Whenever excited or nervous and I think I have something important to say, I usually stutter. Crazy Annie and Will-yum make fun of me. "Ah-ah-ah-ah-I can't huh-huh-huh-help it," I insist. They laugh even harder.
Somebody does help: Sister Tuna. Her actual name is Sister Maris Stella, a Franciscan nun with a Latin title that means "Star of the Sea." Silver steel-framed eyeglasses and a face three-quarters the size of a basketball and as round as one, Sister Tuna seldom smiles as she sits at her desk and speaks in monotone, unraveling secrets of biology as well as explicating Shakespeare.
Interestingly, this serious nun has a propensity for dry humor. In her biology class, she insists we dissect night crawlers. "Ugh," remark the girls, as expected. We boys laugh. Sister follows the worm dissection by handing out jars with frogs floating in formaldehyde. When we take off the jars' covers, even we boys go, "Ugh." Who laughs and points out the obvious? You bet: Serious Sister Tuna.
In her English literature class, we study "Merchant of Venice." I feel sorry for the supposed nasty character, Shylock. Sister Tuna is taken aback. "You what?"
"Leh-leh-leh-let's say there's a kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kid in town whose name is Tuh-Tony." (Enough with the repetition). "Tony calls me names and spits on me. Why? Only one reason: I'm Catholic."
Students revolve their index fingers to the sides of their heads. One boy says, "Hoffman's loony." No matter, I continue. "I also save the money I earn. Tony wastes his on all sorts of stuff he doesn't need but wants. Later, he tells me he wants to buy a car and asks me to loan him one hundred dollars. Should I say, 'Sure, why not? You call me all kinds of names and spit on me simply because I'm Catholic. I save my earnings; you don't. So, of course, I'll lend you the hundred bucks I suspect you'll never repay'."
Fellow students' hands reach for the air to oppose my viewpoint, but the bell rings, ending class. "Mister Hoffman, I'd like to see you after class," Sister Tuna chants in monotone.
"He's gonna get it now," says Leroy Borski, laughing as only he can.
"Yeah," agrees Clarence McDaniel while Pat Getzin and John Andrewski walk out the room, shaking their heads.
Sister waits until all the other students are gone. "I've never thought about Shylock as you proposed. Although I disagree with you, you make a good point."
"Thank you, Sister."
She smiles. "But you wouldn't insist that Tony repay you with a pound of his flesh, would you?"
"No, Sister."
"Gordon, did you know that most people stutter but aren't aware of it?" Oh, oh, where is this going? "Then, we have Secondary Stutterers," she continues, "who are aware they stutter and are embarrassed by it, causing them additional problems. I believe I can help you, Gordon."
What could she do that I haven't tried? Zilch. Sister Tuna says nothing more about my stuttering, nor do I say anything to her. The next school year, I must take speech. Sister Tuna hands out a syllabus that states each student must make four speeches, a one-minute prepared talk followed by two two-minute impromptu speeches, one a personal disaster because I could hardly get a word out, and finally an Oh-my-God five-minute final speech, its subject matter meeting Sister Tuna's prior approval. No way, Jose.
"Gordon, I haven't seen your five-minute proposal. The offer I made last year still stands."
"Uh-Uh-I want my speech to be on Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor." I recently read an interesting article on the subject in Life magazine.
"Approved. Could you meet me here after the last bell today?"
School's out. I head to the classroom. Sister hands me a piece of paper with one sentence: The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog. "We had this in typing class."
"Read it aloud, Gordon." I don't stutter one word. I'm proud and grin. "Very good," she says. "Now, read it again and purposely stutter each word."
So, I stutter most of the words.
"Read it again and stutter each and every word." Each time I finish, Sister follows it with, "Again," until I'm totally sapped. "Are you willing to meet tomorrow, same time?"
After lengthy sessions of stuttering the same sentence repeatedly, she tells me to recite it without stuttering. No sweat. The next moment, she tells me to stutter. Done. "Perfect. Now, without." Not a stutter in a carload. She smiles. "I believe you're ready for your five-minute speech."
Although nervous and excited, I follow Sister's advice and purposely stutter my speech's first word. After that, I'm home free. Five minutes later, the class applauds. I receive an A.
Years later, my biological sister, Annette, tells me she's a speech therapist because she's impressed with what Sister Maris Stella did for me. Plus, Annette adds, "I felt guilty for making fun of you."
"Not to worry," I tell her. "I forgave you long ago."
Somebody does help: Sister Tuna. Her actual name is Sister Maris Stella, a Franciscan nun with a Latin title that means "Star of the Sea." Silver steel-framed eyeglasses and a face three-quarters the size of a basketball and as round as one, Sister Tuna seldom smiles as she sits at her desk and speaks in monotone, unraveling secrets of biology as well as explicating Shakespeare.
Interestingly, this serious nun has a propensity for dry humor. In her biology class, she insists we dissect night crawlers. "Ugh," remark the girls, as expected. We boys laugh. Sister follows the worm dissection by handing out jars with frogs floating in formaldehyde. When we take off the jars' covers, even we boys go, "Ugh." Who laughs and points out the obvious? You bet: Serious Sister Tuna.
In her English literature class, we study "Merchant of Venice." I feel sorry for the supposed nasty character, Shylock. Sister Tuna is taken aback. "You what?"
"Leh-leh-leh-let's say there's a kuh-kuh-kuh-kuh-kid in town whose name is Tuh-Tony." (Enough with the repetition). "Tony calls me names and spits on me. Why? Only one reason: I'm Catholic."
Students revolve their index fingers to the sides of their heads. One boy says, "Hoffman's loony." No matter, I continue. "I also save the money I earn. Tony wastes his on all sorts of stuff he doesn't need but wants. Later, he tells me he wants to buy a car and asks me to loan him one hundred dollars. Should I say, 'Sure, why not? You call me all kinds of names and spit on me simply because I'm Catholic. I save my earnings; you don't. So, of course, I'll lend you the hundred bucks I suspect you'll never repay'."
Fellow students' hands reach for the air to oppose my viewpoint, but the bell rings, ending class. "Mister Hoffman, I'd like to see you after class," Sister Tuna chants in monotone.
"He's gonna get it now," says Leroy Borski, laughing as only he can.
"Yeah," agrees Clarence McDaniel while Pat Getzin and John Andrewski walk out the room, shaking their heads.
Sister waits until all the other students are gone. "I've never thought about Shylock as you proposed. Although I disagree with you, you make a good point."
"Thank you, Sister."
She smiles. "But you wouldn't insist that Tony repay you with a pound of his flesh, would you?"
"No, Sister."
"Gordon, did you know that most people stutter but aren't aware of it?" Oh, oh, where is this going? "Then, we have Secondary Stutterers," she continues, "who are aware they stutter and are embarrassed by it, causing them additional problems. I believe I can help you, Gordon."
What could she do that I haven't tried? Zilch. Sister Tuna says nothing more about my stuttering, nor do I say anything to her. The next school year, I must take speech. Sister Tuna hands out a syllabus that states each student must make four speeches, a one-minute prepared talk followed by two two-minute impromptu speeches, one a personal disaster because I could hardly get a word out, and finally an Oh-my-God five-minute final speech, its subject matter meeting Sister Tuna's prior approval. No way, Jose.
"Gordon, I haven't seen your five-minute proposal. The offer I made last year still stands."
"Uh-Uh-I want my speech to be on Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor." I recently read an interesting article on the subject in Life magazine.
"Approved. Could you meet me here after the last bell today?"
School's out. I head to the classroom. Sister hands me a piece of paper with one sentence: The quick red fox jumped over the lazy brown dog. "We had this in typing class."
"Read it aloud, Gordon." I don't stutter one word. I'm proud and grin. "Very good," she says. "Now, read it again and purposely stutter each word."
So, I stutter most of the words.
"Read it again and stutter each and every word." Each time I finish, Sister follows it with, "Again," until I'm totally sapped. "Are you willing to meet tomorrow, same time?"
After lengthy sessions of stuttering the same sentence repeatedly, she tells me to recite it without stuttering. No sweat. The next moment, she tells me to stutter. Done. "Perfect. Now, without." Not a stutter in a carload. She smiles. "I believe you're ready for your five-minute speech."
Although nervous and excited, I follow Sister's advice and purposely stutter my speech's first word. After that, I'm home free. Five minutes later, the class applauds. I receive an A.
Years later, my biological sister, Annette, tells me she's a speech therapist because she's impressed with what Sister Maris Stella did for me. Plus, Annette adds, "I felt guilty for making fun of you."
"Not to worry," I tell her. "I forgave you long ago."
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