A tale of music, Auntie Val & my stammer

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Colin

Colin Steer shares his story of growing up desperately anxious about speaking. But thanks to his Aunt's passion for music, he was able to accept himself for who he was.

The Who recorded the exhilarating anthem My Generation a couple of years before I was born. It's said that Roger Daltrey's stammering delivery was caused by vocal problems during rehearsals. But he was persuaded to keep the stammer in, providing the song with an explosive energy. Little did I know this detonation of a song would stay with me long after I'd bought it as a 12-year-old in Kirkcaldy.

As a young child, my speech developed at a rapid rate forming sentences before most my age. Then, at four years old I began to develop a significant stammer. My personality changed. I became withdrawn and filled with extreme anxiety at the prospect of speaking, to the point of abject terror.

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Colin as a child

Due to my dad's career we moved a few times. At every new school I'd be asked to introduce myself to the class and I couldn't say Colin without severely stammering. Red-faced and mortally embarrassed, I eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, spat out my name. As introductions go these weren't my finest moments.

Reading aloud in class was the equivalent of facing the hangman's noose. The severe tension resulted in permanently scarring my tongue as I attempted to coerce my brain into freeing words from my trembling lips.

Getting help

I remember having speech therapy, and my self consciousness and embarrassment was compounded by being taken out of class to attend these sessions, in front of my peers. Therapists suggested I tap a beat on my thigh and sync my words as I spoke. But the thought of conducting my life as if I were in an amateur musical was a non-starter. 

Reading aloud in class was the equivalent of facing the hangman's noose.

My plan was to combat it myself and after asking my parents for a thesaurus, I promptly embarked on a journey to learn every synonym to every word I battled with. Finding alternative words I could say without stammering boosted my shattered confidence a little. Some of the pretentious word choices I made as a 10-year-old raised eyebrows but by God it was better than the alternative. My crossword skills aren't too shabby either.

I excelled at written English, my imagination brimming with ideas I was unable to express verbally. I was a talented painter and was catapulted into the art community at high school. I became the school magazine editor and illustrator, much to my silent pride. However, I was suffering from a desperate anxiety, unable to vent my feelings and thoughts. But music was my saviour. 

The birth of a passion

My Auntie Val bought me my first album and shared with me her love of music. Diagnosed at birth with brittle bones and spina bifida, her life expectancy was predicted as only a year. But she confounded medical science. Although requiring 24-hour care, Auntie Val decided life was for living, not self pity, and worked from home for a research scientist whilst forming the first club for the disabled in Dunfermline. However, her passion was music. Being a wheelchair user never prevented her from attending gigs and she became part of the music scene in Dunfermline, befriending musicians who were drawn to her sharp wit and determination. 

Auntie Val had a sizable record collection and I'd sit cross-legged on the floor of my gran's living room, completely enraptured by these magical sounds she would play to me. We became as close as you'd imagine, her sharing her musical tastes and knowledge with me. My obsession with music began right there, and I'd spend every penny I had on records. All I was interested in was music. 

I was a voracious reader of all the music weeklies. As I pored over every page, week after week, I had a lightbulb moment. How did I not see this before? At 13, I had found my Holy Grail.

Embracing my personality

The first album I bought with my own money was Hunky Dory by David Bowie. As I heard the stammering lyrics of the song 'Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes', my emotions overflowed. I became tearful and played the record over and over. This was my permission. From that moment on, David Bowie was my liberator and obsession.

I was almost mute, fearful of uttering a word that may potentially crush the little self-confidence I possessed, but I was a listener. Little did I realise this was something people respected about me.

For the first time, I tentatively embraced my personality. The way I thought. My tastes. My interests in all things different. I wasn't ready to embrace my stammer yet; that was a hurdle too far. Nonetheless, expressing myself wordlessly helped my friendship group grow; my art classmates would look at the record I was carrying, the band names I sketched on my jotters and the pin badges I was wearing, and approach me. Without a word being spoken, I was accepted despite my painful shyness. I was almost mute, fearful of uttering a word that may potentially crush the little self-confidence I possessed, but I was a listener. Little did I realise this was something people respected about me.

I sought hypnosis in my early 20s when I joined Fife Constabulary and became a policeman, feeling compelled to find a way to speak with less effort. This was of limited help but I became better able to relax my jaw and tongue when I spoke. My colleagues accepted me for who I was, and I joined a band with other cops as a singer.

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Colin in and out of uniform

Today

Fast forward a few years. I miraculously became a sought-after public speaker, travelling around the UK delivering keynote speeches about the link between music trends and their impact on cultural events and drug-taking behaviour. Any opportunity to speak about music. It will come as no surprise to you, that the way I spoke was not what the audience expected. But the talks went well and presented me with opportunities to attend music festivals to brief staff about forthcoming drug trends. The 15-year-old me would be in disbelief that I'd end up doing any of that.

Unfortunately, Auntie Val died aged 32, never once bemoaning the hand that fate dealt her. Music isn't my hobby, it's been my life, thanks to Auntie Val. I hope she's watching over me, smiling, as I still wriggle to the sounds of her records. 

I used to see my stammer as a stumbling block. A sizable, immovable one for many years until I discovered the secrets through determination and music weeklies. As a young boy once sang, “People try to put us d-down”. But if you have music in your soul it's just possible you'll talk for your generation.

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