An Imperfect Story

When I was in fifth grade, each person in our class had to read a chapter from James and the Giant Peach. Every day, we would get through a couple of chapters, going in alphabetical order by last name.

A – G. I was safe. I had at least another week.

G – K . It’s coming. Maybe I have another couple of days.

Finishing K. Beginning L. How many L’s are before Luckman? Am I going today? But I can’t do this. If I can count down and know for certain I will go tomorrow, then I will “be sick” tomorrow.

Middle of L. I am next. We are almost to the end of class and the person before me still has a few pages to go. She reads faster. Time ticks slowly. How many pages can the chapter be? Please let it be a long chapter.

“Courtney Luckman,” the teacher calls.

I sit on the bar stool and begin reading. There is immediate laughter, most of which the students attempt to stifle. But I hear everything. My vision becomes blurred as tears form in my eyes.

I still can’t remember what happened that day. I blacked out the entire reading, but I know when I returned to my seat, I was humiliated. I never wanted to experience anything like that again.

I vowed to myself to never read aloud again. Anything was better: an F, pretending I was sick, pretending I couldn’t read, pretending I could not see, pretending I did not know the words, and the list goes on and on.

Seventeen years later, I find myself sitting in a fourth grade classroom. This time, I am not the student, but the substitute teacher. My assignment for the afternoon reading period: a “read aloud” - read 3 chapters of the current book the class is reading or as many as you can get through in an hour.

You’re joking, right?

When that period came, I stood up, told the kids that I stutter and that if they hear any pauses in my reading that’s what that is.

I sit on the bar stool and begin reading. There is immediate laughter, most of which the students attempt to stifle. But I hear everything. My vision becomes blurred as tears form in my eyes. And for a moment, there I was again, a fearful 10 year old girl.  

I closed the book. I sternly said, “NO ONE should be laughing.” I explained to them what stuttering was and that many people speak differently, and this is okay. What followed was 50 minutes of respect and patience, as I told a story devoid of perfection. I began to read more fluently and confidently and with inflection and grace. For the first time, I comprehended what I was reading out loud. My thoughts were no longer focused on me; they were focused solely on the story at hand.

Sometimes you lose opportunities. But sometimes they come back.

No story is perfect. Doing something, despite reaching perfection, is always better than living in silence.

At the end of the class, a little girl came up to me and said, “It’s so cool that you stutter. My dad stutters too.”