My daughter, Whitney, and I recently had a conversation regarding the word “flustered”. An associate of hers used the descriptor while attempting to offer a bit of advice. Whitney took exception to its use. “I do not get flustered!” She was indignant. I smiled, because I immediately assumed it was spoken by a male closer to my age than hers. And I was correct. If he had been addressing a man, more than likely, he would have assessed those expressed feelings and understood them to be due to frustration, not being flustered.
There are quite a few terms that depending on your age, experience and mind set, you can take either positively or negatively. “Different” is definitely one of those terms. If you embrace the idea of being unique and not defined by a norm, then being “different” is construed as a positive. On the other hand, if you feel isolated, ostracized and long for acceptance, being termed “different” will probably cause you to knit your eyebrows as you shake your head.
How you get to the point of being able to embrace what makes you “different”, I think, has as much to do with your confidence, as it does with who makes up your family, friends and supportive circle.
I was born a stutterer, from a long line of family with a variety of speech “impediments”. Talk to a group of us at a family reunion and you too, will leave as a stutterer. My father, who stutters, had the foresight to insist that I attend speech therapy sessions. Twice a week, for nine years, I slipped out of class to sit for 30 minutes in a room a little larger than a broom closet, and practiced phonetic sounds in front of a mirror.
School was a horrendous experience. Teachers were hesitant to call on me, kids would constantly laugh and tease me. My parents, as parents were back then, were very practical. They had little patience for you feeling “sorry” for yourself. My dad often told me that life was seldom fair - in fact, fair has no real definition. And my mom, always to the point, told me to learn to deal with the cards I was dealt.
I accepted their lessons, in large part because I witnessed my dad, without complaint, deal with stuttering every day. He was a public school teacher, and a very active member of our church.
The church, I grew up in was the typical black Baptist congregation. You were rewarded for being earnest. Every effort at singing, reading, and elocution - what they used to call recitation back in the day, were met with hearty amens. Not a single member, despite my speech, grumbled when at age 12, my father appointed me Junior Sunday School Superintendent. After all, he was Senior Sunday School Superintendent. I was in charge on 2nd and 5th Sundays, and he the rest of the month. We both stuttered our way through scripture reading and announcements. My pauses were filled with loud “Amens” and “That's alright baby” and encouraging nods. At the beginning of 11:00AM service, my dad-who was also a deacon, would kneel alongside the other deacons and take his turn to offer aloud his words of prayer.
Now, as an adult, I have come to realize that my dad's confidence in himself and assurance, despite the stuttering was my confidence. Whether he was teaching a class, both in the public school classroom or at church, he stated his thoughts, and made his points. Often times, then as well as now, he played devil's advocate. My husband humorously calls it, “point-counterpoint”. Not even at 88 years old, no one can stop him from expressing himself.
My mother, after I became an adult, once confided that during our summer road trips, she would silently pray that we would stop talking. My dad and I would debate non-stop. Keep in mind, in the 1960's, there were no ear buds to tune us out. She loved us, so she never commented on the stuttering or asked us to stop. Mom would just quietly thumb through her magazines.
Many of my classroom teachers, made the assumption I was “dumb”. They thought, the stuttering meant no intelligent thought was formed before I attempted to articulate an idea. But, I kept raising my hand because in my home, stuttering silenced no one.
Eventually, around 8th grade, my speech began to “smooth” out. I learned to not focus on the sound of my voice as I articulated, but to instead just speak without “thinking” about what I planned on saying next. Therapy taught me how to breath and release tension. Even though I still stutter, for the most part, it only creeps up when I'm tired, excited or stressed.
Unlike my father, who grew up in the 1930's rural south, I had the opportunity in grammar school, to take advantage of speech therapy several times a week. So when it was obvious my son and daughter were also challenged with speech disorders, without hesitancy, I sought out therapy options.
My son's disfluency was dealt with within a year or two, but my daughter's disfluencies were much more profound. Along with the stuttering, Whitney was diagnosed with Childhood Apraxia. She was literally unintelligible. The only one in the family who could decipher her speech, was her brother-sometimes to his advantage. We eventually caught on that she was not always asking for a cookie!
Just as my dad was able to offer me insight and encouragement, my husband and I were able to do the same with Whitney. “Easy speech down”, became the mantra in our home. My husband, forbade our son from interpreting for his sister. We all developed the patience to listen, and when need be, to gently assist. My daughter did not shy away from expressing herself. I came to understand my mother's prayers for silence. Even as a pre-schooler, Whitney always had to have the last word.
I thoroughly related to my daughter having very few friends in grammar school. I will always remember how most classmates would keep their distance. Usually, I was not included in games or play. So at recess, I would take along a book to read. My daughter sadly, had the same experience. Fortunately, I was blessed to have the option to be a stay-at-home mom, so I made sure to volunteer for field trips. I knew very well the loneliness of not having a seat partner on the school bus.
My dad used our church as a platform to help me gain confidence. He would often volunteer me to participate in some church event or program. I had little choice in the matter, and if I am honest, I did not mind. The environment was accepting and loving. I am quite sure the church he attended growing up in Alabama, offered him the same secure platform.
Even though the church was my confidence builder, I took a different approach with my children. I made every effort to encourage them to find that one thing within themselves that no one could take away. My son was “Mr. Charisma” with musical ability, and Whitney was the “Diva Artiste”. She loved, loved and loved art. It was what she used to express herself, to distinguish herself from others and it was her solace when she was lonely. It gave her confidence.
Along with the speech disfluencies, Whitney was diagnosed with femoral anteversion - the thighbone near the hip has a twist. So, she had a very defined “pigeon toe” stance, which she has learned to address as an adult. And we learned, she had working memory dysfunction. The tenacity Whitney has as an adult was honed during her childhood.
During those years, I remember sounding like both my mother and father...“Whitney, who said life is suppose to be fair?...You have to play the hand you were dealt.” She once told a friend who was feeling sorry herself, a chastisement I stole from Dolly Parton, “Get off the cross, we need the wood!”
Even before kindergarten, I noticed Whitney was developing her own sense of style. The “Diva Artiste” had no problem listening to her inner voice. After years of dressing a boy, I was beyond giddy to dress a girl. Every outfit I purchased had pink and lace. Whitney HATED pink and lace. At age four, to my dismay, she would cut the lace from her ankle socks. Even as early as five years old, our shopping for clothes could only be described as me standing quietly near the clothing rounder holding her selections.
I didn't stymie her. So, if she wanted to wear mismatched shoes to school, even after advising her that some of the kids or teachers wouldn't quite get it, I would say, “go for it”. And she always did. My gut told me to allow her to express herself as she saw herself. It was what was going to give her confidence to face the harsh world. I firmly believe that God gives mothers and fathers, if they are still enough to listen, a road map to understanding their children.
Throughout grammar school, into middle school and high school, Whitney surely expressed herself. In fourth grade, she insisted on attending a class field trip to the opera wearing a floor length velvet dress and opera length gloves. She got the idea from a drawing in a book of a woman attending the opera in a formal. Her dad enjoyed her spunk so much, he gave her a pair of opera glasses. All that her teacher could mouthed as we walked into the classroom, was “Oh, my!” Whitney did not care.
Her world evolved around art. Even before she could keep up with the subtitles, she and I would go to the movie theater to watch foreign films. Whitney would study the film's costuming and set design. She often picked up the characters' subtle behavior and plot details that I would miss! To this day, she notices tiny but important details in body language and use of space.
Her dad, provider in every sense of the word, saw to it that she had art lessons and supplies. Whitney constantly entered art shows and competitions, and she would place 1st, 2nd or 3rd every time, except once. She even won a ribbon in her category at the State Fair of Texas.
Her growing confidence, by the beginning of middle school, supported her efforts to make friends. Her brother practiced phone conversations with her, taught her how to make small talk. He even suggested she bring a deck of playing cards with her to lunch and start a game of solitaire. He said kids would come over and suggest playing a game. He was right.
The first day of her high school freshmen year, she inked very distinct “tribal” dots over her brows. Her dad, brother and I were speechless. Even though, between she and her brother, there was little left to surprise us. We had to ask, “What's with the dots?” She smiled and explained, “It takes the pressure off of me. If people are going to look, it gives them a reason to talk to me.” Her brother shrugged, “C'mon girl, get in the Jeep.”
Did her confidence garner friends? A few. Butterflies, I call them-beautiful butterflies. In college and forward, she has been able to form friendships. They like Whitney, have learned to embrace what distinguishes themselves from the “norm”. They are their very own normal. You can not define them, or place them in any box.
Somewhere, along the way, they've learned life isn't fair, and yes you have to play the cards you've been dealt. But every card played, can be placed down confidently and with purpose.
Phyllis Hill is a freelance and ghost writer. Even though her hometown, Chicago is always near and dear to her heart, Dallas TX has been home for the the last 35 years. She has written several romance novels under the pseudonym, Phyllis Hamilton. She says, "Real life and people are fascinating. Most of what I have experienced, I could never have the brain matter to make up. These observations write their own stories." When asked her biggest accomplishment, without hesitation, Phyllis says that it is to be a mom to two wonderfully grounded children. "...Even as adults, they listen to their own beat, and freely dance to it. They are able to be free because they trust the Lord."