Brown vs. Brown Anonymous

“I never want to raise my hand in school again.”

At least that is what I initially thought after being laughed at by my entire sixth grade science class. Sporting a faded Bob Dylan t-shirt, the middle school teacher asked if anyone could tell him what part of the cell functions like a post office. An eager boy raised his hand. After a nod of acknowledgement from the teacher, the young scholar responded with, “the golgi APP-APP-APP-APPer-APParatus,” causing the whole class to look up from writing, locate the student speaking, and exuberantly cackle through the final five minutes of class.

That small, stuttering boy was me, and after that incident, I was sure that I would never be able to talk before large groups, confidently lead peers in a group project, or even attempt to refute a friend’s foolish claim regarding last night’s football game. In that moment, I thought that stuttering would always get the best of me. It was not until midway through the seventh grade that I realized that stuttering was no bigger obstacle in life than running out of printer ink the night before an essay is due or striking out in a baseball game.

Wearing a pristine ivory white shirt, a girl who I had never conversed with stood timidly behind the...