Speech Therapy.

“Julie? JULIE?” came the voice from the classroom doorway.  I silently stood, head down, and picked my way as quickly as I could without stumbling over someone or something to the doorway.  My hair always hanging over the sides of my face to hide my flushed cheeks, the embarrassment and anxiety rising in my chest. I hated leaving social studies lessons, science projects and spelling tests.  I hated that my teacher wouldn’t say any words of reassurance to me such as, “Don’t worry – we will save some of the material for you to do your own experiment later on today” or “We can make up the spelling test – I know you have a few more words left.”  I hated that my classmates would silently stare at me as I left the classroom to head towards the torment that was speech therapy while they got to stay behind and carry on as typical students, their lives not being overrun by a disability. And I despised the Speech Therapist. Oh how I despised the Speech Therapist, with her veiled attempts and efforts to manage a hearing impaired student that was one of the first Special Needs students to be included in this particular public school district. 

I was a trailblazer in the public school system where I attended elementary school.  I began Kindergarten in September 1979, 7 years after the creation of Chapter 766, the law that formed the basis for Special Education reform in public schools.  The creation of Chapter 766 had a million hallmarks, but for the purpose of this discourse the following are of most importance to my case: increase of inclusion, flexibility and equity for Special Needs students and the consideration of all characteristics and needs of a student to realize their maximum educational potential.  The public schools in Massachusetts were given a 2 year implementation window to prepare for inclusion and enactment of these new regulations. The true activation date of Chapter 766 was September 1974 – a mere 5 years before I was enrolled in public school. Unfortunately, I showed up in September 1979, and not much had been put into place to ensure my transition into public school – and this Speech Therapist was Exhibit A in the disaster that was my early inclusion education.

Mrs. S was a short, rotund woman who preferred ill fitting skirts and too small shoes. Her feet would puff and roll off the sides of her high heels that clacked and clanked at a crisp staccato that even I could hear a mile away.  Her hair was an indescribable color of brown/black and lacquered to perfection with what must have been countless cans of Aqua Net hairspray. 

We had a Christmas ornament that we hung on our family tree each year when I was a child of the cartoon character, Petunia Pig.  I have never said this outloud to anyone before now, but each year I would hang that ornament on a branch and think to myself, “Oh – there goes Mrs. S., up the tree.”  There is no other fitting description of this woman – it is sadly accurate.

Mrs. S. did not have fingernails, she had talons that punctuated every point she made as she spoke out loud, forever stabbing the air as she gestured to indicate the vast importance of what she was speaking.  Those heinous talons were painted a shocking shade of orange – best described as “1973 shag carpet orange”. Mrs. S. also perpetually smelled like an Italian sub and is the reason why I cannot smell or stomach salami, and her breath reeked of pickle brine.  (All these years later, and I am chewing a piece of peppermint gum as I compose these sentences to eradicate the rising nausea triggered by these memories).

Mrs. S. would escort me to a tiny closet-sized room near the boiler room of the elementary school. It was unseasonably warm in that space regardless of the time of year, and the persistent humming of the boiler provided an unwelcome accompaniment that made it nearly impossible for me to hear, understand and participate in the hell that was my speech therapy sessions with smelly Mrs. S.   

I reluctantly resigned myself to the fact that I needed to just “do my time” in this session, and set myself on to the cold metal folding chair that was “student seating” in this laughable “office”.  Mrs. S. would heave herself into a rolling leather chair, and would tell me to turn my chair around so my back was to her. I would sit, legs swinging, and stare at the concrete wall searching for shapes in its cracks.  Then our “therapy” would begin.

Mrs. S. would start to read lists of words and I was expected to repeat them back to her.  With my back turned. Let’s recap – I am hearing impaired, wear two hearing aids, rely on lipreading…but I am sitting with my back turned and am expected to repeat words back to old pickle-breath back there.  

I rank this experience in the top 25 of the “Most Stressful Experiences of My Lifetime”.  Mrs. S. would start of with a list of words with sharp enough syllables that I could decipher including “hotdog”, “cowboy”, and “sunset”.  Then that sly beast would start throwing in some words that were nearly impossible for me to comprehend when I was facing forward, but completely unrealistic for me to repeat with no visual cues to support me – words such as: “seat…sleet…sit”.  I would feel my eyes start to prick with hot tears, holding them back mightily while I did my best to repeat what I thought I was hearing, in an effort to please Mrs. S. so I could get the hell out of this dungeon and back to my classroom. 

My success rate was not very high, which should not come as a shock – but instead of abandoning this fruitless exercise, Mrs. S. would rise in her level of frustration and repeat the stimulus words louder and louder.  I would repeat what I thought I was hearing over and over again – desperately guessing at what other words could possibly match the phonics patterns she was saying so I could end this torture. It inevitably escalated to Mrs. S. yelling the words incredibly loudly, me still not getting what she was asking me to do because the words were taken completely out of context, and it all would end abruptly without warning because our “time was up”.

I was fortunate enough to have had brighter spots in my educational experience that overshadowed these disastrous speech therapy sessions including instruction by Speech Therapists Margaret Reade and John Deming when I was in middle school and high school.  Additionally, I have had the good fortune to teach alongside some remarkable Speech Therapists that have renewed my faith in appropriate therapies for students with and without hearing loss.

I am grateful to Mrs. S. in all of her offensiveness because she inspired me to become a teacher of students with exceptional needs – and led by example of how not to treat students with disabilities.