"Be quiet." No one actually ever said that to me - in fact, it was usually the opposite "Speak up." "What did you say?" "I couldn't understand you." But every time someone told me to be louder, to be clearer, I wanted to shut my mouth and never open it again.
Years of living with a lisp(口齿不清) had taught me that it was better to say nothing than to speak and risk being misunderstood, leading to embarrassment and awkwardness. As a result of my silence, I felt distanced from most of my peers, having only a few people I felt were friends. "Kathryn? Oh, she's quiet." That's what most people would say when they thought of me. "Quiet" might as well have been part of my name. I was okay with that. I didn't need to be heard.
September of last year that all changed.
I started my first day of creative writing class with Ms. Haist. She is one of those teachers you don't feel frightened to approach; you know she will help you if you need it. I had expected to fill out plot diagrams and learn the proper way to punctuate dialogue. However, every day we would be given a different writing prompt(提示词) and then, if we wished, we could share what we had written with the class. I remember sitting and listening to others read their work, and I distinctly remember thinking: That will never be me. I'll never have the courage to do that.
Then, one day in October, I was really pleased with what I had written, so pleased that I wanted to share. I remember my heart pounding in my chest as I raised my hand to read, and those urgent little voices in my mind listing all the reasons why it wasn't a good idea: They won't understand you. You have a lisp, remember? Besides, your writing isn't that good. Be quiet. Be quiet. I was about to withdraw my hand when I met Ms. Haist's encouraging eyes.
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I swallowed the voices down and let my real voice come out.
……
Soon I was reading out loud nearly every day.
