Hiding from the Monster
When I was five, I was interviewed for admission to a private school, but I was not accepted. The same year, a doctor evaluated me and informed my parents that I was below average in intelligence. Not exactly a great start for the son of a prominent lawyer and the grandson of a United States senator. Have no fear ... Mensa will never come knocking at my door. However, both the interview and intelligence assessment were oral and ... I stuttered.
Surprisingly few knew that I stuttered. I had decided that a better solution to my speech impediment was to not talk. One never stammers if one never opens their mouth. I must have been successful because in my fourteen years of schooling from nursery school through high school, no educator ever picked up on my speech issues. It also guaranteed that when I went back for reunions, I would be greeted with, “Who are you?” I’m not sure my parents ever noticed, or maybe they were too busy with my rambunctious siblings. People simply wrote me off as shy.
Stuttering did not impact play or sports, but my mediocre athletic ability eventually did. I hid academically; getting noticed might have meant having to answer a question. I was well-behaved, more to avoid attention than because I was a “good” kid. Dating wasn’t going to happen. Back in the Dark Ages, when I was young, one had to call a girl to ask her out. For starters, I couldn’t get out the word “hello.” Then God forbid, I would have to ask questions. I never could have dated a “Debbie” because “D” words would never launch out of my mouth. Surprisingly, I had no problems with public speaking. I could compose a speech, making sure that no sentence began with a word that would trip me up. Plus, once on a roll, I could get most of the speech out effortlessly. I knew when not to pause. For the latter part of my schooling, I sat in the back of the classroom, trying to blend into the wall.
Was there a physiological basis for the stuttering? I’ll never know, and since I’m in the latter portion of my life, who cares? But I am still a stutterer, and seventy years of altering what I say and never beginning sentences with certain sounds have now made speaking effortless. People laugh when I tell them I stutter. I regret keeping the problem to myself and not trusting others to understand or help. Educationally, we do a far better job today of identifying and treating students with speech impediments. I may have been proficient enough even to escape detection today. I always told students to never “suffer in silence.” I should have followed my own advice.
Was there a psychological basis for my stuttering? Without a doubt. Age 12 was a turning point for me for two reasons. My little sister Kim, diagnosed as “mentally retarded,” was taken out of the home. This was a time when there was limited support for a family with an intellectually handicapped child, but losing her devastated me. Age 12 is also the time when many children become introspective. I have little, if any, memory of stuttering before that age, but from 12 on, it consumed me. My grades dropped significantly, which also went unnoticed; my friends changed, and I began to invest hours each day obsessing over my speech. If I had spent as much time studying as I did planning how to avoid awkward speech moments, I wouldn’t have been rejected by all the colleges I applied to except one. Ironically, that one was the right place for me as I began to find my niche.
School became hell on earth, actually worse, since I assumed talking was not necessary down below. A typical class would find me “hiding” and praying no one would ask me a question. In most classes, we would review homework, and the teacher would systematically go around the room, asking each student a question. I would immediately count how many students would answer before me, then go through the answers to see which question I would have to answer, praying it was a word I could say. Many questions were multiple choice, so I would have to say “a,” “b,” “c,” or “d.” I couldn’t say “b” or “d” outright, so I had a 50% chance of answering correctly. The other half of the time, since I had to say something, I would give the wrong answer or say, “I don’t know.”
By ninth grade, I had transformed myself from a top student to a mediocre one at best. French class was a nightmare as those “r’s” weren’t rolling off my tongue as they should. After being royally scolded in front of the class, I finally got the nerve to approach the teacher. I explained that I was doing the work, but often couldn’t answer in class because of the stuttering. He scolded me for resorting to a pathetic excuse when we both knew I hadn’t done the work. Did I mention he wasn’t my favorite teacher in school? If even one teacher had pulled me aside and shown a degree of sympathy, I would have nominated them for “teacher of the millennium.”
Yes, I hated school. Counting down the last days of summer was the equivalent of a prisoner checking off the days until their execution. Years later, I was asked to name the teacher in that school who inspired me. All were surprised when I said, “No one.” But then, in the irony of ironies, I became a teacher.
I’ve gotten to know several stutterers over the years. Their solution was to live with the problem, knowing they would occasionally stammer. How admirable. No one should ever sympathize with me. I was a coward ... or maybe stupid is a more appropriate term. While speaking in front of a group for a living might seem the worst choice for a stutterer, my condition made me acutely aware that my students were more than just individuals occupying a chair. All had some baggage, and I would be the teacher that I didn’t have in school. I chose middle school, the age when my life train was first derailed. By that point, I was adept at always beginning a sentence with the right sound, although I always had problems with certain names. I often had problems saying a “J” name, but, in another irony, married a “J.” For over 55 years, I’ve never had problems saying the word “Jackie.”
They say we grow more from failures than successes. In the same way, those monsters we all have growing up are what toughen us. I am a better person today because I stuttered. I’m not sure that would have given me much solace as a 12-year-old. Parents and educators need to remember that. While we don’t want a child to undergo unnecessary pain, some is unavoidable. Have you ever heard anyone say they wanted to return to the idyllic days of middle school? Children need us to support them, not overprotect them. They need to learn to find the humor in life’s trials and to know they are not alone. There is always someone far worse off than you. Growing up is as much about learning how to slay the childhood monsters as it is maturing. Yes, I am a stutterer and am now better off because of it.
— George Radcliffe, 2026