Stuttering

My brother was born with six fingers. An extra pinky, to be exact. On his right hand. It would be eight more years before I met him and two years after, the finger was removed. In the meantime though, he stuttered. By all accounts he stuttered when he wet himself. "T-t-t-eacher, m-m-ma-may I g-g-go t-t-to the b-ba-ba..." then the hissing sound... all the way down his pants. And all the children laughed. As if that wasn't bad enough, he took the wrong bus home from school. And stuttered through explaining: "hu-huh-huh-Hershey La-la-lane. Nu-nu-nu-number se-seven." The bus driver wasn't too kind. Nor patient.

Imagine the damage, on someone who was discounted to begin with. And everyone--everyone--reacted the same way. The mi-minute he stuttered, their faces brightened, a light came on. "A-ha!" expressions quickly compartmentalized my brother as such, as though, so special. An item in a closeout sale. A bluelight special. Treating him like a bargain, no need to spend too much. They spoke to him in high-pitched voices and simple words; as if it was not his speech but mind that sputtered. And worst of all, they-of-the-high-pitched-voices made it worse, by finishing his struggling sentences. Yeah, that sure made it better!

There was the added issue of that extra digit, sticking off of his right hand. What sort of shot did he have at life, when life was cruel from the beginning? Adults in high pitched voices, and children quick to mock. My mom, in all her wisdom, then decided enough was enough. Amazingly, from what they say, the minute his finger was removed, the stuttering went away.