A Monster called Jealousy

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Othello," Act 3 Scene 3
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.

Last semester, I remember stepping into my communications class the first day and feeling that I would be doing better this semester. However, that would not be the case, for some things never do change. As apart of this communications class, we had to give a number of speeches ranging from topic to style. I can remember the first speech we had to give: all that was required was that we speak for a minute about anything. It was a simple pass-fail introductory speech, and I am sure that everyone walked up there feeling like a goof talking about their favorite television show or their dog. I went up to talk about an excellent book that I had read over the summer...

... only to stutter.

The professor referred me to the university's Office of Disability Resources and Services, saying that I should get papers from the department stating that I had a disability, and thus, would be allowed a time extension for my speeches. I figured that I did not want a repeat of the previous semester, and that by complying with his request, I would be able to get an easy grade in the class because I would only be graded on my speech itself and not the presentation portion.

After my first appointment with the "specialist" at DRS, I realized the horrible truth: there are professional assholes in this world. Now, realize that I went in there with an open-mind, hoping that they could possibly come up with a way to help me out with my stutter. The specialist's first solution: give me pills. In my book, pills are the easy way out of everything, and they only wanted to give me the quick fix, the demon (Referring back to my previous entry). I am lucky that stuttering cannot be fixed with just a bunch of pills, or else they would have been force-feeding that garbage down my throat. The reason why I say that the specialist is a professional asshole is because as soon as they realized that they could not solve my problem with just pills, they stopped looking for any solution and just decided to give me the papers saying that I was disabled. For someone who is in a position of authority where it is their job to care about finding solutions for disabled people, I found them incredibly lacking tact and patience. Yes, I realize that there may be plenty of other students in the University with problems that are on the same level or of greater importance than mine, but DRS did not even go that extra mile to try to help me with my stutter. Talk about pathetic. I guess dogs are too hard for some people to depict.

Let me just get one thing straight: I am not disabled. Being disabled denotes inoperative, broken, incapable, et cetera. I prefer the term handicapped, since that denotes the ability to function but slightly hindered. However, I do realize that some people take offense to the term handicapped but not to disabled, despite the obvious difference in meaning. The politically correct terms are differently abled, persons with disabilities, and handicapable, but talking about it in that fashion feels unnatural, or maybe just because (In English) the last word in a phrase tends to have the greatest meaning.

Here was my final speech for the class, done in any style we pleased:

You look out into the audience before beginning. No one is paying attention. A few people are sleeping; most are imitating masses of gelatin. "Typical 9am college class," you figure. As your speech rolls off your tongue in every stuttered fragment, you feel embarrassment. You feel stupid. You wish you were anywhere else.

You feel pathetic.

You are only reminded of how much you hate yourself. Hate yourself for a stutter that was never your fault. Hate yourself for putting up with years of torment as a child. Hate yourself for not being able to be treated as everyone else is.

All the time.

Fire minutes pass. Ten minutes pass. Your speech ends shortly after the 15 minute mark; your back dripping with sweat, your mouth dry as a desert. All from nervousness, a preordained fear of public speaking. Everyone else has a 5-7 minute limit. You have a 10-14 minute limit. You stand out like a marrigold amongst roses. You even went over your own time limit.

You still hate yourself.

You walk to your seat, anxiety shaking your bones. You sit down at your seat in silence. No questions, no applause. Your shirt sticks to your back like wet paper. Your seat quickly overheats, and your pants will become moist with sweat in a matter of seconds.

It happens every time.

You stare at your desk, whether it is cleared, or still possessing your damned speech; the sides have developed a soft curl from being in your sweaty palms for seconds. You might not be in front of the class anymore, but you feel eyes of contempt piercing the back of your head. You imagine those were 9mm rounds piercing the back of your head.

If this would be the rest of your life, would you want to live it?

The next person goes up. They are done in six minutes and change. They are showered with questions, almost unable to answer all of them because of the sheer variety. All eyes on the speaker. They look like an idiot, unable to coherently answer any questions longer than 10 words.

In Japanese, they would call this person baka.

You can think of a 2-minute response, at minimum, for each question. This was not even your topic. However, there is an idiot talking, who probably has no background on anything they spoke about. You are not an idiot; you are frustrated. The person somehow gets through the barrage of questions, and go to sit down. They receive applause. Although the applause may not be for any sort of appreciation, it is a sign of recognition.

You feel left out.

The next person goes up. They rattle their speech off in perfect order, almost hitting the seven-minute mark. William Jennings Bryan would have looked like a fool next to this person. The subject is as bland as grits. You turn around to look at everyone.

All eyes on the speaker.

Your face develops a hint of red. Anger. Anger at people who have no manners. Anger at someone who got something you did not. Anger at yourself.

They make it through a downpour of questions. They go to sit down; if applause were rain, they would have received a monsoon before taking two steps.

Class is over.

People get up to leave, even though there is another five minutes of class time left. You do so as well. Another act of trying to be normal. People begin to talk to other people. You have no one to talk to.

You are not normal.

You think of a word to describe a feeling that you push deep down inside of you.

Fury.

You are a quiet person. They sometimes call you kind only because you do not speak much, or they call you kind simply out of pity. You never vocalize because you do not wish to get the same response from everyone. You are an adult now. You got that response when you were a child. People were suppose to have grown up and matured. You find that statement to be just as true as telling yourself, "I am normal." They have only become older.

Jealousy is a monster that only grows.

Before leaving the classroom, you remind yourself that you have been labeled as "disabled." It is suppose to be an excuse.

It is only a burden.

I ended up with getting a C- in the class. It is so nice to know that I get embarrassed for a semester simply for a lousy grade and good, legitimate speeches. I guess the professor was just joking when he said that he would only grade me based upon my speech itself and not my presentation. Thanks a lot Professor Hugh P. Curnutt. I am pleased to be reminded that asshole student teachers like you always make people like me feel worse. Go fuck yourself.

The truth is, nothing has changed since I was little. Okay, that is a slight exaggeration; nothing has changed since I moved to Pennsylvania. When I lived in California, everyone treated me the same way they treated each other. I was just another kid, and to be honest, I enjoyed being just another kid. No "special" treatment from people because I had a speech impediment. I was never picked on for being different, and I loved it when it was that way.

In short, when I moved to Pennsylvania, I was forced with the harsh reality that I am different. Everytime I opened up my mouth and spoke to someone, they would give me that look. That look is a bit difficult to explain. As my philosophy professor once explained to our class: in the South, feelings of racism are overt, while in the North, feelings of racism are covert. I guess that is the best way to explain that look that I would usually receive. It was usually a poorly hidden look of disapproval, that somehow I had gone against the norm, and thus, did not deserve equal treatment that everyone else did. It is disgusting how some human beings treat members of their own species.

If I said that I was not jealous of everyone who lacked a stutter, I would be lying. Yeah, I know all of that bullshit about "playing the hand you were dealt," but it is a bit hard to play your hand while you are learning the game as it is being played. Of course, everyone else goes through the same thing in life, but it seems as if they were all dealt slightly better cards. They do not have to deal with looking like an idiot everytime they open up their mouths.

Shakespeare is right: jealousy is the green-eyed monster that mocks the meat it feeds upon. I guess the green-eyed monster and I are one in the same.