书摘：Out With It（2）ZT
OUT WITH IT: How Stuttering Helped Me Find My Voice
by Katherine Preston (2)
I relax for a moment, but the boy keeps staring at me. I feel like a
monkey on a chain. I have not performed how he was hoping. He looks
vaguely put out. His humiliation swells in front of me and billows
out onto his ruddy cheeks. I try to walk away, my head held high and
haughty, but something holds me to the cement. I have tasted fluency
and now want to prove him wrong. I want to make him feel small.
Then, suddenly, it looks like he has realized something. I didn't
say my name. I see it cross his eyes, a flicker of hope. He has seen
how he can redeem himself to the two remaining members of his fan
club.
"Tell these guys your name," he sneers at me.
"Why should I?"
D amn, why did I say that? Now he knows he has me. I have to do it
now. Now they're all looking at me.
The thing is, I know I'll stutter. On my name I have no chance. And
I desperately want to keep my dignity. A girl does not get dressed
up in orange leggings and an oversized tie-dye T-shirt to lose her
self-respect to a bunch of scruffy boys with no sense of style.
So I pull myself up to my full height. All four feet two inches of
me stares up at them.
"K..."
"Katherine, Katherine Preston. And what's it to you?" she
practically spits at them. Claire stops and takes a replenishing
breath. "Why do you even care? Why don't you go and talk to your own
friends, or are you that unpopular that you need to hassle girls who
aren't remotely interested in talking to you?"
She's on a roll. Inwardly, relief splashes across my body. Her face
is flushed from running back to me. There are now two of us. Two
leggings-clad, vertically challenged warriors.
"I'm sure you have nothing better to do, but we have better places
to be than wasting our time talking to you."
She slips her arm through mine and we turn on the balls of our feet
in unison. We swing away from them and march triumphantly down the
road.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She is still striding, all fierce and self-righteous. "God, I hate
boys."
"Me, too."
We leave it at that. I pray that it will be the last time we will
speak of it. I suspect it will. If we never mention it again, maybe
she will forget about it and maybe I will.
She seems to forget almost instantly, but I can't push it aside as
quickly as I'd like. I sit in the backseat of her parents' car and
stare out at the familiar scenes of London as Claire tells them all
about the party. As we drive down the embankment, along the dark
stretch of the Thames, I replay the smirk on the boy's face. As we
drive past the familiar brick houses, I can still feel the fear lick
around my insides. I can't ignore the fact that I have been saved,
that I can't save myself. As absurdly grateful as I am to Claire, I
feel pathetic. What kind of a kid can't stick up for herself? What
will I do the next time? What will I do if I am on my own?
That night I sit on the bottom bunk of my bed and address our new
Labrador puppy. She is meant to be downstairs in the kitchen, but I
have smuggled her up to my room. I suspect that we are both a little
lonely. I am an only child and, as quiet as it can be at times,
there are moments when it has its benefits. Right now, I'm grateful
there's no sister on the top bunk, no brother down the hall. Claire
has been my best friend since I was four years old. She has barely
been out of my sight in six years, but right now I can't bear the
thought of her company. I can't stomach the idea of any company at
all. Except Holly. Being a dog, Holly doesn't count. I am certain
that I'll be fluent around her.
I have never stuttered in a room on my own, and I have never
stuttered in front of an animal. I have always known what my fluent
voice sounds like, have always known that it exists somewhere inside
of me.
"Why am I such a stumbling wreck when I talk to people?" I whisper
to Holly.
The quiet sound of my voice gives me some solace. It is comforting
to hear that I'm not entirely broken, that I still have a voice,
however meager it can sound at times.
"What's wrong with me?"
_________________________________________________________________
***** ABOUT THE AUTHOR *****
Katherine Preston, a writer and public speaker, lives in Brooklyn.
She is the creative director of ExchangeMyPhone.
OUT WITH IT: How Stuttering Helped Me Find My Voice
by Katherine Preston (2)
I relax for a moment, but the boy keeps staring at me. I feel like a
monkey on a chain. I have not performed how he was hoping. He looks
vaguely put out. His humiliation swells in front of me and billows
out onto his ruddy cheeks. I try to walk away, my head held high and
haughty, but something holds me to the cement. I have tasted fluency
and now want to prove him wrong. I want to make him feel small.
Then, suddenly, it looks like he has realized something. I didn't
say my name. I see it cross his eyes, a flicker of hope. He has seen
how he can redeem himself to the two remaining members of his fan
club.
"Tell these guys your name," he sneers at me.
"Why should I?"
D amn, why did I say that? Now he knows he has me. I have to do it
now. Now they're all looking at me.
The thing is, I know I'll stutter. On my name I have no chance. And
I desperately want to keep my dignity. A girl does not get dressed
up in orange leggings and an oversized tie-dye T-shirt to lose her
self-respect to a bunch of scruffy boys with no sense of style.
So I pull myself up to my full height. All four feet two inches of
me stares up at them.
"K..."
"Katherine, Katherine Preston. And what's it to you?" she
practically spits at them. Claire stops and takes a replenishing
breath. "Why do you even care? Why don't you go and talk to your own
friends, or are you that unpopular that you need to hassle girls who
aren't remotely interested in talking to you?"
She's on a roll. Inwardly, relief splashes across my body. Her face
is flushed from running back to me. There are now two of us. Two
leggings-clad, vertically challenged warriors.
"I'm sure you have nothing better to do, but we have better places
to be than wasting our time talking to you."
She slips her arm through mine and we turn on the balls of our feet
in unison. We swing away from them and march triumphantly down the
road.
"Thank you," I whisper.
She is still striding, all fierce and self-righteous. "God, I hate
boys."
"Me, too."
We leave it at that. I pray that it will be the last time we will
speak of it. I suspect it will. If we never mention it again, maybe
she will forget about it and maybe I will.
She seems to forget almost instantly, but I can't push it aside as
quickly as I'd like. I sit in the backseat of her parents' car and
stare out at the familiar scenes of London as Claire tells them all
about the party. As we drive down the embankment, along the dark
stretch of the Thames, I replay the smirk on the boy's face. As we
drive past the familiar brick houses, I can still feel the fear lick
around my insides. I can't ignore the fact that I have been saved,
that I can't save myself. As absurdly grateful as I am to Claire, I
feel pathetic. What kind of a kid can't stick up for herself? What
will I do the next time? What will I do if I am on my own?
That night I sit on the bottom bunk of my bed and address our new
Labrador puppy. She is meant to be downstairs in the kitchen, but I
have smuggled her up to my room. I suspect that we are both a little
lonely. I am an only child and, as quiet as it can be at times,
there are moments when it has its benefits. Right now, I'm grateful
there's no sister on the top bunk, no brother down the hall. Claire
has been my best friend since I was four years old. She has barely
been out of my sight in six years, but right now I can't bear the
thought of her company. I can't stomach the idea of any company at
all. Except Holly. Being a dog, Holly doesn't count. I am certain
that I'll be fluent around her.
I have never stuttered in a room on my own, and I have never
stuttered in front of an animal. I have always known what my fluent
voice sounds like, have always known that it exists somewhere inside
of me.
"Why am I such a stumbling wreck when I talk to people?" I whisper
to Holly.
The quiet sound of my voice gives me some solace. It is comforting
to hear that I'm not entirely broken, that I still have a voice,
however meager it can sound at times.
"What's wrong with me?"
_________________________________________________________________
***** ABOUT THE AUTHOR *****
Katherine Preston, a writer and public speaker, lives in Brooklyn.
She is the creative director of ExchangeMyPhone.
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