Program helps speakers stop stammers, get words flowing

Robbie Picken sits with perfect posture. His laced fingers rest in his lap as he starts to speak.

"Hh-I ... h- ... hhh-I am uh R-r-r-r." He spits the sounds out, his knee bobbing as fast as his racing heart. "Hhh-I am ... hhh-I am."

He can find the words. He just can't get them out the way he'd like, the way society would like. Right now he wants nothing more than to tell a room of strangers that his name is Robbie. And, the room wants nothing more than to hear it.

"R-r-r-r," he tries again. "R-r-r-r-r-r."

The teenager strains both his face and his audience as he tries with all his might to connect the "r" in his name to the "o." His eyebrows occasionally pop into a surprised expression when he attempts a syllable, his fair skin now as rosy as his red hair.

"Hhh-I am R-r-r-r-r-r--." He stops suddenly, as if his body just realized it had the option. "Rob."

Rob comes easier than Robbie.

Robbie is one of 3 million Americans who stutter. The 17-year-old has traveled from Chicago to Las Vegas in hopes of finally saying what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. He is looking for help from The McGuire Program, an intense, 3½-day course designed to dramatically improve stutterers' speech -- and lives.

In the aftermath of Robbie's ricocheting stutter this January evening, silence fills the small banquet room at Palace Station. Robbie just shared something painfully personal, simply by stating his name. There's respect for him and respect for his affliction.

To witness Robbie's stuttering fits is to agonize right along with him. No one knows that better than Debora Picken, who fought tears as her son struggled with his introduction.

She's a single mother, and Robbie's her only child.

In a matter of months, he leaves for college. For the first time in Debora's life she'll be without Robbie. For the first time in Robbie's life, he'll be without his mouthpiece.

Debora has mastered the art of finishing her son's sentences. Since his speech problem started at the age of 3, Robbie could count on two things: his stutter and his mom coming to his rescue.

That's all about to change.

"I can't do his speaking for him anymore," Debora says. "All I can do now is support him."

Even more than saying his own name, Robbie looks forward to one thing after completing his work here in Las Vegas.

"Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh," he cups his hand and slowly shovels the air with it in a gesture to will the words. "Sh-showing m-m-m-my true c-c-c-colors."

If his time with The McGuire Program proves successful, Robbie's already told Debora he wants to look into classes that teach people how to show their feelings.

He doesn't know how. His stutter never let him get that far.

PLACING AN ORDER

Neil Chandhok leaves restaurants hungry. The 24-year-old online advertising entrepreneur scours menus, not for what he wants the most, but for what will damage his pride the least.

If he knows the words "chopped liver" won't trigger his stammer, that's what he'll order "just b-because I don't want to s-stutter my ass off."

Standing at the register of a fast food joint or sitting in a booth at an upscale restaurant, Chandhok will end up staring at food he has no desire to eat.

He enrolled in The McGuire Program to do "everyday things," such as looking a waiter in the eyes and telling him he wants a steak.

Chandhok's habit is called substitution, a go-to tactic that replaces a difficult word with another, easier one.

Substitution offers an escape. Factual information doesn't. That's why the required recitation of names, addresses and phone numbers on the course's first day incites such anxiety. They allow one answer and one answer only.

The thesauruslike nature of substitution explains why many stutterers boast large vocabularies. But it also makes for a lot of restaurant meals they'd rather not eat, coffee orders they'd rather not drink and disappointments they'd rather not reap.

Experts assert that stuttering is caused by "a complex mix of physiological and environmental factors," according to Jim McClure, media relations director for the National Stuttering Association. Some cases may also be genetic as research from sources such as the National Institutes of Health has suggested.

"The root cause," McClure says, "is how the brain processes speech."

And with every cause there is an effect. Suffering through chopped liver is one thing. Suffering through major life choices is another.

Robbie plays fullback and defensive lineman on his high school football team. He has talent. Enough talent for college recruiters to call his house. Enough calls for Robbie to panic when his mom hands him the phone.

For stutterers, the telephone is a major exclamation point. It traps the voice and forces it to perform.

A recruiter recently asked Robbie which three colleges he'd most like to attend. He named three universities in which he has zero interest. He picked them because he could say them. And because he wanted to get the hell off the phone.

"I know it holds him back in a lot of ways," his mom says of his stutter. "I know there are things he wants to do, but doesn't."

Like declaring himself a pre-med college student next year. Debora suspects her son wants to be a doctor but won't admit it.

Robbie's practicing substitution with his life.

DEEP BREATHS

Four rows of chairs line the banquet room the second evening of the course. The five current students, 18 returning graduates and Debora sit facing each other in close proximity. Everyone wears a belt fastened just below the chest. They take deep breaths until the belts tighten, hold the breath and release. A room of 24 people collectively inhaling and exhaling this deeply sounds like Darth Vader on an intercom.

As it happens, the voice for Darth Vader belongs to a stutterer: James Earl Jones.

When they begin speaking using the breathy method they learned earlier in the day, they sound like an exaggerated version of Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe was a stutterer.

Winston Churchill and Bruce Willis, too. And for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, King George VI also stuttered.

The students find those trivia tidbits interesting, but they don't compare to the comfort of knowing Dave McGuire stuttered. The McGuire Program founder, the instructors and every coach on staff personally understand the pain. It provides an incomparable safety zone, not to mention terrific advertisement as they all speak fluently.

Since 7 a.m., students have been practicing the breathing method that will open a detour to their own fluency. They take a deep breath and release their words with the exhale. It still feels as unnatural as the belt that sits several inches higher than normal, but that's OK.

In this harshly lit, dull room in Las Vegas, judgment doesn't exist. Outside, they can't escape it. There's a reason many stutterers lose their affliction when alone or talking to a pet: No one's judging them.

The McGuire Program's "cancellations" offer a delete button for a lifetime of negative speech-related experiences. If students block a word or begin to stutter, they're asked to cancel it and start over until they say it fluently. This way, the word or situation ends positively.

Hopefully, the next exercise does, too. A mere 24 hours since their first attempts, students must now reintroduce themselves to the class.

Robbie volunteers first. He sports white gym shorts and a gold University of St. Francis shirt with a belt worn snugly beneath the pectoral muscles that bench 315 pounds. The athlete in him appreciates good form, discipline and the fruits of practice -- everything it takes to reach fluency with the program.

Walking to the front of the class this time feels like walking through the dark tunnel before a big game. He's got his biggest cheerleader on the sidelines.

He is ready to do this, ready to face off with the opponent he's been running from his whole life.

Back in Chicago, Robbie has teachers to whom he's never spoken, thanks to handwritten notes. He has immunity from speaking during group presentations, afforded by his excellent writing skills. He has entire conversations without opening his mouth, courtesy of Facebook, email and texting. He also has popularity, bestowed by a starring role on the football team.

What he doesn't have is the ability to say his own name. Or does he?

He takes a deep breath, testing his belt's grip. The class eagerly awaits his exhale.

"Robert," he says, slowly releasing his breath, "Picken."

Without the grunt of his stutter and the strain of his face, Robbie's true voice makes its first appearance in Las Vegas, maybe anywhere.

His address follows. Nice. And. Smooth. Applause and cheers crash over the room.

For at least this play, defensive lineman Robbie has sacked his stutter.

DOMINANT VOICE

Harsh Sancheti had the kind of bellowing voice that turned heads and buzzed ear drums.

The 24-year-old Ph.D. pharmacology student at the University of Southern California always had a mild stutter, but the power in his voice masked it. He had been commander for a marching band in his native India. He had acted in plays because, like many stutterers, acting like someone else lifted his stutter.

Not that he let the stutter get to him. His dominant voice brought more pride than the stutter caused shame. Just one public speaking event, however, reversed that frame of mind. That's what happens when a college presentation for a master's program heads south, fast.

"I completely blocked. A complete freeze for 5 to 6 minutes," Sancheti says. "After that, speaking in front of an audience was a terrifying experience."

For stutterers, the psychological impact of their speech impediment breeds more stuttering.

That's why children younger than 5 have the best results with speech therapy. They haven't yet experienced the psychological effects, which grade school and all its kindness produces in bulk.

"(Stuttering) is completely socially unacceptable," says staff trainer Graeme Duffin. "It makes you come across as someone very different than you really are."

The physical manifestations to some stutters only compound those false impressions. Robbie bobs his knee and pops his eyebrows when he stutters. Founder Dave McGuire used to slap his thighs and jerk his head. They call them "tricks," because stutterers use them in an effort to trick themselves into fluency.

The faulty logic is that if they one time completed a word with fluency while practicing one of those tricks, the same trick will hurdle the stutter every time. If the stutter exacerbates, so does the trick, sometimes until it becomes violent. Stutterers have been known to throw themselves against walls.

Sancheti didn't have that problem, but after his master's presentation, his part-time stutter checked in full time. He didn't drop out of school or make any other simarly drastic changes in his life. He just silenced the one thing that made him forget about his stutter, turning down the volume on a voice that once easily traveled to the back of marching bands and playhouses.

If no one could hear him, no one could hear him stutter.

MAKING THE CALL

Down the escalators from where The McGuire Program gathers, suitcases roll through the smoky Palace Station casino. Slot machines ding louder and more frequently than the night before. Cocktail waitresses balance trays heavy with drinks and tips. It's Friday night in Las Vegas, but members of the program wouldn't notice it.

An instructor has just entered the room holding classified ads torn from the newspaper. The students know what this means. Those newspapers foreshadow that big exclamation point. Nerves go haywire.

Today is phone day. Students will place cold calls on apartment ads and receive calls from program graduates across the country.

In preparation, they're told to take a deep breath when they answer the phone. They're told to answer the call with their name -- "Robbie Picken" -- to get the hard part over with. They're told to find a focal point.

Any questions?

Hands dart up.

"What if they don't speak English?" "What if we can't find a focal point?" "Why do we have to start with our name?" "Won't it seem weird to take a breath first?"

Judging from the anxiety, it would seem this exercise involved a bungee cord, not a telephone.

Phones don't pose much of a problem for Cindy Xiao. Neither does factual information. Reading aloud comes pretty easy, too. Her introduction on the first day went so smoothly, an instructor had to ask, "Why are you here?"

Xiao is a covert stutterer not an overt stutterer, and she's the only female student taking this course. (Male stutterers outnumber females 4 to 1, according to the Stuttering Foundation).

The 21-year-old University of California, Berkley student can give single sentence answers stutter-free, but has trouble with storytelling and explaining ideas. Pursuing her business administration degree has increasingly made her private stutter a public problem.

Xiao may not have trouble with the phone, but she does have trouble with deliberate dysfluency. Instructors explain it best: "It's wh-when you duh-deliberately stutter."

Intentionally getting the stutter out of the way gets the panic of being exposed as a stutterer out of the way, which gets unintentional stuttering out of the way.

Confusing? It comes down to this: In order for society to accept them as nonstutterers, students of the program must first accept themselves as stutterers.

As they take and place calls, newspapers in hand, a couple of students immediately employ deliberate dysfluency. "I'm puh-puh-practicing my speech," one student tells his caller, his shoulders relaxing and his face untwisting at the same time.

The more they hear the ringtone of their own cellphones tonight, the less it sounds like music preceding a horror movie. By day's end the big exclamation point looks more like a friendly question mark.

Today they handled a tough assignment for stutterers. Tomorrow they'll face something that might strike fear in anyone.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Jim Nott's 78 years make his face look like it's melting under his newsboy cap. The Las Vegan wears a lightweight jacket and beige Dockers, his understated dress contrasting with his overstated tone.

As he practices his speaking, The McGuire Program graduate's wooden cane punctuates his words -- his very loud words.

"This is the way to be the leader!" he bellows, his head held as high as his cane as he marches around a small circle of students and graduates.

He stands out for his age, but more so for his confident carriage.

Nott spent 30 years working with speech therapists. He could have easily surrendered to his stutter, but he took a "better-late-than-never" attitude and sought out this program. It meant unlearning three decades of work.

Speech pathologists taught him principles such as "elongating vowels" and "soft starts" to change his fundamental speech and disguise his stutter. This program practices "hit and hold" and deliberate dysfluency to improve his speech by exposing his stutter.

"This is my yard," Nott tells the circle, one hand propped on his hip. "If you come in my yard, I'll bite you!"

Audience laughter feeds him and he keeps going, dancing with his words.

When you discover fluency in your golden years, speaking isn't just appreciated; it's pure and utter joy.

FINAL TEST

It's Saturday morning and time for final exams. The five students, graduates and instructors have just emptied out of a shuttle parked at Fashion Show mall. They're not here for shopping, just speaking. Public speaking.

Before the day is over, every student and several graduates will plant themselves on the Strip and deliver a short speech to anyone willing to listen. Students can't decide which poses more of a challenge, that or what comes before it.

They must make 100 "contacts" today. They must ask strangers for the time of day, where Neiman Marcus is located, whether they carry a size 11, when the mall closes, etc. It's the "overkill" method and it's designed to turn speaking to strangers from an event to uneventful.

Robbie begins his efforts in Forever 21, a trendy women's store. His partner for the day approaches a security guard, introduces himself and pauses for Robbie to do the same.

As they walk away his partner leans in: "Was that a deliberate stutter?"

Robbie answers, "No, that was a stutter."

He's outside the Palace Station banquet room, outside his comfort zone.

As Robbie strolls through the mall, Debora keeps her distance behind him. She can't hear what he says to the strangers, but she can see what they say back with their facial expressions.

More common than not, his listeners furrow their brows in confusion. They don't just answer his question -- "Sure, it's 11:30" -- and go about their business. Rather, they stop in their tracks and watch as Robbie walks away, trying to make sense of what just happened.

The breathing technique initially causes slower speaking. It can get strangers scratching their heads a bit. Then again, so can stuttering.

The goal of 100 contacts makes for one of the few times kiosk solicitors are more benefit than bother. The 17-year-old pauses at a hair-care kiosk, where a Latino man is only too happy to greet him. Robbie asks for the time.

"Hey man, I met someone a few months ago just like you," the kiosk worker says, recognizing the breathing. "Except he wore a belt up here. Do you have a belt? You should wear the belt, man. It helps. That way, when people ask you, 'Hey, why you wearin' that belt?' You can tell them about your problem. Wear the belt! Hey, good luck, man!"

It's not at all what Robbie expected, but he'll take it. Robbie uses the positive interaction as fuel for his next 20 contacts.

He stops at a perfume counter and asks for a sample of the fragrance his mom's had her eye on: Gucci's Guilty. He pops into the Swarovski boutique and comes out with a phone number for a place where Debora can get her recently broken bracelet fixed. He spends a good 10 minutes in a nutrition store, getting tips on protein shakes and disclosing his affliction to the salesperson.

He ends up with more than 100 contacts, all but one positive: a woman in her 20s who didn't appreciate that a teenager dared speak to her. By the time he meets the rest of the group underneath the Fashion Show cloud on the Strip, Robbie's nerves have fizzled.

That could very well change in a few minutes.

WORDS ARE FLOWING

Women toting shopping bags, men wearing BabyBjorns and children gripping souvenirs shuffle down the Strip as fast as the pedestrian traffic allows. A Hot Babes Direct to You truck, a double-decker bus and a team of taxis coast by. They pay no mind to the redheaded teenager, standing erect outside Neiman Marcus, hands in his pockets.

His peers huddle in a semicircle around him. The pavement is his stage, the mass of tourists his audience.

"Wednesday I couldn't even say my name," Robbie shouts as fashion ads in front of the Palazzo flash behind him. "Now the words are flowing right out.

"It feels really awesome because I feel like a new man," he tells the crowd.

He sounds like one, too.

As returning graduates take the floor, a couple licking ice cream by the spoonful stops to absorb the speeches. Two graduates stretch a sign out that reads, "Do you stutter? We can help."

Within minutes the crowd swells to about 50 of the curious. They may be stutterers. They may know stutterers. Or, they may simply want to get a good look at the man whose voice booms like the bass in a rap song.

It's Sancheti. His voice is back and the volume is up, all the way up. With his chest beaming under his USC shirt, he tells the crowd, "This is the happiest day of my life!"

For some, it's the first day.

Robbie and his mom sport big smiles as they board the shuttle to return to Palace Station. They're still riding the high from the group's public speaking as they sit sardine-style next to two men wearing suits and gold jewelry. It doesn't take long for the tourist dialogue to start up.

Robbie tells them about the program, that he couldn't say his name three days ago and about the public speech he just delivered. The man sitting two seats away can't believe his ears.

"You mean to tell me you couldn't say your name three days ago?" he asks, looking Robbie up and down.

"No, I couldn't," Robbie answers, using his deep breathing.

"Wow," the man says, looking at his friend who sits between him and Robbie. "Can you believe that?" His friend shakes his head no.

The man leans in, squishing his friend's suit with his, "You know what, buddy?" he says to Robbie. "You've got a great future. I'm very impressed. Very impressed. It's great to meet you."

The two shake hands over the man in the middle, who finally speaks: "Why do I feel a group hug coming on?"

Hopefully those positive experiences continue canceling out 17 years of negatives.

Just in case, instructors and graduates pass on some helpful advice back at the banquet room: Don't get cocky. Don't stop calling your coach. Don't make any rash decisions, they tell students.

One graduate stands to offer a tip, "Duh-duh-don't underestimate the power of the pause or duh-duh-deliberate dysfluency."

As Xiao, the group's covert stutterer, bids her fellow stutterers a teary farewell, she tells them she just had a long conversation with a man in the restaurant downstairs.

"I fully answered him," she says. "There's a big difference. Not just in my speech, but my confidence level."

Chandhok looks forward to not avoiding uncomfortable situations anymore. He can almost taste the steaks he vows to start ordering at restaurants.

"I never did before," he says, "because they always ask how you want it cooked." He can't wait to reply: "medium-rare."

As the hugs and well-wishes make their way around the room, Debora watches Robbie complete sentences with fluency. She watches him say what he wants, when he wants, how he wants. And, now she has something to say.

"I have to break my bad habits," she admits. "I guess it's called being an enabler."

As his mother, she simply couldn't watch her child suffer and not step in. "I can almost read his mind, I'm so used to finishing his sentences," she says. "But, when someone goes so many years that way (stuttering severely) and the frustration level is so bad, it's like, I don't know. It's like ..."

Robbie cuts her off: "It's like a helping hand."

Debora may have to get used to someone finishing her sentences now.

Contact feature writer Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.

SEEING SPEECH AS SOMETHING TO MASTER

Dave McGuire was born in Minden. He suffered from a severe stutter before founding The McGuire Program in 1994 while living in Holland. The program has since spilled into England, Ireland, Norway, South Africa, Australia and, most recently, the United States.

The avid tennis player and coach built the program based on two other stuttering systems, infusing them with sports psychology. McGuire has a degree in psychology from the University of California, Los Angeles.

When he discovered Dr. Joe Sheehan's system of active nonavoidance and self-acceptance in the late 1960s, McGuire's speech improved. It didn't make him fluent by any means, but it improved.

He carved out a career in adolescent psychology and founded the Rite of Passage juvenile delinquent rehabilitation program in the 1980s. After what he refers to as a "power struggle" among the program's board of directors and an abuse investigation into the program, McGuire and Rite of Passage parted ways.

The career crisis and a divorce taught him a valuable lesson: once a stutterer, always a stutterer. McGuire suffered a full relapse.

He didn't come upon another possible stuttering solution until 1993 when he met opera singer Leonard del Ferro in Amsterdam. Enter the deep breathing and diaphragm belts. This system taught him to take deep breaths and release his words with the exhale. It helped, but wasn't sufficient on its own.

He also gained a new perspective on his speech impediment.

"I started to see stuttering as a sport rather than an affliction," McGuire says.

He combined the self-acceptance theories with the deep breathing and sprinkled in his sports psychology to create The McGuire Program. It costs $1,495 for a lifetime membership. Members are welcome to take as many refresher courses as they like. The 2010 success rate was 78 percent, calculated from student evaluations conducted one year post-graduation.

When students graduate, they have daily contact with an assigned primary coach for two weeks and contact every other day for the following two weeks. For the remaining year, students can contact coaches as often as needed.

As nurturing as the program is, it isn't without its critics.

The breathing specifically has drawn criticism abroad as an unnatural way to go about life. Domestically, the National Stuttering Association doesn't have an official stance on the program as it's still in the infancy stages (only four courses have taken place here). That said, media relations director Jim McClure says the NSA recommends customized speech therapy, not "one size fits all" approaches.

He has heard NSA members express enthusiasm about the program, though.

"One good thing about it," McClure says, "is that it gets people to be open in public about their stuttering."

It's part of the self-acceptance The McGuire Program teaches. Combined with the deep breathing, it let's the words flow more fluently. One word that never flows during the program, however, is "cure." The McGuire Program doesn't believe in one.

Once a stutterer, always a stutterer.

For more information on The McGuire Program, log onto BeyondStammering.com.