I love finding dysfluency in the world—stumbling across words and people who move with a delightful rhythm. Being the one discovered can, however, be awkward: feeling somewhat like a freak show. Last week I had two back-to-back yet very different encounters with dysfluency.
 
Encounter #1: I have an awkward hour to pass before a medical appointment, so I stop to work at a Starbucks attached to a Chapters that I have only been to once or twice. I order my eggnog latte, stuttering as one does, and as the barista listens with a poised sharpie she asks: “It’s Josh right?” I smile and play it cool while I’m actually thinking “How the hell do you remember my name?!” Oh right, I’m the stutterer.     
 
Encounter #2: Two hours later I meet my parents at another coffee shop across the city. As we leave I stop to ask about an electric grinder for sale behind the counter. The barista, not the same one who earlier took our orders, opens his mouth and answers my stutter with one of his own. A dysfluent dance opens between us as we discuss the pros and cons of this mid-range grinder. I leave without the coffee grinder yet with a smile—fortunate to have stumbled upon dysfluency in a fluent world. 
 
Let’s get the obvious out of the way: I apparently spend too much time at coffee shops. Beyond this fact, there seems to be something really different about these two encounters. In the first experience I was identified as that guy who stutterers through my dysfluency. The first thing that popped into my head were the opening lines of “Honest Speech,” where Erin remarks: “The barn owl communicates with its mates and offspring using a complex system of hissing, screeching, squawking, and facial muscle manipulation / Survival is dependent upon creating a voice so unique it can be recognized by loved ones in an instant.” Was I an owl perched in a Starbucks line?
 
The first intuition is yes, however the issue is complicated. My unique hissings and squawks reveal me to be a singular being that others can recognize. Yet there is an important difference between being recognized as a singular being as opposed to identified a type of person—that is, “a stutterer.” The second is an identity, a subject of a usually medicalized discourse. A “stutterer” is an identity that our culture understands because it is an identity that they have created and thus control. There is nothing unique nor singular about being a “stutterer.” I have been identified as a “stutterer” through my speech many times, and this is almost always an act of erasing dysfluency, of reducing it and myself to an identity that can be understood and managed.
 
In the capitalist context of a Starbucks line, calling me “Josh” seems to be recognizing my singularity rather than my identity as a “stutterer.” What caused the barista to remember me? My unique voice or the fact that I was a stutterer? These options are of course not mutually exclusive, but it may be helpful to consider the context. Baristas write names on coffee cups to give the feeling of connection. This feeling is part of the experience you pay for. In more fancy coffee shops, I have been told, the person behind the till writes down a distinguishing characteristic on the order—e.g. black coat, red hair—so that the other baristas can look directly at you when calling your name. As if that latte was made with care just for you. Calling anyone by name in this context is a calculated play at recognizing our singularity. Whether or not the barista last week identified me in my dysfluent singularity, rather than “that stutterer,” is ultimately beside the point.
 
Compare this to the second encounter. The wonderful thing about encountering dysfluency as dysfluency is the lack of need to make sense of it by labelling it. We were not two stutterers engaged in a halting act of communication, but an unexpected eruption of dysfluency in the world. There is far more dysfluency in the world than most people would like to admit. In fact, the idea of a “fluent world” is a fiction that can only be maintained through a sustained effort of covering up and smoothing over dysfluency. Encountering dysfluency enlivens me because of its honesty. As Erin says, “The sstuttering is the most honest part of me.” This is true not because stuttering represents some deep and authentic truth about who I am—a stutterer—but because the dysfluency of my voice “is how I know I still have a voice, I am still -being heard.” I participate in the world dysfluently and help to create a dysfluent world through my unique squawks and screeches. It is in these specific actions that I can be recognized; these squawks do not point to a general truth about my (medical and social) identity as a “stutterer.” They rather point to me here in this specific and fleeting moment.  
 
Desiring and expecting dysfluency in the world is perhaps a far better model than the way stuttering is used to label us. We don’t need to find and join with other “stutterers,” we need collectively to create a more dysfluent world.  

-Josh

Much of the time, my speech is not noticeably dysfluent. The number of blocks and repetitions I encounter in a given sentence vary by the day, topic, and speaking situation; some days there are a lot, and some days almost none. I do not purposefully augment my speech to mask dysfluency, but it is very common for others to incorrectly perceive my speech as fluent, at least initially. In these instances I am fluent-passing, regardless of my intentions.

Passing is a complex component of disabled identity. It comes with a great deal of privilege, which I am careful to remember. My history with stuttering and speech discrimination is my own, and it is greatly influenced by the ease with which I can pass as fluent—the ease with which I can closet my voice. My speech is stigmatized in a similar manner to other stutterers, but often to a much lesser degree. While in a particularly dysfluent period I am reminded of the contrast, how it feels to anticipate ridicule every time I open my mouth.

Being fluent-passing means that my dysfluent identity is less visible to the people around me. Stuttering is a thing that I do, and I don’t feel the need to talk about it all that often. Because of this, my friends and co-workers are frequently surprised or confused when they first hear my opinions about dysfluency. They are surprised to learn that I care greatly about the way my speech is perceived, or that the ways they talk about my voice are a type of speech discrimination.

I receive a lot of praise from others (especially from poets) for the way that I parse my words. They call me articulate, or compliment my diction. This makes me uncomfortable—in the way that fluent people discussing a dysfluent person’s speech is usually uncomfortable—but also because my praise-worthy diction is the result of two decades of pressure to assimilate. I enunciate the way I do because speech discrimination has taught me that it is the safest way to speak.

The variability of my dysfluency increases the pressure I feel to pass in some aspects of my life. I am always disabled, even when others do not hear a stutter. I always have the right to request and receive accommodations related to my speech, but the justification for those accommodations is less apparent. People assume that since I sound fluent one day and dysfluent the next, I am capable of presenting as fluent all of the time. And if I am capable of presenting as fluent, that they have no obligation to respect my dysfluent identity.

Everyone communicates in a unique manner; fluent and dysfluent alike, no two people have identical speech patterns. The category of stutterers encompasses a massive range of voices that can really sound quite different from one another. As such, every stutterer experiences stuttering and speech discrimination differently. These experiences are influenced and augmented by intersections of privilege and marginalization in regards to race, gender, class, and sexuality.

My voice is my own and it reflects my individual history. I do not claim to speak on the specific oppression of anyone else; rather, I am committed to fighting the speech discrimination that prohibits dysfluent people from being heard.

-Erin

When I tell people I teach elementary school math, I can't help but notice the surprised looks I get. In general, people are too polite to ask how someone who stutters as much as I do can get up in front of kids and teach anything. Truthfully, I'd love it if someone actually did ask me this question. Foremost, because it has been a lot of work. As I did my Masters in education I felt like I had to constantly prove myself in ways people with average fluency did not. I am proud of my accomplishments and what I do as a teacher, but also I'd like to break down the perception that there are jobs inaccessible to people who stutter or who have other disabilities.

Reflecting back on the past two years as a classroom teacher, I've made a lot of personal growth. When I first started teaching I used a lot of speech tools and techniques that hindered what I wanted to say. I spent more energy on attempting fluency than on actually teaching. With the help of the Did I Stutter Project and a very supportive administration, I no longer view my stutter as an obstacle but as an asset. The only speech tool I use regularly now is advertising. And I prefer to call it advocating. Self advocacy is something I try to instill in all my learners, whether they have a disability or not.  

I can't deny that I face challenges daily. I have difficulty with /s/, /p/, /m/ and /r/ sounds and math vocabulary abounds with them: symmetry, multiply, parallel, remainder, to name just a few. There is no using circumlocution to avoid these as they are crucial words for my students to hear, use, and understand. This doesn't even account for all the other communication that needs to happen throughout the day to ensure an organized, peaceful, and welcoming learning environment. In addition to regular classroom duties I, am responsible for calling parents, speaking up in meetings, and even addressing assembly.

At the beginning of this school year I sat down with my new students and talked about the things that make us unique. I spoke honestly about stuttering and why some people speak this way. I made sure they understood that I'm not uncomfortable and they can always ask me to repeat myself if they don't understand what I've said. We talked about the etiquette of conversation and how you should never finish anyone's sentences for them even if you think it's helpful. I also talked to them about being gay and from New Jersey because these too make me unique. I encourage my students to find the things about themselves that make them unique and to have pride in those things.

As I said before, I truly believe my stutter makes me a better communicator. Because I speak slowly and with a lot of blocks and repetitions, students are able to process what I say more easily. I can't bolt through a long set of instructions for example. I also employ an economy of words. My students aren't used to me talking at length so I think they listen more carefully when I do speak. I believe I have become a much more creative and careful thinker as well, because my mental energy is no longer spent on attempting fluency. Additionally, I've become a better advocate for myself and for my students in terms of accommodations.

My classes are a mix of learners with various needs--from students with identified high incidence disabilities (specific learning disabilities, ADHD and Autism) to those identified as needing enrichment through the gifted and talented program. Some of my students fit in both exceptionalities as well. I am a strong believer in Howard Gardner’s theory of Multiple Intelligences. Rather than lecture, I use hands-on discovery, games, songs (I play guitar and sing math songs at least once a week), kinesthetic movement activities, projects, and practical applications like cooking and building, to deliver and reinforce new concepts. This can take hours of preparation and careful planning, but I think it makes for a much more varied, child-centered learning environment.

Of course I do occasionally have to introduce a new concept in the more traditional ‘teacher in front of the classroom’ model. In these instances I often use videos (I’m a huge fan of Learnzillion), text reading apps, animation apps (Tellagami is my favorite) and other technology to help me effectively communicate in the most efficient way possible. These tools are often referred to as assistive technology: any item, piece of equipment or product that is used to increase, maintain, or improve the functional capabilities of people with disabilities. You'll notice that I don't include AT specifically designed for people who stutter like those that provide delayed auditory feedback, because fluency is not my mission, but rather effective, comfortable communication.

My hope is that when I use AT in the classroom it eliminates any stigma for students who chose to use it as well. Many of my students use Virtual Manipulatives and I have several students who are not strong readers or writers who benefit from such apps as Dragon dictation, Announcify, and Google read/write. As I learn about new tools and apps, I introduce them to all my students as something they might be interested in trying. I have been criticized by some colleagues for this, but I remind them that autocorrect and calculators are types of AT and ask if they are willing to give those up. I offer alternative formats for all exams and presentations as well. Because there is no stigma, I have many non-disabled students who prefer to use AT or alternative exams/presentations because of the novelty.

What makes me the most satisfied as a teacher is not when I find out all my students have passed their standardized tests, but rather when they tell me they love coming to my class. And truthfully, this happens a lot. I think having a teacher who both shows pride in his stuttering and who models the use of assistive technology can only help to confirm that people with disabilities can perform as well or even better than non-disabled people in their jobs.

-Eli

After years of fluency-shaping speech therapy, I finally found a different approach when I learned about desensitization and stuttering acceptance. It was a huge relief to learn that there was another option for people who stutter: one that didn't necessarily involve fluency. The idea that I could be content with the way I talked while still stuttering was never an option to me before, and it honestly changed my life. Since then, I've managed to overcome a lot of the frustration that I used to feel every time my speech wouldn't cooperate.

There's so much I value about desensitization, but lately I've been thinking about the inevitable risks we face in self-help and speech therapy, even when the goal is self-acceptance. For me, the notion that people who stutter can be good communicators was incredibly exciting. I continue to feel empowered when I list all the options I have while speaking: even if I'm not fluent, I can make "good" eye contact, listen well, express excitement about whatever I'm talking about, and communicate openness about my stutter. But the idea of a "good communicator" seems risky, and it's become important for me to remind myself not to overvalue "good communication." I worry that this phrase promotes a normalized idea of speech: one that makes room for stuttering, but only if it's surrounded by other qualities of good communication, some of which may be out of reach for many speakers.

So how can we push back that inevitable narrative of speech therapy--and disability-- that values overcoming? How can people who stutter keep from aspiring toward some model of speaking, without looking at the forces that shape the idea of "good communication?" I love many things about the idea that good communication doesn't mean fluency, but it's easy for this notion to go from being empowering to being another way that we tell ourselves that our speech is inadequate. Instead of failing at being fluent, I was failing at communicating well, failing at adequately owning my stutter, or failing at maintaining eye contact.

That's why it's so important for all people who stutter to become educated about disability theory: to consider the forces that normalize speech, and that require us to appropriately handle our stutter-- whether that means concealing it, regulating it with fluency-shaping techniques, or treating it with the proper amount of levity and openness. Without this dimension added to speech therapy or to self-help, the techniques we learn for "good communication" are just another form of easy onset. Both work toward standard speech without considering the forces that reject and stigmatize "bad communication"-- or disabled communication.

I'm still in speech therapy, and I still want to do all the things I wrote about above: stutter more easily, maintain eye contact, communicate openness. A lot of speech therapy, for me, is about fighting back against the techniques-- and shame-- I learned during fluency-shaping speech therapy. But, at the same time, I want to love my speech at all times: when I'm stuttering, when I'm blocking, when I'm using filler words, when I'm avoiding certain sounds. These habits may have come from a history of anti-stuttering therapy, but they're still a part of my voice, and a part of me. I went from hating myself when I stuttered to hating myself when I wasn't being a "good communicator": different scenarios, but the feelings that come afterward are eerily similar.

In both cases, I was failing the expectations of my listener: being awkward, vulnerable, visibly embarrassed, and, above all, unable to make them comfortable-- whether by achieving fluency, maintaining eye contact, or "communicating well." Is there a way to let go of the idea that people who stutter have an obligation to make their listener comfortable? To make these techniques an option, without making them an obligation? Along with openness, and easy stuttering, and eye contact, I want to look closer at "bad communication" and how it works-- because, even though it's "messy" (as Zach puts it in his blog post from September), it still communicates.

-Emma

Writing about my experience with stuttering is a difficult task. It isn't that I find writing inherently difficult, or that I’m uncomfortable with my stutter, but that I am unpracticed in telling a story about stuttering without also telling a story about everything else. Until very recently, stuttering was a thing I kept in my head, a thing I didn't know how to share. It was a thing I never talked about and tried desperately to avoid drawing attention to.

Unlike most stutterers I know, I do not have any experience with speech therapy. I have never been to a speech therapist and I have never had my speech diagnosed. As a child, I was never told that the cause of my speech differences had a name, or that it happened to anyone else. I do know that I began stuttering at a very young age, as even my earliest memories include dysfluency and frustration.

I can recall very clearly an incident in third grade when, after witnessing me navigate an impressive block, a classmate asked the teacher to explain why I spoke so strangely. The teacher looked at me, laughed, and told the student that I had just become too excited, and should slow down when I talk. I remember very little else from that year, but I remember that day perfectly. I remember feeling like I couldn't explain how my mouth felt when I spoke, that even if I found the words, no one would listen long enough to understand. I remember that day as the moment I became an active participant in my own silencing.

Without exposure to other stutterers or to the therapeutic world, I had no context in which to understand my stutter. I knew it was a problem, because it didn't happen to anyone else. I knew I could hide it by avoiding certain words, by answering questions incorrectly on purpose, or pretending not to know the answer. I knew I could hide it even better by not speaking at all. For more than a decade I accepted there was something odd about my speech but I regarded it as just one more thing that made me weird.  

When I was 18 I saw a trailer for The King’s Speech and recognized a piece of myself in the story. I watched it, locked alone in my bedroom in the dark. I was searching for answers, and I thought I had found them. In the span of that film, I went from knowing nothing about stuttering to knowing that I did was called stuttering, and believing that it was caused by being left-handed and by repressed psychological trauma. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what trauma I was repressing. It took several years for me to learn otherwise, when I met another stutterer and suddenly realized that my experience with speech was part of a larger story.

Which brings me back to the difficulty of writing about stuttering; for so long this has been such an individual concern, a thing I had no way to talk about. It is tricky now, to think back and isolate the influence of speech. How is my experience stuttering different from my experience as a woman? How is it different from my experience as a queer person with atypical gender performance? Or my experience with depression, or chronic illness? Surely, the man on the train who runs his hand up my thigh while telling me to smile is responding to my outward appearance. He knows nothing of my speech, but what about the job candidate I am interviewing? When he interrupts a question, is that because he is confused by my stutter? Is stuttering the reason I hate small talk, or is that just part of my personality?

Stuttering is such a central part of who I am and how I interact with the world. I do wonder if this would be different had I spent my childhood in a therapist’s office, had I been taught to dissect and analyze that part of myself as separate from the rest. The idea of speech therapy, with the goal of reducing or eradicating dysfluency seems absurd to me. Why should I allow someone to make me dislike such an innate part of myself? Those who advocate for speech therapy wouldn't suggest that I try to ‘cure’ my gender or sexuality. They wouldn't imply that I could ‘overcome’ kidney failure if I just tried hard enough, so why stuttering?

Sure, it was frustrating to grow up being so markedly different from my peers. I hate how well I trained myself to stay quiet, how I carried my mouth like a loaded gun. But I also recognize that I was battling larger demons than my stutter back then. I have hated every part of myself for most of my life, and that is not something a speech therapist could have changed. When I began conceptualizing my stutter as a positive facet of my personality, it felt like I was finally being honest with myself. I was finally communicating authentically.

Now, I live in a new city. I have friends who value me for the content of my communication rather than the method, who still laugh at my jokes even when I have to repeat the punch line three times, and who listen to me out of interest and not pity. I have found an artistic community that has helped me grow into an honest writer and a confident performer, and allowed me to compete at the national level. So much has changed, and yet I when I write about my history of silence it is as if I am still living it.

It has been 13 years since third grade, but the image of that teacher laughing is permanently seared into my mind. Even now, when a customer looks at me strangely or a barista chuckles at my garbled order, I hear that laugh. I am reminded of how arrogant that woman was, to dismiss my speech as hurried and make no further effort to understand me. How embarrassed I was, to not be able to control my speech. How obvious it seemed that I didn't belong.

And I also remember my voice, and the visibility I am afforded as a poet. I remember the capacity I have for change. I am proud to be dysfluent and to advocate for the voices silenced for being atypical. I am determined to use my voice and my visibility to become a new kind of stuttering resource.  

-Erin

My dad is a stutterer, like me. This could mean a lot of things and it does. He was, what you might call, a first generation dysfluency activist, he organized support groups in Miami Florida for stutterers.

This fact, and the facts of his family's very obvious condescension toward him for his stutter have haunted me for quite some time and my involvement in this website is indeed the culmination of that haunting.

My dad is a social worker. I do not always approve of this line of work because I am a mad person and I hear the way he talks about his clients in a less than equitable manner. I hear how he judges his patients behaviors and determines when they need to be fixed.

I am fortunate that he is alive today. I am lucky that I have an (admittedly medical model) activist family member with a similar disability to me who has responded to the myriad microaggressions that one faces for being dysfluent with extraordinary forgiveness and love for those around him.

My reaction to some of these interactions has always been rage. I have not been able to excuse this series of minor moments of ableist shrapnel, that continually fly as I speak.

When I was a teenager, I was very angry at my father for letting people walk all over him. I thought he was a terrible male role model. I always felt lacking for my not being more of a conqueror and a patriarch. But in fact this lack, this extra caring, it was and is a gift.

My father's devotion to caring for people. My father's never-ending practice of forgiveness. They teach me how to be a better person. My dad is a good person, perhaps purely in an interpersonal manner, but that is a valuable trait.

Activism and speaking up for ourselves and against subtle ableist microaggressions doesn't have to be a practice in reactive aggression and anger. Activism can be born of a sense of interpersonal love, for ourselves and for our people but also for the ideal that many in our society aspires to.

My style is more disruptive than my father's. I convince people by trying to shock them. We disagree with him on methods. But there's a lot that one can learn from him and his generation of dysfluency activists.

-Zach

When I was young for quite some time, I was asked why I still stuttered. Many people confronted me and said that speech impediments were a thing that people grew out of or got cured at an early age.

My explanation was really quite simple. My speech therapist had wanted me to speak in a slow sing-songy voice that was not my own. I did not want to speak in this voice. It required that I take longer to think before speaking, it required that I delay emotions and reactions and that I take a lot of time, bending my face and vocal chords, to achieve clarity.

But what does so-called clarity mean if it is not my voice? Surely, people can hear me without trying in the sing-songy voice. Yes, my words have more flow. But where is the intensity of ranting? Where is excitement? where is anger? These things could not be expressed in the sing-songy voice. These things were erased.

This is a consistent experience for me: therapy solutions always ask me to flatten the texture of my experience. They ask my voice, my body, my possessions, my movements---to be simplified. They want to pave over my bumps. They want to morph me into a copy of a statue. They would have me change my body and speech and presence into a statue for someone else's garden.

That life is not a life I can see myself living. I treasure the ups and downs. The silences and the static. I treasure the free expression and while sometimes that expression is sad, my spirit lives in the continual dives and climbs. My mind is more creative because it can be excited and then nihilistic. My voice means more and contains more passion cause it is curved not flat.

It was important to me as a child to have a complex and uneven voice but be able to own that voice as my own as a voice that I chose to have. It remains important that people have make extra effort to hear me. My voice is valuable as an appendage that moves with my emotions and physicality. My voice lives with my complexity and the messiness of my experience and that is why I am proud to be dysfluent.



-Zach

I am tired of avoiding my stutter.

My parents put me in speech therapy in the second and third grades and I hated it. “All we ever do is play games,” I told my parents. “It’s useless.” At the end of third grade, I found a letter from my teacher to my parents about my stutter “problem.” I got mad and ripped it up, and never went to speech therapy again.

In the fifth grade, I had only one line in the school play. In the eighth grade, I convinced my English teacher to allow me to abstain from the speech contest. Throughout school, I would look for classes that I knew didn’t have any oral presentations. Of course, this wasn’t always possible. In ninth grade English class, we were going around the room reading passages from Julius Caesar, which is already difficult enough to recite without a stutter. When it was my turn, I stumbled through a few words, and eventually hit a roadblock. The room was silent for a few seconds, until another kid yelled out, “Spit it out!” Everyone else in the class laughed. I was humiliated, but I also felt confused. What did I do wrong? Sure, I don’t sound like most other people when I talk, but so what? It took me a while to realize the other kid in that class was the one really saying something wrong.

I became good at avoiding my stutter after that. I even stopped referring to myself by my hard-to-say name. It was a skill, but it was also something that I knew I had to address at some point. It was affecting me inside and out of school. The way I was dealing with my stutter was simply making my life worse.

I have just now turned 22, and I'm finally going to do something. I'm going to own my stutter.

To use the cliché Bernard Baruch quote, “Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.” Why should I cater to other people by hiding what I sound like?

A quote from another blog post on this site resonated with me: “It takes two to stutter.” My stutter is a social construct that does not exist on its own. It exists in the context of a ripped up letter or a ninth grade bully. But it doesn't have to.

- David Kramer

I'm new to this blog so I’d love to do a little introduction. I'm Jacquelyn Revere. I received my Masters in acting and have been pursuing acting in New York City.  I recently started a video blog on Youtube talking about stuttering and my experience with it, and things that have helped me on my journey in a field where speaking is paramount.  I love the unapologetic nature of “Did I Stutter” and am honored to contribute a little bit of my experience to it.

I was asked to present a piece of poetry as a first timer at the National Stuttering Association Conference in 2012. I of course waited till the very last minute to write it and while on the plane to the conference after having writers block I made myself free write for 10 minutes. Out of this came something that I have never consciously thought of before. “Maybe nothing was wrong with me and everything was wrong with the listener. Maybe me stuttering is a lesson for whoever I'm talking to in patience.” I was a little taken aback that I had such a strong opinion supporting stuttering, and I had questioned it a bit, but the concept flowed well with my poem so I kept it. The poem was received extremely well, which lead to the beginning of me taking complete pride in my voice.

The more I explored this concept, the more I understood that 70% of communication is truly nonverbal. If I am telling a person non verbally that I am uncomfortable with my speech and I am uncomfortable with speaking, they will treat me as such. The more comfortable I am while speaking (stuttering included) the more comfortable the listener is. Understanding this then lead me to experiment with different situations and how I could perform my best, and keep myself as comfortable as possible. Through this I then found the power of authenticity. All people want is to connect with another person and an authentic person at that.  My goal now in life is to always be authentic, I admit that I change often and my views shift, but the core of me is the same, and I have found my way of communicating through authenticity.

My experience is that people will wait to hear you speak if you think what you have to say is important enough to be heard. My experience is also that the struggle that I had with stuttering is slowly dissipating the more comfortable I become. I still stutter. I don’t mind that. I enjoy being 1% of the speaking population, I think it’s a cool club to be apart of.  Does my speech test me daily, yes, but I also overcome it daily, and what better way to build confidence?

-Jacquelyn

Among all the things that stuttering is, it is perhaps first a break in communication. Stuttering is an interruption in the regular flow of how words are pronounced--and, just as important--how words are processed by those who are listening to us.  

I had a job spraying weeds two summers ago and worked with a guy named Mike: well acquainted with everyone, a story always perched on his tongue, and three decades an employee. Parked in a dusty, stale truck one afternoon, Mike and I were waiting out a bout of rain when it happened. Near the end of my somewhat elongated sentence, he snapped to attention with a simple “huh?” I painstakingly repeated myself, trying not to stutter, and again, “what?” This happened several times. While I had been working intensely at speaking and being understood, Mike had put no effort into listening, hadn't even bothered to try. This moment was filled with the sudden and overwhelming realization that I do not, and cannot, stutter alone. Stuttering is rather accomplished between a speaker and a hearer. Or, if one wants to insist that stuttering is a breakdown of communication, it is a breakdown that occurs between the speaker and the hearer. 

If this is true, then why do dysfluent speakers bear the entire load of responsibility for "breaking" communication? Why are we taught to feel ashamed when it takes a little longer to communicate? Why are we taught to loathe our speech (and very often, ourselves) because others don’t want to take a little extra time and effort to listen? If communication is an interaction between speakers and listeners, then the stutterer alone should not be marked as abnormal and disabled. There is a real sense in which listeners who “disable” our speech by refusing to take responsibility for their role in communicating are the “faulty” communicators. We communicate together; and we stutter together.      

In that spray truck two summers ago, for the first time instead of feeling shame for my stutter an entirely unfamiliar response was welling up: anger at being ignored, anger at being excluded.

The realization that it takes two to stutter announced a shift in how I would understand my disability and the response of others to it. I realized that stuttering and the shame it caused me could not properly be explained by the mere physical difficulty of vocalizing certain words. Realizing that my manner of communicating is interpreted as abnormal and as a disability by others because it conflicts with a particular set of values and social structures, I came to  understand that stuttering is not primarily about me speaking “wrong,” but is rather a form of ableist discrimination. This realization allowed me to reinterpret much of my previous experience, as well as my current identity, relationships, and goals. To say this was empowering would be an understatement.

-Josh