Speech therapy classes were a frequent long going occurrence in my life. I started going when I was two years old because my grandparents were worried that I wouldn’t talk. I didn’t start talking until I was four years old. Instead of asking for things with my own words I would point. I was never one to be loud. I remember my mom telling me that I was so quiet when I was born; I never cried or fussed, even when getting a shot. Most babies would cry when watching fireworks, but I would sit there and gaze upon the colorful arrangement of sparks and listen to the loud booms, and the whole time I would be in awe.

When I did start talking I couldn’t pronounce any word that had an “L” or and “R”. Talking was something that I always tried to avoid growing up. It wasn’t just because I couldn’t pronounce my words, but it was also because I was insecure about my own voice. I thought my voice sounded deep, so therefore I refused to talk. I never had friends, although I remember one girl named Angelina and she was my absolute best friend, until I left California at the age of six.

As for my speech therapists as a child, I don’t remember any of them, but what I do remember, was always winning the game silent ball. I always did my own thing. Most kids would go home and ride their bike and hang out with friends. When I got home from school I would take my radio on the front porch and listen to music, while walking around the house looking for any snail that I could find. I guess you could say I was highly unsocial. I always found new activities that didn’t involve talking.

It’s not as if I wasn’t introduced to literature or words when I was young, because my mom would always read bible stories to me. I learned how to write when I was three, and I ended up having the best handwriting in my class. But for some reason pronouncing certain words was impossible. My mom’s ex husband always made a joke about it, he would tell me to say the f-word instead of truck. That got old really fast.
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When I moved to Oregon when I was six, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I was still that little girl that couldn’t pronounce her R’s. Then fifth grade came along. I was very shy still and I had been in foster care for a few months. The only person who made me feel at home was my speech therapist. Her name I don’t remember, but she helped me so much. Every day after lunch she would pull me out of class and help me with pronouncing my words. This included rolling my tongue and doing mouth exercises. She would give me a new word every day and together we would work on it.

She was middle aged, yet she was the funniest, most outgoing person that I knew. I looked up to her as if she was my own mother. Not to mention her hippy style and her pulled back hair that was always on top of her head. She never gave up on me. Of all the people I’ve known the last person that I thought I would be looking up to most was my speech therapist. For six months or so, the length of my stay at Oak Heights Elementary school, she never once gave up on me. I remember the day when I first started pronouncing my words. I was so excited. I jumped up and gave my speech therapist a great big hug and thanked her for helping me for so long. I was in a state of melancholy because I knew I would miss her, but it was fifty weights off of my shoulder all at the same time.

Ever since that day I realized that I could write and speak in a good manner. Words made me feel better. I would write every day in my journal and that was when I first started writing, and I haven’t stopped. Before I was that shy little girl that never said anything because I was too embarrassed. Now there’s no stopping me, I write, I sing, and I never shut up, and I am so much more confident. Although I must admit, I sometimes struggle with pronouncing certain words with R’s, but that only makes me human.