I teach a class called "Modern Communication." The irony is that for the first ten years of my life I couldn't say my own name.
I was always very fond of my name.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ryTBw8iYiPR0NOaOHpOgVqgJmQCjurCokz3zKNrC4OsSxnwpzj9faTt4RPyL-Z-EFK3Tg_L_O7TYK8NV4r5T621N57RUOAhnNPBRtgKM8ISgJ43PFCZcQm0Cx5XQxdn2ztoBRXrhr3Q/s400/Speech+Therapy+039.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0jjj-hNHrSPmiF2dznDHj4KjgFmwqvdSFrMqXO6JpMXYFD4Lz_nT8ZRoU-olpJiQXFKmoLXRGRWAZ6ZuDOQ04102IMyARZvc5VhpfNvxsSZSLLiwMmYqdas7NVETlILL1zvTgos54Fg/s400/Speech+Therapy+048.jpg)
The letters "L" and "R" were my personal demons.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQ94Wjo0b4oV6kONDY2YfKuslhBtuYQM_7d-mjoMmRDbt_TF6D_KzVJ_kNM4-oBdCAyM17QlJJAViD_EjVD8kLsQTylfydNFqwuPJ0MDVXTQnDyg23028aXtjJ3tyDZZ28GuIn154Qko/s400/Speech+Therapy+028.jpg)
... so twice a week I had to leave class, descend a flight of stairs, and squeeze into a closet of a room with Ms B., the speech therapist.
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Ms B. was a great believer in stickers...
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1e5Yyd0k5AZm4KRsTd10T3Kpthr9OzxcYcV0uNpgRstEvL0yTrmEWh_MJUlMkY5R6OwxUBCYlQIYXkj07t6wBMuPByVnyZpxN5wk1bdbJEu_Y7TXAGYP2h4-xdLcuPqK73Y9TQT5lZ2s/s400/Speech+Therapy+032.jpg)
... and in a special box.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0gOL-q9Ap3_fMuxMUTL7ag3Q-m69P1RhronQXBMU66Vvzfos9hWlO7gJ9dNskUqzClK1NqBu16-1ygScsr8tmwqFSI96DENAJJlOGrz9BZKFke2almEMHaAFC6xNm4SCUK7jmerCzeA8/s400/Speech+Therapy+034.jpg)
She really didn't understand.
Suddenly my diagnosis blurred. I was no longer the girl with the speech problem; I was the girl with the attitude problem.
Eventually Ms B. wrote me off as a lost cause.
Sixteen years have passed, and to hear me talk you wouldn't know that I'd ever had a speech problem.
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