Mrs. Handy, the speech teacher at school, tells me I have my own language.
The problem is I don’t talk at a seventh-grade level. I mumble and swallow words, sucking them in instead of spitting them out. Mrs. Handy wants me to work on my breathing. She says I gulp air like I’m afraid the world’s running out of oxygen. She gave me a list of words to work on this summer — words like delicatessen and turmoil. Mom taped it up on the wall next to the medicine cabinet so I could practice every morning after brushing my teeth. What I do is say each word fifty times while I hold my chin in my hand. Mrs. Handy told me to go for “maximum extension,” exaggerate each word, feel how my chin moves, and watch how my tongue and muscles operate. When you repeat a word fifty or so times, it stops meaning anything. You’re moving your mouth, but it’s like you’ve forgotten why, like you’re talking in a language even you don’t understand.
