I am running along the 2nd ring side road into a slight breeze. Compared to yesterday my legs are heavier and the air is heavier. I move one through the sloth and my brain joins me by going back in time.

My distinct early grammar memories are few. Getting picked on mercilessly in kindergarten until the end of the year when one of the bullies was also transferring from public school to catholic school.  Becoming engaged to a pretty girl in 2nd grade (later she would become a stunning adult and me a stumbling one). Skipping 3rd grade math because I did well on some kind of standardized test. And being sent to speech therapy.

Speech therapy was spread out over two years but I think I went for less than a year. The tail end of one year and then part of the next year. I would leave class in my catholic school and walk the two blocks to the public school. Entering the public school in my catholic school uniform -- blue corduroy pants, white cotton shirt -- was a nightmare. A nightmare because I stood out walking through the parking lot and playground. And because I stood out I was yelled at and ridiculed.

The speech therapy class was taught in the basement, in a small square, windowless room. The face of the teacher escapes me now as does the faces of most of my classmates. I was aware that I talked weird and I was expecting the teacher to teach me how to talk better. I really wanted that. I wanted that so that I would not ever have to walk past the public school students making fun of me. I wanted that so other kids would not make fun of the way I talked. But the teacher did not teach me to speak better. Mostly we just played with cars and blocks and other toys. She paid more attention to one of the boys -- it was all boys -- than the rest of us. I kept going back to the class expecting that this time she would teach me to speak right. That day never came. I stopped going to class. I think I just didn’t go one day and never spoke of it and my mom either forgot about it or let it go.

A few years later without knowing specifics I came to understand the one boy the teacher paid a lot of time with had suffered some kind of bad. I would see him from time to time and then I didn’t. I saw another classmate on the sports fields and teams a few years later and then I didn’t. I came to the realization that they boys in that class had more problems than not speaking right.

I was thinking about this during my heavy run today. That if those boys went for deeper problems maybe I did too and my mom told me it was because of the way I speak. But I recall no abuse and my mom is no longer around for me to ask. Maybe I was just an overly quiet kid as I am an overly quiet adult. Maybe something led to that, maybe not.

I do know the speech therapy did not help. I was very conscious of my speech through high school and always waiting for someone to make fun of me. That went on until early adulthood at least.

If the intent wasn’t speech, it also did not help. I find myself at 50 socially inept, having limited friends, and not being able to sustain a relationship beyond my kids. To be my friend someone needs to force the issue and when I get the chance I push back with indifference.

If you don’t speak, ...