Watching a presidential candidate open up about stuttering has made me think of my own speech dysfluency and how I feel about it. Even though I am a disability advocate, I seldom discuss my stutter. My stutter doesn’t feel like other aspects of my disability. Stuttering and communication disorders feel taboo even in disability spaces. It could be my own internalized ableism (i.e., disability-based oppression), but I don’t feel comfortable talking about how difficult a task as mundane as talking is for me. Most disability advocates I look up to are articulate and have an air of confidence about them that I’ve never had.
I have stuttered since I could talk. My stutter most likely stems from my cerebral palsy. Tense muscles affect fluency and can contribute to the development of a stutter or related speech disorder. My memories of stuttering are a whirlwind. Teachers telling me not to answer questions in class because I took too long to get my words out, strangers telling me they “don’t speak yawn” when I get blocked on a vowel sound with my mouth gaped open. Dreading entering new spaces, knowing that I will be around people that may be unfamiliar with stuttering, putting me at risk of being made fun of. My stutter is not a skeleton stuffed in my closet; every time I open my mouth to say, “hi,” it is out in the world. As much as I’ve wanted to hide it from the world, it is one of the qualities people notice about me before I even get the chance to say my first name.
Stuttering makes me avoid applying for jobs that require public speaking. Even when I am qualified for the job, I fear that employers will discount my qualifications because of my chronic and unpredictable dysfluency. It crops up at the least convenient times like when I had to speak into a recorder for the French AP test or when I had a ZOOM interview for my dream job. While I cannot prove that my stutter prevented me from succeeding in these circumstances, the lingering suspicions remain.
It was empowering to watch Joe Biden stand his ground while Trump continually interrupted him (a tactic known to exacerbate stuttering). Regardless of either candidate’s politics, the first debate highlighted the bullying stutterers face every day. Some may claim that Trump uses that technique with everyone, but looking back on his debates against Hillary Clinton as well as against other Republicans vying for the presidential candidacy, it becomes clear that Trump interrupts Biden far more than he interrupted any previous opponent. My peers have pounced on my weaknesses; talking over me during debates, belittling my voice. I haven’t always been able to defend myself the way Biden did in his first presidential debate.
In recent years, I have figured out why my disability pride still doesn’t extend to my speech: even in the most progressive and disability-inclusive spaces, communication disorders remain taboo. Back in 2019 when Democrats were first lining up to run against Trump, Trevor Noah, a progressive comedian, ignorantly poked fun at Joe Biden’s stutter, saying the former vice president was “a little out of practice when it came to saying words.” As a lifelong stutterer, I am constantly “[practicing] saying words,” but that doesn’t make my speech fluent. My junior year of college, I ran for SGA senator and won. Although college politics cannot be compared to national politics, it did require a fair amount of speaking—both publicly and in small groups. No amount of practice has stopped me from stuttering in my 23 years of life. Noah, who claims to be a fierce proponent of racial justice and feminism, should care about disability too.
When people like Trevor Noah poke fun at stuttering, they just reinforce my internalized ableism. I realize that even progressive people perceive me as unqualified and incompetent because of how I talk. Of course, it angers me when conservatives like Sarah Huckabee Sanders mock stuttering. I expect that behavior from a party that allowed a man who proudly proclaims that he grabs famous women “by the pussy” and calls undocumented immigrants racial slurs. It upset me when I read Sanders’s Tweets that read, “I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I hhhave absolutely no idea what Biden is talking about. #DemDebate,” alluding to Biden’s stuttering during the debate. But when it comes from someone who claims to share my values, I feel alienated.
Joe Biden pushed back against critics saying, “It has nothing to do with your intelligence quotient. It has nothing to do with your intellectual makeup,” reminding that his stutter has nothing to do with his political capabilities.
Both Joe Biden’s speech at the Democratic National Convention (DNC) and the first presidential debate, have caused people close to me to call him incompetent and unfit for president. When I remind these people that Biden stutters (as I have time and time again) they feign ignorance. This is just one example of how my family members and friends cling onto their ableism while claiming they admire me. Ableism cuts the deepest when it comes from those I love, and this election has brought out the worst in people.
I know that overcoming my stutter is not a realistic goal for me. I spent my last two years of high school conducting interviews as a technique in speech therapy meant to help me accept my stutter, but I still have shame attached to my stutter. I feel as though it negates all of my other qualifications. That is one reason why I am drawn to writing; online and in print. My words are fluid. No one sees my throat and face tense up as I struggle to get a one syllable word out. But the anonymity of writing comes with a cost. I hide my stutter behind the written word, which feels empowering, but in truth, I am hiding a part of myself. I am a stutterer, I always have been and always will be, and that has shaped who I am in a way that fluent speech never could.
