My Childhood Speech Impediment Motivated Me to Write

I love how writers create histories for their characters to understand why those characters do what they do. What inspires a character to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a shoe salesman? What dramatic event in his or her past molds them into what they ultimately become? 

What about authors? What happened in their past that motivated them to pick up a crayon, or pencil, or tap a keyboard to invent those first stories? 

I was pondering this about myself the other day. As a small child, I was more of an artist than a storyteller, but not for lack of trying. Unfortunately, something held me back. I couldn't read aloud because I had a speech impediment and talking didn't come easily to me. In 1963, the first graders at my school were taught to read in groups by reading out loud, and since that wasn't something I could do, I was placed in the lowest reading group. No one knew what to do with me. I loved stories, and loved having them read to me, but my teachers were clueless how to teach me to read to myself. 

If you and I had a conversation today, I doubt you'd guess I ever had a speech problem. I was born tongue-tied, which is a medical condition called ankyloglossia. It's hereditary. I'm adopted so I don't know who I inherited it from, but both my son and my grandson got it from me. 

So what does this condition look like? I still have it, even though I don't talk funny anymore. At least I don't think I do. There's a thin membrane like a web attaching the tip of my tongue to the floor of my mouth, directly behind my front teeth. When I was little, my tongue often got in the way when I talked and I had the most trouble with "ch" and "sh" sounds, though "t", "n" and "d" were difficult to say as well. I used to bite my tongue a lot. 

As for my teachers who were at a loss what to do for me, they went to the trouble of finding someone who could help. A speech therapist worked with me three days a week, over the course of several months, until I learned how to speak properly. 

Once I discovered my new ability to communicate and actually be understood, I was unstoppable. My teachers were finally teaching me to read and I read everything I could get my hands on. I read all the time, and while the other kids were outside playing at recess, I delighted in writing down all the stories that had been stacking up inside my head. It was as if a whole new world had opened up for me and I became insatiable for its literary riches. 

My mother considered having my tongue clipped--a procedure called a frenotomy--but she couldn't stand the thought of me having unnecessary surgery. So my tongue is still tied. And it's fine. Yes, there's restrictive movement, not that I have anything to compare it to. I mean, it's been this way my entire life. I can talk just fine, I can eat just fine, and as for kissing? Well, I've never had any complaints. French kissing with a tongue that's tied can be a whole new experience for anyone who's never tried it. I'm content with my peculiarity. My dentist, however, has an entirely different viewpoint. I make his job more difficult (cue the violins). 

I think my childhood frustration over my lack of reading skills gave me a stronger appreciation for what it takes to read and write. It was tough watching the other kids do something I couldn't do, but I never lost my determination. I'm grateful for my first grade teachers, who never lost their determination either. Win win. 

If you're a writer, what happened in your past that inspired you to start writing? How about reading? What's the first story you remember reading as a child? 

Miracle in the Sky

Skydiving is an exhilarating sport. It's exciting, challenging, and a bit risky. Faulty parachutes, mid-air collisions, hard landings… I know because I jumped out of airplanes on the weekends during my freshman year of college. And in those days... I'm talking the late seventies... there was no such think as "tandem" jumps. Tandem jumps are for pussies. All 60 of my jumps were done solo and without a monkey on my back.

I looked death in the face every time I stepped onto the strut, the heavy chute strapped to my back pulling me out of the plane, the icy wind thousands of feet above Earth blowing my screams into silence. I wasn't screaming in terror. I screamed in triumph. Young and invincible, I dared anything bad to happen while I was having such a good time.

Mornings made the best time to jump because that's when the winds were calm. I'd lie back on the grass beside the airstrip, my head propped against my packed chute, my hands shielding my eyes as I stared upward to watch my fellow divers fall from the jump plane. They looked like specs of sand that grew into small pebbles the closer they got to the ground. Sometimes they'd join hands to form circles in the sky, then shoot away from each other, their parachutes billowing off their backs and jerking them to a brief stop before floating them gently to Earth. A sky ballet without the music.

Parachute landings may look easy, but for me they rarely were. I've suffered bruises and broken bones from landing in trees, sugar cane fields, muddy cow pastures, and the center lane of a busy highway. But nothing can beat the day I landed on the beach.

It had rained early that morning and low clouds forced our plane to sit on the runway longer than usual. Leaning back against the bare metal sides of the Cessna, I closed my eyes and listened to the engine roar and the props spin, my heart quickening when we finally began our taxi down the airstrip. The plane's wheels bumped over cracks in the tarmac, making the metal floor vibrate beneath me until we were airborne.

Our take-off was no different than any other.

A flash of red crumpled cloth interrupted the darkness behind my eyelids and I jerked my eyes open. Everything looked the same. The plane's floor was bare, the passenger seats removed to accommodate jumpers, though it was only my jumpmaster, Byron, and me on this flight. The pilot and our spotter occupied the two seats up front. I blinked and breathed out a sigh.

"You all right?" Byron shouted above the engine's roar.

I nodded, my helmet heavy on my head. "Thought I saw something," I yelled back.

"What?"

I grinned. "I don't know. It was just…" He must have thought I was an idiot. "Never mind. It was nothing."

Byron, an ex-marine with the demeanor of Santa Claus, quirked an eyebrow before leaning back to enjoy the ride.

We needed to climb to an altitude of 15,000 feet to allow enough time for a thirty-second freefall. It took a while for the dense clouds above us to part and let us through. Excitement and anxiety warred inside me, but I felt comforted in knowing my jumpmaster would dive with me today.

The pilot nodded at the spotter, who opened the door. A blast of frigid air pushed me firmly into the wall at my back. The spotter hung his head outside to peer down at the miniature landscape below. He held up a thumb. The pilot cut the engine.

Time for us to go.

I climbed out onto the strut and faced forward with both hands gripping the wing. It wobbled slightly as the pilot glided the plane like a kite. I let go and arched my back, staring up at the plane that seemed to fly away from me, only it was me flying away. Falling away. Byron dived out to join me.

My body remained stable, belly toward the ground, as I plummeted at a velocity of 130 miles per hour. Byron's strong hands grabbed my ankles and turned me around to face him, his gloved fingers now gripping my forearms. The wind pulled and pushed his face out of shape, his cheeks flapping like fish gills. He pointed at the altimeter mounted on the packed reserve chute strapped to my chest, then let me go.

I stared below me, not at the ground, but at the ocean. We had strayed off course.

Arching my back again, I yanked my ripcord free and the parachute popped from my back, caught the wind, and snapped open. The jerk was like slamming on the brakes. I gazed up at the full canopy of black, red and gold, and scanned the horizon for my jumpmaster. His red parachute, now a rumpled ball of nylon, landed in the blue water far below. Byron floated down after it, the circle of a white reserve parachute carrying him gently out to sea. A boat was already speeding out to greet him.

His main chute must have malfunctioned, but he seemed to be okay. I'd pulled my cord higher than usual, meaning I still had a ways to go before reaching the ground. While watching Byron, I'd neglected to pay attention to my own location. I saw water below, a strip of beach next to that, then the rooftops of houses beside a band of highway lined by a ribbon of power lines. The drop zone was miles out of reach.

I tapped the silent radio on my chest. Nothing. As a novice jumper, I depended on the ground crew to talk me down. Not a word came through the tiny speaker and I floated closer to the ground every second. The rooftops looked flat enough to land on, but if I missed I could get tangled in a power line. If I veered too far to the right I'd get dunked in the sea.

"Head for the beach."

I heard the voice clearly and exhaled in relief. The ground crew. My saviors.

I steered my parachute toward the slim line of beach and touched down within minutes. I could have easily made the wrong choice, but the guardian angel who spoke through my radio had guided me in the right direction.

I tapped the radio again, listening for someone to say they'd come get me soon. Silence. I detached the radio from my reserve pack to give it a shake and was surprised by how light it felt. Flipping open the back, I checked the batteries. There were no batteries. The compartment was completely empty.

I stared at the nylon canopy spread across the sand. What had just happened? No batteries means no radio communication, yet I had clearly heard a voice tell me to head for the beach. Was it the wind? Or had I suddenly become schizophrenic? Whatever it was, it had possibly saved my life.

I never told anyone at the drop zone about my experience, least of all Byron. He arrived back at the airstrip with his bundle of soggy red parachute in his arms and a Santa Claus smile on his face.

"So how was it?" he asked me.

I frowned for a second as I tried to think of the best way to answer. Finally I grinned and said, "Miraculous."

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

Well, to be honest, I didn't fight the law because it already won. I spent the day in jail only because I had no other choice. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

This is an actual event from my past, one of those powerful memories that stick with you for a lifetime. It's odd how you don't appreciate your freedom until it's taken from you, if only for a single day and night. It was a scared-straight moment for me, but I wasn't really crooked. I was a victim of circumstance. Honest.

Flip the calendar back by about 30 years and you'll arrive at a time in my life when I didn't always make the best choices. I was young, newly married, and naive as hell. My new husband and I were taking a trip on his big bad motorcycle from Denver to Nevada for a weekend on his friend's boat at Lake McConaughy. And he planned to do a bit of target practice with his handgun while we were there.

He thought it would be cool to strap a holster to his handlebars so he'd look like a badass with his pistol showing. Ass being the optimal word here. We weren't on the freeway long, hadn't even made it out of the city, when a motorcycle cop pulled us over. My then-husband (now ex) got the bright idea to slip the gun into my purse.

The cop pulled out his gun and instructed us to put our hands up. I couldn't take my eyes off the weapon in his shaking hand that was pointed straight at me. I don't think he'd been on the force long. His finger on the trigger was white at the knuckle and I wanted to cover my ears to block the loud shot I expected at any second. Lucky for me, the gun didn't go off.

The cop instructed me to hand over my purse, which I did. Practically threw it him. My husband didn't say a word. The cop called for back up and within minutes two black and white police cars pulled up to the curb. Needless to say we made quite a spectacle and passersby craned their necks to get a better look at the take-down of a couple of crooks.

I was frisked and handcuffed, then unceremoniously pushed onto the backseat. Those handcuffs really do hurt, especially when your hands are cuffed behind your back shoved against a car seat.

I was arrested for carrying a concealed weapon.

My husband was arrested, too, because the cop had pulled us over when he saw the gun strapped to the handlebars. Apparently there'd been a burglary at a convenience store in the area and my husband and I matched the description of the perpetrators.

So I spent the day and night and part of the next day in jail while waiting for a friend to bail us out. The Denver County jail was not what I expected. They took the rubberbands from my hair and the shoelaces out of my shoes, and confiscated my belongings, which included the novel I'd brought along. Even back then I never went anywhere without a book to read. I asked if I could please have my book back and was told this is jail, not a hotel. No, I could not have my book, but they did let me have my cigarettes, of which I was running low (I quit smoking over a decade ago). And a bible. The Book of Ruth is actually quite good.

I had a cell to myself and I remember it quite vividly. Gray brick, a bright orange door with a tiny window at the center of it, a metal bunk with a blanket, and a matching metal toilet and sink. Lovely. All I had to listen to was my own breathing and the occasional shouts from my fellow inmates. There was a window covered with metal mesh that looked out to the street beyond. I loved that window and spent a lot of time staring out and wishing I was on the other side of it.

I felt lonely, betrayed, and scared shitless. I cried a lot, and not just because I was bored to tears. Being forcefully contained against my will, especially for a crime I didn't commit, made me feel more helpless than I'd ever felt in my life. I was only 21 years old. What would my mother say when she found out? And I felt sick to my stomach the entire time I was in there.

Most of the other girls with me were prostitutes. We didn't talk much. Meals were served in a community cafeteria on metal trays with enormous spoons for eating utensils. I even remember what we had for dinner that first night: chicken chowmein from a can. Breakfast the next day was lukewarm oatmeal. Coffee, yes. Cream and sugar, no.

It's not an experience I'd want to repeat, but like most experiences I've had over the years, good and bad, it's grist for the story mill. If I want to convey a sense of loneliness and despair for one of my characters, I just harken back to this memory. It feels like it happened only yesterday.

We got out of jail the next day, and returned to appear in front of a judge a few weeks later, where we were found innocent of all charges. They kept that awful gun, though, much to my husband's severe disappointment. He never did apologize for getting me put in jail, as if it were my duty as his wife to take the rap. I think not. That event was probably the first nail in the coffin of our soon-to-be dead marriage.

I tease my oldest daughter that she'd spent some time in jail, too. Turns out the reason I felt sick while I was in there was because I had morning sickness. Who knew?

Have you ever spent time in jail? If so, have you ever used the experience in your writing?