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on the first day of my first summer in overnight camp when I was nine years old my counselor came over to me and asked me my name. “Um” I said. “Um… um… um…” “What’s the matter?” he asked slapping me on the back. “You forgot your name?”

How many times in my young life had I heard that question? My last name started with an F and F was one of the hardest syllables for me a stutterer to pronounce. Instead of waiting for me to get out my name people jumped into the uncomfortable drawn-out pause with what they probably thought was a funny rejoinder.

But for me it wasn’t funny at all. Because the less chance people gave me to actually say what I wanted to say the less hope I had that I could ever open my mouth without stuttering.

I wasn’t a severe stutterer — my stutter was diagnosed at about 40 percent meaning that I’d stutter on 40 out of 100 words. But the fact that it wasn’t a terrible stutter worked to my disadvantage at times because not everyone realized that I stuttered and they misinterpreted my inability to answer basic questions or speak up when necessary.