It’s a Saturday morning. 

I’m 11. 

I am riding my bike on the gravel entrance to E. W. G. Smith, General Dealer, my dad’s grocery shop as I have done for years.

A car eases alongside me and the driver leans his head out of the open window and asks me directions to Parkhill Soccer Club. 

I know where it is but …. but… but everything I know sticks in my head. 

Words fail. 

Arms twitch. 

My neck stretches. 

Nothing. 

Not a sound will come out of me but for gasps and whelps. 

Then, I am choking on words. 

Monosyllabic squeaks and squawks shot-gun out of me and I can’t stop. 

I turn my bike to look elsewhere and point down the road. 

The driver mimics my sounds, movements, and laughs and points. He fake-chokes. He spits, jerks his head, playing to his audience, a car full of adults. They all begin to move their arms, spit, copy my rapid repetitions until at last the driver shifts his gears and the car tires rip the gravel and the merciless mockers are gone.

I retreated into the house and into myself. 

Closed all doors. 

I am debilitated. 

For days I want to hide in shame and resist venturing into daylight. 

Yes, I’m 11 and I enter days of dark silence, moodiness, and humiliation. 

I can’t shake this stutter. I can’t shake the shame. 

The memory of trying to give directions to a place I knew so well plays repeatedly in my head and humiliation washes over me everytime i think of it and even when I don’t.