The Stutter

As I was walking to class, this short and perky brunette ran up to me and taped me on the shoulder.

"Hey there! I'm Becca… Are you new?"

"Y-y-y-ye-yesss-yes," the second I spoke, she looked at me as if I had a disease. "My n-na-nam-name i-is B-b-brr-bra-brad-d."

"Oh, um, nice to meet you…" she said as she started to walk away, obviously not wanted to be seen with me.

Whatever. Someone at this school won't mind my speech. Someone at this school will be my friend. Someone at this school will understand me.

I walked into homeroom.

Becca stares at me, along with other eyes sending looks of pity. And then someone shouts.

"Look Becca! It's your retarded boyfriend!"

Laughs soon followed. I sit down at my desk, my face obviously red from embarassment, and pull out my notebook and a pencil. I begin to write.

They listen

But they do not

Understand

They do not understand

The h*** I've already

Lived through

Breathed through

And spoke through

They listen

But

They do not

Understand

I know I'm no Robert Frost but when I write, I feel free. Whoever reads my words, won't focus on my literal voice. They focus, on what is true. They focus on what is important. And they forget for a moment that I stutter. They forget for a moment that I am different. Different and a stutter, not mentally challenged.

When I write, I am understood.