Without doubt, The Kings Speech is a film loved by many.
But for me it has a special place: as many readers appreciate (and helpfully point out) I’m constantly waging a war against typographical and grammatical errors.
I’m aware – and frustrated by this – as anyone. But I have struggled with this nearly my entire life.
Without getting into too much detail, I grew up and attended schools in Dandenong: a decidedly working/lower middle class suburb here in Melbourne. I had wonderful teachers, some of whom personally took me aside in order to encourage my ambitions . They may have been overwhelmed by large class sizes and a critical shortage of funding and resources, but they gave a damn. I was bookish, less inclined to follow the popular crowd and excelled in art, literature and history.
Bookish nerd + slight learning disability + Dandenong.
You do the maths dear reader.
The encouragement of those teachers over twenty years ago got me to where I am today.
They told me to go to university, something I’d never even considered.
They helped me believe I had a better future.
My debt of gratitude to those wonderful teachers is hard to express.
So when I began writing this blog I was very appreciative of my shortcomings.
But I have a voice.
I wish to be heard.
I shall be heard.
I wish I could find those teachers who helped me have faith in my own talents and abilities: if I could tell them one thing about present life, I would talk about my love for writing and this blog.
Indeed, for any educator out there who may read this: thank you.
The difference you can make is profound.
Which is why this film, in particular its closing scene, nearly always brings me to tears.
Because those of us who struggle to find a voice can find one.