It’s only been a week after Wendell Johnson and his assistant Mary Tudor began their speech experiment. They picked twenty-two children from the Davenport Orphanage in Iowa.
“The staff has come to the conclusion that you have a great deal of trouble with your speech,” a middle age woman said to the orphan that sat before her. Mary Tudor stared at the 10 year old boy, Case No. 13 Experimental Group IIA, Lawrence Neale. She continued on with her script, reminding, no, lying to the disconnected boy that he is a stutterer. “You have many of the symptoms of a child who is beginning to stutter. You must try to stop yourself immediately. Use your will power, do anything to keep from stuttering. Don’t ever speak unless you can do it right. You see how Adam stutters, don’t you? Well, he undoubtedly started the same way. Do you understand?”
Lawrence stirred in his chair, hanging his head lower. “Lawrence, do you understand?” He jerked his head up and he wrapped his arms around himself. Lawrence’s gray eyes looked at her, darting around. His round jaw tensed and his hand grabbed at his black hair. His held lifted and his lips parted before quickly being shut. Tudor jotted down her observations in her notes.
Case No. Experimental Group IIA: May 12th, 1939
Lawrence Neale- He’s having difficulty speaking, no, he’s afraid of talking. He’s trying to get the word right in his head before answering but anxiety is corrupting the words. It’s so surprising how just a few months ago, he was speaking freely.
Lawrence snapped his finger in frustration. “… Yes, I…,” another sharp snap interjected and he quickly spat out the rest of his sentence, “understand, ma’am.” He left out a sigh and his little body relaxed.
At least, he’s attempting to speak. Most refuse to talk, but he seems more conscious of himself.
“Lawrence, why did you snap just now?” Tudor asked. He stared at her, panic came over him again, realizing he had to explain to the brown haired woman his snapping. But he placed his hands in his lap, thumbs restlessly rubbing the middle fingers.
He’s uncomfortable about snapping now that I’ve asked his about it. Perhaps, he’s unsure about it or is now bitterly regretting the action.
Lawrence intensely dragged his thumb nail down into his finger. “Because, I’m…” he paused, clutching his left hand while the other is positioned to snap. “I’m afraid I’m can’t say… the next word. I was afraid… I-I,” his eyes widen, and he little bird chest begins to heave more rapidly.
“Lawrence!” Tudor scolded, “You’ve ruined all the progress you’ve made!”
He snapped his fingers, “No. No, I can say it!” he cried. His eyes watered and his large nostrils flared.
“Go ahead, then, say it correctly.”
The redness in his face faded and he hastily wiped his eyes and brow. He sat straight and quickly started to form the sentence in his head. His finger tapped the top of his hand, as he mentally spoke each word. “I… was afraid I was going to mess up.”
Tudor slightly nodded, not wanting to show approval because she couldn’t. He was in Group IIA; the six orphans in this group were normal speaker but given negative speech therapy, told they were stutterers.
She looked his schoolwork, noticing the familiar academic drop. Lawrence was a smart child; it showed in the I.Q test that they had them take in the beginning of the experiment. “It says here you refused to recite in class, why is that?”
Lawrence stirred his chair and he slowly reverted back to a depressed slouch, “I knew I was going to… have trouble on words,” he muttered. “They just…” he snapped his finger twice before continuing, “… wouldn’t come out… feels like it’s stuck in there.”
Tudor took note and finally dismissed the boy.
- * *
Two months passed and the experiment took its toll on the ones receiving the negative therapy. Recently, one of the girls had run away from the orphanage. Tudor had called in Lawrence for their monthly 45 minute session. He appeared more withdrawn and fractious, a stiff frown and distant stare toward the ground.
“So, Betty ran away recently,” she started off. Lawrence shifted around in his seat, staring at his bandaged fingers. “Why are your fingers bandaged, Lawrence?”
He meekly recreates the snapping motion, the beige band aids rub together.
He’s stopped verbally communicating, answering through gestures.
“So, you’ve snapped your fingers too much, huh,” Tudor said.
“They… blistered,” Lawrence muttered. His voice seemed so hoarse and strident as if his vocal cords had rusted from inactivity and were finally being used again. It came to a surprise to him, as well, gulping in embarrassment.
“I see,” Tudor replied. “Isaac is wondering where you were today.” Isaac was in Group IIB, normal speaker who were treated as such and praised for their nice enunciation. Isaac, like most of the test subjects, was oblivious to the experimentations upon themselves and others. “Does your best friend know about your stuttering?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Tudor asked, taking note that he replies with short responses.
He looked up at Tudor, neck tightening as he struggled to establish a sentence. “I hardly ever talk to him,” shuffling his feet.
Mr. Johnson entered the small room. “Miss Tudor, we must end this… My colleagues are questioning our work.” Johnson straightened his tie and pushed his thick rimmed glasses over the hump of his nose. Tudor went over to her superior and stepped out of the room with him, letting Lawrence sit alone.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“They’re dubbing this the Monster Study; they’re horrified by our experimentation on children; comparing us to the Nazis, for God’s sake.”
“But the results? This proves your hypothesis; this is the largest collection of scientific information on the subject of stuttering onset.”
“Mary, you’ve seen what it’s done to these children. They’re suffering of negative psychological effects and retain speech problems which they may now have for the rest of their lives.”
Tudor looked back into the room where Lawrence quietly and brokenly sat.
Creative Writing II/Creative Writing II Honors 
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