retard this time.’”
“You mother called you that? She actually used that word?”
“N-no. Sh-she didn’t call me that. She said, d-d-don’t sound like it.” The distinction seemed important to me. And yet, I’d inadvertently stumbled into the heart of the issue: my mother.
Nick was watching me, clearly outraged. I had no doubt he would have torn my mother apart if she’d been present. I wondered if I’d feel vindicated, or embarrassed.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. I reminded myself that this was Nick I was talking to. Nick, who would never laugh at me, or roll his eyes, or tell me to spit it out already. Nick, who was my one true friend.
“It was my m-mother’s fault,” I said at last. “It’s generally accepted that there’s a cause, whether it’s physiological or psychological. There’s some debate about the specifics. I can’t really speak for others, but for myself, it’s turned out to be largely psychological.”
“I don’t know if I understand. There must be a physical cause.”
“Well, there probably is something that starts it. But how much it continues depends a lot on other factors. One thing that’s generally accepted is that anxiety can aggravate it, and the reaction of the listener can aggravate it, which in turn causes more anxiety and more stuttering.”
“A vicious cycle.”
“Exactly. So, things like having the waitress f-focus on me, and knowing she’s imp-p-patient, that can trigger it.”
“You’re talking about the waitress, but you said it was your mother’s fault.”
“Yes.”
“Because she handled it poorly?”
“She wanted me to be like everybody else. She wanted a normal son. Not a freak.”
“Owen, I wish you wouldn’t use that word. You are normal.”
I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak. On some level, I knew he was right. A congenital amputation didn’t mean I wasn’t “normal.” A stutter didn’t, either. My father had told me the same thing over and over again: “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you, son.” And yet, I couldn’t remember a single incident from my childhood where my mother had encouraged me. All she’d ever done was criticize.
“The p-p-point is, it varies a lot from person to person. But for me, my mother is my biggest trigger. High school was the worst, because she’d tell all of my teachers about it, like she was setting me up. And kids would make fun of me. And then . . .” I stopped there. I wasn’t about to share that part of my story yet. “Anyway, around my junior year, my father and I began to notice how much better my speech was when she wasn’t around. Coming here for college was the best decision I ever made. I did a bit of speech therapy, but the real solution was getting far away from my mom.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that. Jesus. Your mother sounds like a real peach.”
I shrugged. “What c-c-can I do? She’s my mom.”
It was as if by speaking of my mother, I manifested her. Only two days later, my parents called.
At first, only my father was on the line. “We haven’t heard from you in ages, son. We miss you.”
I wondered if his ‘we’ was intentional or accidental. “I miss you too, Dad.”
“How’s Colorado?”
“Good.”
“How’s work?”
“About the same.”
“Come on, now. Don’t give me the short answers. There must be something interesting you can tell me.”
I found myself smiling, excited to be able to share my news. “I’m learning piano.”
“Really? What brought that on?”
“Well, my friend Nick has one, and his sister talked me into taking lessons with her.”
“Oh no,” he teased. “A girl talked you into it, huh? Sounds like love to me.”
“It’s really not like that.” Funny, too, how it had never even occurred to me. I’d been too focused on Nick. “She has a congenital amputation of the arm, too.”
He was quiet for a second, contemplating that. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said at last.
“You mother called you that? She actually used that word?”
“N-no. Sh-she didn’t call me that. She said, d-d-don’t sound like it.” The distinction seemed important to me. And yet, I’d inadvertently stumbled into the heart of the issue: my mother.
Nick was watching me, clearly outraged. I had no doubt he would have torn my mother apart if she’d been present. I wondered if I’d feel vindicated, or embarrassed.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. I reminded myself that this was Nick I was talking to. Nick, who would never laugh at me, or roll his eyes, or tell me to spit it out already. Nick, who was my one true friend.
“It was my m-mother’s fault,” I said at last. “It’s generally accepted that there’s a cause, whether it’s physiological or psychological. There’s some debate about the specifics. I can’t really speak for others, but for myself, it’s turned out to be largely psychological.”
“I don’t know if I understand. There must be a physical cause.”
“Well, there probably is something that starts it. But how much it continues depends a lot on other factors. One thing that’s generally accepted is that anxiety can aggravate it, and the reaction of the listener can aggravate it, which in turn causes more anxiety and more stuttering.”
“A vicious cycle.”
“Exactly. So, things like having the waitress f-focus on me, and knowing she’s imp-p-patient, that can trigger it.”
“You’re talking about the waitress, but you said it was your mother’s fault.”
“Yes.”
“Because she handled it poorly?”
“She wanted me to be like everybody else. She wanted a normal son. Not a freak.”
“Owen, I wish you wouldn’t use that word. You are normal.”
I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak. On some level, I knew he was right. A congenital amputation didn’t mean I wasn’t “normal.” A stutter didn’t, either. My father had told me the same thing over and over again: “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you, son.” And yet, I couldn’t remember a single incident from my childhood where my mother had encouraged me. All she’d ever done was criticize.
“The p-p-point is, it varies a lot from person to person. But for me, my mother is my biggest trigger. High school was the worst, because she’d tell all of my teachers about it, like she was setting me up. And kids would make fun of me. And then . . .” I stopped there. I wasn’t about to share that part of my story yet. “Anyway, around my junior year, my father and I began to notice how much better my speech was when she wasn’t around. Coming here for college was the best decision I ever made. I did a bit of speech therapy, but the real solution was getting far away from my mom.”
“I don’t even know what to say to that. Jesus. Your mother sounds like a real peach.”
I shrugged. “What c-c-can I do? She’s my mom.”
It was as if by speaking of my mother, I manifested her. Only two days later, my parents called.
At first, only my father was on the line. “We haven’t heard from you in ages, son. We miss you.”
I wondered if his ‘we’ was intentional or accidental. “I miss you too, Dad.”
“How’s Colorado?”
“Good.”
“How’s work?”
“About the same.”
“Come on, now. Don’t give me the short answers. There must be something interesting you can tell me.”
I found myself smiling, excited to be able to share my news. “I’m learning piano.”
“Really? What brought that on?”
“Well, my friend Nick has one, and his sister talked me into taking lessons with her.”
“Oh no,” he teased. “A girl talked you into it, huh? Sounds like love to me.”
“It’s really not like that.” Funny, too, how it had never even occurred to me. I’d been too focused on Nick. “She has a congenital amputation of the arm, too.”
He was quiet for a second, contemplating that. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said at last.
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