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| Speech Revolution | |||
| It was one in the afternoon and I glanced at the clock at the front of the class, the hands of which always moved more slowly in the half-hour before recess. I was seated in a group of four desks and was trying to get my partners to prepare themselves for the presentation we were going to give in front of the class in just a few minutes. I had already done the bulk of the research and writing, partly because the rest of them made me, and partly because I knew I would do a better job than them, anyway. This was back when I cared about the quality of my schoolwork, that innocent prepubescent period when everything is new and exciting. Geography was gripping and history was hypnotic. It was magical to multiply and phonics was fantastically fun. Besides, I got a heap of money from my parents if I got straight A's. | |||
| The teacher said it was time to start giving the presentations, so the entire class, separated into six groups, had to stop their work and pay attention. She randomly picked which group would go first, and, predictably, it was mine. I rose cautiously, as if testing the ground for quicksand, and then walked to the front of the class holding a diagram that was vital to what we were going to be saying. I stood there nervously, probably the most nervous of our group. I hated speaking to the class. I would?ve rather been drowning in a suburban swimming pool than be giving a speech to peers. Unfortunately, the only pool in the area belonged to the teacher, and she would never let me go through with it. | |||
| The first speaker within the group, a kid named Greg, was about to start his part when the classroom's door swung open. Mrs. Green stood in the doorway. | |||
| Now, I'm not sure if this true for every elementary school, but in mine we had this thing called 'speech.' It was a rather simple name for a rather simple idea: teach the kids with speech impediments how to speak more coherently. It worked like this. Every once in a while, the speech guidance counselor would come to rip little Billy out of his class and bring him to a separate room. He would then be subjected to a rigorous course of punishment, such as being forced to listen to his own voice and repeat the same troubling sounds over and over again. So if little Billy would say 'the heyah feoh into the wivah' instead of 'the hare fell into the river,' he would be given a grave look worse than a swift hit by a hickory cane. If he managed to say it better, he would be lavished with positive feedback. This goes on until the problem is solved and the child can go back into society. I think you can use the same method to teach pigeons to walk in circles. | |||
| Mrs. Green was the speech guidance counselor for our school and I was her pigeon. She was practically ancient by my standards, probably about thirty-five. Her complexion was darker than most in this small town of Wisconsin and she wore her hair up in a short beehive. I wouldn't have found her particularly attractive even if I was interested in girls back then, but at that moment she radiated the white light that you always assume angels ride in on. She waited patiently in the doorway for me while I gave my materials to someone else, excused myself from the class, and laughed at the poor saps that still had to give the presentation. The looked at me like jealous sheep as I skipped out of the classroom with Mrs. Green. I was happy for about two more seconds. It was then that I remembered where I was going. | |||
| Mrs. Green made small talk on the way to her office and I reported cheerily that I was much better now that I didn't have to do the presentation. She confirmed my statement in a way that let me know that she would've felt the same in my shoes. | |||
| We entered her cramped office, about as big as a king-size bed, and took our familiar positions, her in the big chair, me in the small chair. We started with the usual exercises designed to loosen up my tongue. Just a bunch of syllables. Then came the cards. These weren't ordinary flashcards, no. They weren't meant to be gone through as quickly as possible, but rather to be studied. Each one was a sound and then a picture of the correct positioning of the tongue to get that sound. The one for the 'l' sound had a side view of a tongue touching the roof of the mouth. I stared at this one for the longest time of them all. It was difficult to wrap my head the concept of touching the roof of my mouth multiple times in order to say 'the lark languished when learning the lullaby.' I was getting better with l's, though, so we didn't spend much time on it. | |||
| Instead we moved on to r's. Ah, r's, my archenemy. She made me study the 'R' card and then had me say some words that contained it. When I was younger, a dentist had recommended my tongue be put in a crib because it was large and he felt it should be smaller. It's the same concept as foot binding. Scrunch it up while the rest of the body grows in order to keep it small. My parents decided to not have that done. So there I sat, with an oversized tongue, being told to move it in crazy ways that there was simply no room for. | |||
| We went like this for a few minutes to no avail. I could tell Mrs. Green was getting frustrated with me. She took out the tube, the most hated piece of plastic I have ever known. It was basically a half-pipe about as long as a forearm and curved inward. It sat in her hands in all its drab glory, satisfied already just knowing the pain it was going to inflict. With the center lined up with my mouth, the sides curved around to my ears so that everything I said was reflected back to me. | |||
| Mrs. Green told me to say 'world.' I did. The sound of 'woh-ad' glided around the plastic, penetrated my ears and rattled around in my head. Mrs. Green told me to say 'train.' 'Twain' broke through the skull and landed uneasily in my stomach. Mrs. Green told me to say 'regular.' The near-word 'weguwar' jumped through every pore in my face and set a kamikaze course for my heart. I wanted to cry, but I learned before that's not a good thing to do in school. | |||
| Mrs. Green took the device away from me and told me to repeat the three words again. I refused. She told me to not give up, that someday I would speak well and that it would all be worthwhile. But those words pouncing around my body had given me a better idea. A revolutionary idea. An idea that was set to change the face of the planet. | |||
| The idea was this. Since I had the most difficulty saying 'r,' I would go about my life leaving out any statement that used it. I would say 'this planet is lime' instead of 'this world is green' or 'the metal pieces that locomotives go on' instead of 'rail road.' It was devastatingly simple. As long as the same idea was given, there was no need to use 'r' in any way, shape, or outline. For each remark exists a synonym in the lexicon that lacks it. Additional languages do not have some sounds, so why couldn't English wipe out 'r?' It was the ideal solution to this dilemma. I would change not myself, but the whole globe. | |||
| Mrs. Green stared at me softly for a while after my explanation of this. Slowly she opened her mouth and let out the word 'better.' I thought for a bit. "Mowa good." That one didn't work.� She looked at me with the same placating eyes and said 'right.' I thought hard. "Cowaect, twue, accuwa-" I sighed and looked down at my feet. Defeated again by my long-time nemesis. Looking back up at Mrs. Green, I saw she already had the flash card with the correct tongue placement for 'r.' "Wacecawah, weally, wed wabin, wing fingah." It was harder to change the world than I thought. | |||
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