‘It’s not cute anymore’: My journey through the corporate world with a speech impediment
Career16.09.2024
It took two years for my coworkers to get my name right. With a name like Adriana, the mispronunciation wasn’t malicious — it’s just not a common name. And the consistency of the whole department getting it wrong even after I had tried to correct them … well, I was never certain that I wasn’t the problem.
Speech impediments run a spectrum. For toddlers learning to speak, the imperfect babbling is just as adorable as their baby-fat cheeks. Even kindergartners and first-graders are offered generous room for errors. It’s arguably less cute for a teenager to have trouble pronouncing her own name because the R comes out as W. Adwiana. Not quite the same ring. Not quite the most confident introduction.
My inability to deal with the letter R became apparent when I was learning how to speak.
It’s common enough that most kids grow out of it. Instead, I started speech therapy. My parents spent money that they didn’t have to get me private treatment through my early years. When I entered Grade 1, I received support from my public school. A speech pathologist would pull me out of regular class for involuntary one-on-one sessions. This middle-aged lady with short dark hair, vibrant clay jewellery, and pompoms on her polyester sweater would hold up flashcards with images, which I would have to say aloud. A pwincess. Bwown wabbit. Wed dwagon. When I put Ws where Rs were supposed to be, she would order, “No, watch my mouth and do it like me.” Opening her maw wide, she overexaggerated her tongue movements, pointing at the back of her throat to show its position, the key to making the right sound.
Gagging and frustrated, my progress was slow. I was accused of not taking it seriously, session after session, grade after grade. My last year of speech therapy was while I was in Grade 6 — at the delicate age of 12. I would be going to a new school the following year and no longer have the extra support. It was time I learned how to speak properly. “It’s not cute anymore.”
A journey of acceptance
Despite all the other therapy I have been through since I was 12, I am still distinctly annoyed by that one comment.
My speech pathologist insinuated that I was using a baby voice intentionally. For attention. She couldn’t have been further from the truth. I was a fledgling preteen, gnawing on the desire to be independent. I wanted to be taken seriously! Seen! Heard! I was done with being routinely compared to Elmer Fudd. Mostly, I was tired of repeating myself only to still be misunderstood. However, moving through adolescence, something started to shift. I wasn’t sure if it was the years of speech therapy sinking in, possible divine intervention, or perhaps just pure spite, but my speech impediment began to fade.
Now, as an adult, folks are often surprised when I tell them about my childhood speech impediment. They tell me they don’t hear it at all. This is great news in one way — it means all those years and sessions weren’t wasted.
In another and much more acute way, it’s a remark that makes me uncomfortable because I’m merely hiding it better than I used to. I have to concentrate to formulate the correct sounds. I’m very aware of it, and sometimes I do slip, especially when I’m tired, nervous, or having more than one glass of wine. It takes effort to speak, to have a voice.
When my coworkers kept getting my name wrong, I defaulted to that assumption. I consulted my partner, sisters, and friends to see if I was pronouncing my name properly. Was I actually the source of confusion? “No, definitely not,” was the resounding response.
When I got a promotion, and the self-esteem boost that goes with it, I decided it was time to embark on the embarrassing. My coworkers needed a firmer, more direct reminder. I levelled with my manager and coached her to say my name correctly. I also asked her to pass it onto the other team leads.
Taking the hard-learned lessons from speech therapy, the still-lingering spite, and the external reassurance to placate my own self-doubt, I could introduce myself confidently and firmly, to not be mistaken again. Even if it was two years past due.
