Liberation

I used to tell myself I could blog every day, if I put my mind to it.

I can't.

I'm ok with this. I decided when I started this space to save funny hyperlinks and quick, quirky updates for my Facebook feed. This blog is supposed to be editorial, longer-form, more thoughtful. I realize now that I'm not nearly long-form, thoughtful or editorial enough to justify a daily post on "The Not So Angry Black Man." Guess I'm just not that angry...

Oh well. Blogs wax and wane as they will. The internet doesn't skip a beat just because I do, and at some point, inspiration will strike again. I won't apologize for not writing enough. But I do feel compelled today to share why I write at all.

My Aunt Alta taught my brother and me to read before we started kindergarten. Dr. Seuss for days and weeks on end. She was an English teacher, and the best reading coach two awkward, almost-twins like Ruben and I could have.

After that coaching, I was always one of the best readers at St. James Catholic School in Seguin, TX. Until the fourth grade. I still remember the moment vividly. Sis. Mary Ellen asked for volunteers to read from whatever book we were using that day, and I, always a show-off, wanted to display my lingual acuity. I started as I always did, in my crisp blue uniform, in those desks with the seat attached and the little undercarriage book storage slat. Per usual, I was a little too loud, a little overdone, with a little too much flair. This was not just fourth grade -- in my mind, I was on stage.

But at some point in those paragraphs I was reading, I got tripped up. The words stopped coming out, and this time just wasn't the same as my previous grandiose performances. It was the beginning of a speech impediment -- throughout my time in elementary, middle and high school, and even into college and grad school, I have been a chronic stutterer.

Movies like "The King's Speech" make one believe that strong people deal with their deficiencies by forcing themselves to overcome them. In actuality, a lot of us just avoid them. So as the stuttering got worse during my youth, I threw myself into writing. It was a way to say exactly what I wanted, at once, without ridicule, or constant demands from family and friends to "just spit it out," or strange faces from teachers who asked if I could really even read at all. In high school, I actually was a competitive expository writer. Seriously. In college and grad school, I wrote for the school papers. Once I got on Facebook, I started writing notes. And now I do this.

But even as I found solace from my disorder through the pen, I tried, bit by bit, to make myself get over it. In high school and college, I joined student government so I would be forced to speak in public. In grad school, I took an Arts of Communication class to do the same thing. And landing my first job at NPR was the perfect way to tell my disorder to piss off, once and for all.

Although I've gotten better, I really still prefer writing to speaking, in the same way someone who's ambidextrous might still prefer to use the first hand they started writing cursive with. When I finish a blog post, I experience a high. And when you "Like" my blog links, or comment on what I've written, I love it more than you'll ever know.

Like just about everyone else, I write to let it all out. To say what needs to be said, and then some. But it's something more for me, because for a large portion of my life, there was just no other way to say it at all.

I tell myself that when I play music, I speak directly to God. And when I write, I just speak -- directly. Your reading this blog helps free me, from any impediment, any disorder, any deficiency. And ultimately, the act of sharing my writing makes me whole. That's why I write. That's why I'm thankful to all who take the time to read. And it's why I forgive myself for not doing is as frequently and as thoroughly as I should.

How often I write is secondary. That I do it at all is important, and why I do it is something I finally feel comfortable sharing. So, I might not blog again for a while, but I got this one out, and it feels good. Because for me, every word penned is an act of liberation, even if those words are few and far between.