that, if one function was impaired, the other must be too. Based on this, Aristotle believed that a deaf person could not learn. It wasn’t until 700 A.D. when the archbishop of York officially refuted Aristotle's theory.

Many centuries passed before anyone noteworthy publicly commented on what the archbishop thought. Finally, in the sixteenth century, Geronimo Cardano (the first physician to describe typhoid fever) said that deaf people could be taught without knowing how to speak. Cardano used a method of writing that involved icons. He taught this system to his deaf son and this led to the first book on teaching sign language to deaf people, in 1620.

Then in 1755 the Abbe de L’Epee founded the first free school for the deaf in Paris. Here the deaf were taught the sign language system that the Abbe developed, where each symbol suggested the desired concept. Almost 150 years later, though, a book called Observations of a Deaf-Mute by Pierre Desloges claimed that the Abbe wasn’t the inventor he had claimed to be. Deaf since the age of seven, Desloges wrote that signing, like the Abbe had taught, had been how deaf Parisians communicated way before the Abbe took credit for his “methodical signs” and founded his school. However, the Abbe’s prominence and his efforts in promoting a highly structured sign language served the deaf community greatly. It paved the way for the recognized sign languages that we have today. (See: http://www2.uic.edu/stud_orgs/cultures/daa/ASLHistory.html)

Like other languages, sign language is full of history and all kinds of interesting characters. For me, though, its sheer nature dramatically points out the power of our instinctual need to communicate. As Victor Hugo said in 1845, “What matters deafness of the ear, when the mind hears. The one true deafness, the incurable deafness, is that of the mind.” I look forward to sharing my future blogs on sign language with you. I hope these will help to deepen our understanding of the simple truth that all of us, Deaf and non-Deaf alike, are given a mind and it is the most natural thing in the world for us to want to express it.

Being Disabled Doesn’t Mean I’m Always Tolerant

The holiday season is often hard for me. If I am unable to fully participate in all the socializing due to my speech disability, or if I feel like I’m on the outside around Christmas because I was raised in the Jewish faith, I sometimes get a “bah humbug” attitude like Ebenezer Scrooge. I try to have good intentions, but during the winter holidays I haven’t always shared, let alone spread, the joy of the season. This year, however, something happened that turned things around.

It started when I received a monthly calendar listing meetings that I often attend. Almost instantly, my eyes spotted that Christmas was the only holiday listed for the month of December. When I didn’t see Hanukkah, Kwanza, or any other holiday, I didn’t just feel bad because those days were excluded. I could sense myself almost becoming indignant.

After mulling it over for a few days I decided to contact the woman who normally emails the calendar. When I asked about it I wrote, “Even though I don’t practice Judaism, this is an old wound for me that has never fully healed.” She quickly replied and said, “I’m sorry you felt slighted. Someone else sent the December calendar. I think they were in a rush and just downloaded it from the Internet. When I do it I try to add in all the holidays so everyone is informed.”

Her response made me feel better, but I was still bothered about something. My reaction. I had immediately spotted the one thing that makes me feel left out. I thought, “Maybe I’m the one who is making myself feel excluded.” It’s almost as if I was on the lookout for something that could bug me so I could pout about the holidays. I’ve always been against anyone acting like this, anyone who might be self-righteous and indignant. But, if I want everyone else to be open-minded and respectful about my heritage or disability or anything else that might be different about me, I need to act the same way.

This made me wonder if I really was as open-minded and respectful of others as I always thought. I remembered the times when I traveled and lived with people who were worlds apart from me in their culture and frame of mind. We embraced each other’s differences. In Spain I met lots of people who were interested to learn about Jewish holidays and traditions. And I ran around with them to all the special events that took place in their churches. We shared experiences that were rich, diverse, and bonded us.

Over the years I have also reached out to people, even strangers, about my speech disability. I have met many people who didn’t understand what it was like for me to be unable to speak or have a difficult time communicating. But, after connecting with them, I realized that it wasn’t because they didn’t want to. They simply never had anyone share the experience with them. They were open and more than willing to learn about what it is to live without a useable voice.

But, now, my reaction to the calendar made me feel like I was nitpicking. Why was I so judgmental when that was the last thing I wanted from anyone else?

Like Scrooge, I believe my feelings of being left out began in childhood. I grew up in a segregated city and learned early on that my culture was different from others in my city and around much of the world. Then, not many years later when I lost my ability to speak normally, my sense of disconnection simply deepened. Fortunately, as a young adult I moved to one of the most diverse and tolerant cities I know. Perhaps, though, a part of me never completely moved on.

Thinking about this helped me to see that sometimes I have unconsciously used my cultural heritage or disability to cut myself off from others. When I’ve done this I know that I have felt the last thing I want to feel -- intolerant. Seeing Christmas as the only holiday on a December calendar shouldn’t create negative feelings in me. But the fact that it did made me turn my thinking around and focus on the good things that happen at this time of year. I can share and spread joy, and I can even light up a tree in my house if I like too.

In fact, the other day someone unknowingly helped me to start feeling a little holiday joy. As I left my local grocery store, I saw a Salvation Army bell ringer standing outside in the cold. When I walked by her, she looked me in the eye and casually said with a big smile, “Merry Christmas.” I didn’t flinch or get upset in any way like I might have before. Instead, I simply smiled back and said, “Happy holidays to you too!” I have to admit; it felt pretty good.

       

Giving Thanks for Everything My Disability Has Taught Me

Oprah Winfrey is quoted as saying, "Be thankful for what you have; you'll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don't have, you will never, ever have enough.” In this month of celebrating Thanksgiving, I am thinking a lot about Oprah’s words. I can honestly say that I understand them now. But I didn’t always.

I began making the effort to develop my sense of gratitude about seven years ago. It was a time when I realized how much resentment I had because of my speech disability. I was getting annoyed with everything then, but especially with people who I thought of as “normal” and had no clue what my life was like. I compared myself to them and doted on how lucky they were because they didn’t have to go regularly to a doctor and rely on medical treatments to be able to speak. As these feelings deepened I knew I had to do something. I hated myself for feeling jealous and immersed in self-pity, so I forced myself to consciously focus on the good things in my life. I began to mentally note at least one thing I could be thankful for each day.

Over the years, I knew that my daily practice of giving thanks helped me tremendously. My negative feelings disappeared and I gained a much greater sense of peace and contentment. However, this year I had an opportunity to really put my daily practice of giving thanks to the test. My wonderful surgeon, who I have come to rely on to “fix” my speech problem, was unavailable. I have seen him at least twice a year since 1999 and my last treatment with him was January 2012. By mid-May I knew that my voice was going and it was time for another treatment. As usual, I called his office for an appointment but they said my doctor was unable to work and they didn’t know when he was coming back.

If this had occurred ten years ago, I would have gone into a complete panic. I would have thought that my voice would immediately revert to being as bad as it was before I began treatments. However, by working on my gratitude, I had changed. I was calmer and more self-assured. The act of reinforcing a positive emotion in myself everyday over the years taught me that I would be fine and I could deal with whatever might happen.

My voice worsened over the summer. Instead of panicking I simply thought I would check in again with my doctor’s office. When I called in August they said that my surgeon was still out but there was another doctor who could perform the procedure I needed. I went to him with optimism and the hope that all would go well. It didn’t.

Still, I kept up with my practice of giving thanks each day. I gave thanks for understanding why my treatment worked or didn’t, and especially for knowing that – even if I never got another treatment that worked – I would be okay.

By September it was much harder to control my voice. The sense of it weakening made me feel weak emotionally too. Yet, I knew that my problem wasn’t going to kill me. I also knew that if I kept thinking positive thoughts and reminded myself of how much I had, the calm that this created would create better speech. If I had to, I could whisper to tell people that my voice was gone. At work I could use American Sign Language, something I made sure to learn in case my voice ever went and medical intervention no longer worked for me. I had lots of psychological tools and other voices that I had learned about. It made me feel very grateful to know that there were lots of things at my disposal that could help me.

More time passed and my voice worsened. I could feel a twinge of the pain I used to have when I tried to speak and couldn’t. At one point I felt myself bordering on depression but I kept giving thanks. I was grateful that I could work and function, that my body and brain were intact. I didn’t like feeling out of control with my speech, but I was grateful for the other things that gave me a sense of strength and I focused on them. In particular, I kept reminding myself of the fact that I had managed to live with my disability for almost forty years without any diagnosis or treatment. 

In October I decided to call my doctor’s office once more. I was thrilled to hear that my surgeon was back at work. A part of me, though, was almost sad. I knew it was best for me to get treated and be able to speak without any pain, but not getting treated had taught me so much and I didn’t want that to end.

Going without medical intervention pointed out just how much I had improved. I saw that it had been ten months since my last treatment, the longest I had gone in thirteen years since my first one. Although I had struggled with my voice problem, I didn’t fall apart. Most importantly, I no longer hated my speech disability or dreaded what I would be like if I couldn’t get medical assistance for it. Instead, I was grateful for everything I learned from my disability. I finally realized that it is the one thing that has taught and continues to teach me so much about myself and about how to live a full and happy life. 

Different Experiences with the Same Speech Problem

Speech problems are like sizes. One doesn’t fit all. Even though I may have the same condition as you, our experiences with it might be quite different.

When my speech problem began in 1960 I was around twelve years old. In order to communicate I felt like I was groping in the dark. Since there was no such thing as text, email, or a phone application to substitute for my voice, I concocted ways to try and convey what I wanted to say. My methods were not very good.

Because I was so anxious to try and speak normally, I usually spoke too fast. I know I simply wanted to get it out and over with, but the speed made me more tense and made the problem worse.

Frequently another thing I did was to try and force out words. There were so many vowels and consonants that I couldn’t say so I made the effort to push them from my throat. When I did this I contorted my face and my whole body often became involved. Sadly, I was rarely understood and I could also see how uncomfortable it made others to watch me.

At the age of fifty-one I was finally diagnosed with a severe speech disability, almost forty years after my problem began. My doctors told me that, with treatments, I might be able to speak fluently again. However, they also said that I would need a lot of speech therapy. By this time, so many years and bad habits later, I didn’t know how to speak normally. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like, so I would have to unlearn everything I had been doing and start from scratch.

Around the same time I also began meeting other adults with my disorder, the adductor type of spasmodic dysphonia (SD). I was thrilled because I had never met anyone who had my condition or sounded like me when they spoke. I thought everyone I met would understand my situation and what I had been living with for so long, but I was wrong. 

The first thing I noticed was how calm other people with my form of SD appeared when they talked. I didn’t see anyone speak fast, contort their face, or use their body to force out words. No one looked or sounded anxious. Even though their voice had the same choppy and strangled sound as mine, their efforts to communicate were far from what mine had been most of my life.

I also heard from people online. They told me about careers they had to give up because of SD. Their voice had been an integral part of their job so they had to find other work that didn’t involve speaking. I truly sympathized with their sudden loss, but I noticed that a part of me envied the fact that they ever had their job in the first place. I wasn’t proud of myself for thinking, “You’re so lucky you got to do that job. I could never even pursue or think of doing something like that.”

The more I listened to other people’s stories and heard the responses in my head, I realized that we shared the same voice problem but were on opposite ends of it. As I looked into it deeper I became aware of a number of things.

First, I never met anyone afflicted as young as me with my disorder. Secondly, none of the adults I encountered had gone longer than two years before getting a diagnosis. And, no one seemed stressed about speaking like I always had because they were used to doing it. They had been speakers all of their lives, something I was not. Fortunately, because they had received a diagnosis fairly quickly, they didn’t have the time to form bad habits either. We shared the same speech problem, but our histories were worlds apart.

In spite of our differences, though, I could see that we definitely shared similar feelings. Even though those who were newly afflicted had access to things I didn’t have like technical devices, advanced medical procedures, information and education, they were still emotionally challenged by what always challenged me. They no longer wanted to speak much, use the phone or read aloud. Their lack of fluency made them feel isolated and spend more time focused on their loss. Suddenly they found themselves feeling anxious about work, relationships, and everything that makes up a full life. I experienced all of this, but I suspected there might be something else they were grappling with — something I considered one of the toughest things about having a speech disability. They had to accept it.

One day, when I was in my thirties, still undiagnosed with no name for my abnormal voice, I simply accepted the fact that I had to stop struggling with it. I realized that it was a part of me and I might never be able to speak normally again. I needed to stop fighting it and learn to live with my limitation as best I could. Once I did this, my anger and sadness began to wane. Even though I knew that my speech condition would continue to play a major role in what I couldn’t realistically do, accepting it gave me a sense of control and freedom to explore what I could do.

It is never easy when someone is afflicted with a speech or other disability. However, after living with my disability for over fifty years, I would advise anyone with a similar problem to come to grips with the reality of the situation as soon as possible. Once I did this it became obvious that I needed to be more open-minded and creative, and approaching life with this in mind has proven to be a great thing. It has pushed me through doors I may not have gone through, and it has set me on paths I may not have initially chosen. Accepting my speech problem has taught me how to go with the flow, and embrace and learn from whatever comes my way.

Coping with a Speech Problem Through Creativity

People who create something out of nothing are often called artists or entrepreneurs. I don’t think of myself as either, but creativity has always played an important role in my life. It particularly became a source of strength and a means of coping when I lost my normal speech around the age of twelve in 1960.

From as far back as I can remember I loved to sing. At eight years old I started taking piano lessons and, once I could play well enough, I accompanied myself. Fortunately, even when I lost my normal speech, I could still sing. I continued to work on both mediums for decades, got my Bachelor’s degree in music and, ironically, became a professional singer. However, because I basically had no useable speaking voice, music was more than something I loved and studied. It fulfilled me within, gave me the outward ability to offer something I found beautiful and, most importantly, provided a way to express myself.

In my thirties, while I was singing in the San Francisco Opera Chorus, I began to study Flamenco. At first I learned to dance different Flamenco forms and a few years later I studied how to sing them. As I became more passionate about it, I stopped my classical singing and devoted myself to Flamenco. I went on to perform locally as a Flamenco singer/dancer for close to fifteen years. During this time I went back and forth to Spain to study, visit, and I wound up living there for a short while too. I made friends for life and have fond memories that will last forever. The entire experience was exhilarating but the most engaging element was the creative process. It gave other parts of me a means to convey something my broken speech never could.

I stopped performing Flamenco when I was forty-eight. My speech problem remained undiagnosed but I could feel that my singing voice was diminishing. I noticed that my volume had lessened and after a performance I barely had any voice for a week or two. My body was getting more tired, but the exhaustion mostly showed up in my voice. As a performer I wanted to make my exit while I still sounded and looked good, so I did. Yet, though I knew this was the wise thing to do, without a creative outlet in my life I felt empty.

Seeking to fill the void, I seriously began to study the art of cooking. Looking back I’m almost glad that my mother was such a horrible cook. My father was great in the kitchen but he didn’t want to bother, so my sister and I learned early on to make dinner and everything else. At the age of nine I was already preparing meals for our family and experimenting with desserts. Since then I’ve never stopped eating or trying to concoct wonderful dishes. After taking different classes for more than a year my meals got better and I found the whole process both stimulating and relaxing. Beyond the partaking of it, making good food has proven to be extremely fulfilling as a creative way to satisfy my own needs and express my appreciation and love.

At the age of fifty-one I was finally diagnosed and told that I have a severe speech disability. After almost forty years of searching for an answer, I was incredibly grateful to understand my problem. However, I felt overwhelmed by all the feelings that my diagnosis brought up and fell into an emotional slump. I had to do something so I turned to a creative endeavor I dabbled in since my twenties. I began to write and I’ve been doing so ever since.

My diagnosis came at the end of December 1999 and I started to write almost daily in early 2000. At first it was only for me. However, the more I learned about my condition and thought about everything I learned or had experienced from it, the more I wanted to share my knowledge. The blog you are reading now is a result of this. Through my blog I have been in touch with people who are newly afflicted with my condition. With others who remain undiagnosed, my writing has connected us and provided me with an opportunity to offer them suggestions on how to proceed and deal with their speech problem. Like all the other creative pursuits, I take my writing seriously and feel incredibly lucky to be able to do it. On a personal level it has helped me tremendously, but the rewards are much greater when I hear that it has enlightened or helped someone else.

The worst times regarding my speech problem have always been when I felt I had no way to express myself. None of my creativity has ever fully substituted for my voice loss, but the process has helped me to temporarily forget it and pursue and enjoy other things. I was recently reminded of this when I attended a collage party. I went there with the idea that, since I’m not a craftsperson, I won’t be very good at making a collage. However, as in all creative activities, being good isn’t the point. In the process of learning how to make a collage I learned about another way to have fun, relax, become engaged in something outside of myself, create something from nothing, and express who I am.

There were many times when I knew my speech problem was getting the best of me, but finding a creative means of expression has always helped. So, whether you choose to paint, rearrange your furniture, or come up with a new way to organize your recipes is unimportant. What is important is to have something, and finding that something for yourself is really what it’s all about.

Laying Blame for a Speech Problem

My speech problem began around the time I was twelve years old, in 1960. No one could say then what it was. It didn’t matter that I had grown up as part of a very close community of family and friends. Suddenly, with a voice that was strange sounding and no longer fluent, I knew that I no longer fit in.

When it was obvious that my speech problem wasn’t going away, my mother and I started arguing about it. No one knew what was wrong with my speech, but I never suspected I had anything to do with it. Yet, my mother wound up blaming me for the problem. Although I never fully believed her, I was vulnerable and began to question myself about it. Each time I couldn’t speak, which was almost always, I would think, “Why can’t I do this? Maybe Mommy’s right.”

I moved out of my parent’s house when I was eighteen. My mother protested but I was weary of seeing the look in her face everyday that told me my speech problem was my fault. She never used the word, but I felt like a failure in my mother’s eyes. On one hand it made me very sad, and on the other I knew that her attitude was killing me.

Although I was living on my own, I still spoke with my mother often and she always made me feel like there was something wrong with me. I wanted to get away from her blaming me but instead I turned it on myself. I knew I had to stop seeing myself as a failure and rebuild my confidence, but I didn’t know how. My self-image was so damaged that I began doing drugs and hanging out with the wrong people. I lived like that for two years until I decided, almost on a whim, to move two thousands miles away to California.

It was August 1968 when I moved to Berkeley. Even though it was an opportunity to make a fresh start, I didn’t. I continued to experiment with drugs and developed relationships with others who did the same. This went on for a few years until one evening when I witnessed a horrific drug experience. Someone paid dearly for shooting heroin and what I saw terrified me.

It registered almost instantly that, whatever the reason was for my speech problem, I didn’t want to keep punishing myself for it. I now fully understood that what I saw happen to another drug user could easily happen to me. Almost overnight I stopped doing drugs, dropped all the friends and acquaintances associated to that world, moved to a new place, and decided to finish college. It might have been the first time in my life that I realized how much I cared about myself. Perhaps I had hit bottom and this was the catalyst to finally give myself the nurturing I needed.

A year later I was working and attending college full time. Although I was moving forward and improving myself, I still felt a sense of frustration and failure around my speech. This especially happened each time I spoke with my mother on the phone. Finally, in my thirties and shortly before her death, I noticed that I didn’t even question myself if I felt my mother judging me harshly or blaming me for the unusual way that I struggled to speak. It had taken years but I finally realized that I didn’t have to play the blame game anymore. The endless cycle of her laying blame on me and then laying it on myself was over.

Interestingly, I felt vindicated when I was finally diagnosed and told that I have a severe speech disability. I was fifty-one years old but getting a diagnosis was such an emotional experience that it brought up the blame I had felt so much in the past. There was still a little of it stuck to my soul.

My doctors were very hopeful that treatments and therapy would help me to speak normally again, but the scars left from being blamed for something I never did or created were still there. A part of me still felt unworthy of ever being whole.

In time I was able to speak almost normally and, more than ten years since my diagnosis, I still can. Most of the feelings I accumulated from being blamed for my speech problem have subsided. But, once in a while, if I’m very anxious or scared, that old feeling of unworthiness may surface for a short time. I now put it to bed quickly. I know that it doesn’t belong in my head, and the words of blame laid on me for my speech problem should never have been said.