About the Author: Gina Waggott is a writer, editor, disability advocate and former TV professional. She is writing the authorized biography of the stuttering jazz/pop artist ‘Scatman’ John Larkin, to be published in 2026. Gina is a covert stutterer who has been an active member of the stuttering community for 25 years. She is currently Vice Chair of Stamily, a diverse worldwide network for people who stutter and their allies.”

Stuttering can be incredibly isolating. As a child of the 90s, before the internet, social media, and many supportive organizations that exist today, it was easy to feel you were the only person who spoke like “this.” I know because it happened to me.

What I’m about to share is a remarkable story about how the power of listening changed my life. How one man—a pop star, of all people—took the time to truly hear me. It sounds strange, almost unbelievable, but it’s true.

I was 14 in 1995. If you stutter, imagine yourself at that age. Feel good about yourself? “Once bitten, twice shy,” and I was ripped to shreds. I was a redhead, a geek, and had braces—tough enough when trying to get words out. Add a bully-magnet surname and a love for books and computers, and you’ve got a depressed, shy, isolated young girl on your hands.

That girl is listening to the car radio one morning when this insane noise jabbering “scabadabadiddlydobabopbop” suddenly blurts out. A dance beat kicked in, and the voice began to sing:

“Everybody stutters one way or the other, so check out my message to you,
As a matter of fact, don’t let nothin’ hold you back,
If the Scatman can do it, so can you. . . “

Did this guy just mention stuttering? I stared at the car speaker. “Dad,” I said, “turn this up.” He did, happy that I was enjoying the music. That day would have been my mother’s 40th birthday, if she hadn’t died of cancer four years before. Dad had turned on the radio that morning in an attempt to lift the heavy mood as he drove me to my grandmother’s.

Nearly thirty years later, I can still tell you the exact stretch of road we were on when I heard that song. It left an emotional residue so powerful I couldn’t shake it.

Later that day, I saw the music video. A balding older guy in a suit was singing those unmistakable lines through a bushy mustache. My grandma asked why I was staring at the TV instead of eating my sandwich.

The program said “Scatman” was a lifelong stutterer who had overcome the fear and shame behind it by becoming “Scatman John.” He did it through his music—a mix of jazz, pop, and techno, which I instantly loved. This man, I decided, was really something. I had to learn more about him. Goodbye, socially acceptable music taste; hello, role model.

Liking Scatman John wasn’t considered cool —not with Oasis, Blur, and Nirvana in the charts. But I knew John had something important to say. His lyrics spoke of triumph over adversity, facing problems in a chaotic world, being friends with yourself. What others dismissed, I knew was sincere and drew strength from.

In 1997 we got the internet at home. I found a directory of users on the same network. One name made me stare: “John Larkin” (Scatman’s real name), in California. Occupation: Jazz.

Could it really be him? I thought it might be a fake account, but I took a chance and wrote to the address. Everything poured out—struggles with stuttering, fears, shame, isolation—and I told John his music inspired me. I sent it, expecting it to be a hoax, or if it was him, that he’d never reply.

How wrong could I be? 

“Hello Gina,

Your mail deserves quality time with a quality answer. I would love to give you both; however, I don’t have either right now. I am off to Frankfurt. I will answer your mail soon when things calm down…

I will get back to you…

Love to you…John”

I was astounded. Why would a pop star take time to help me? Later, John said he had a gut feeling I was “important.” I no longer have the first letter I sent him, but I think he sensed the cry for help it really was. Three years earlier, I had attempted suicide, and the ideation had returned. Whether I said it outright or not, John felt it.

Well, boy, did he get back to me. The next day, I spoke to John. The conversation was intense, and I told him things I’d never told anyone before. I trusted him. He listened without judgment and reassured me I was no longer alone. 

John asked if I was a member of the British Stammering Association (BSA), now called Stamma. I said no, thinking I’d be rejected because of my reasonable fluency as a covert stutterer. 

John insisted I attend a stuttering conference and pestered me until I gave in. Off I went, a bag of nerves, armed only with John’s notes he wrote for me to read on the train to keep me from turning back:

“Congratulations. You are a miracle. You have moved into recovery and are taking action for yourself. You are a brave human being. I hope you are taking time to give yourself a pat on the back. You are confronting some of the worst fears in your life. You will have a wonderful time at the convention. Again… YOU ARE A MIRACLE… DON’T FORGET THAT… SAY IT TO YOURSELF.”

I’m a miracle… yeah right… I’m scared.

Disaster struck. I didn’t make it to the convention because of train problems. I came home feeling sorry for myself, and found my email clogged with John’s messages. The last one said “Welcome back! I know you had a great time!” I unplugged the phone in case he tried to call—I couldn’t bear to explain that I hadn’t gone. Stupid me, because when I explained to John the next day, he immediately brought me back up again:

“The compliment of giving yourself a pat on the back applies immediately!!!!!!! You are looking at your stuttering straight in the eye. You are confronting it. That is what matters. You are in the process of ‘owning your stuttering’ instead of ‘stuttering owning you’…You are moving out of being a victim of stuttering.

Your genuine attempt to get to the convention is every bit as meaningful as getting to the convention itself.

You are into recovery now. You are doing this for yourself and no one else. You are taking charge of your life’s direction…this is the bravest thing that a human being can do. You know in your heart that you did your best… the best is all you can do.

STAY IN TOUCH WITH ME…this stuttering business is a little too big to handle by yourself.

You can do it for yourself…but not by yourself… I would ask God to bless you, but He already has.

Keep in touch, Gina…John”

I felt much better and even began to find the situation funny. I tried again to attend a BSA meeting, and I had to get a 4:30am train. John told me that wasn’t so bad—it meant I could watch the sunrise. I reminded him this was England, and he joked that I could watch a “fog-rise” instead. That small joke made me get up and go. This time, John sent only a short note:

“DON’T LET THE LAST TIME STOP YOU – IF YOU DON’T MAKE IT THIS TIME I’LL GO CRAZY AND COME GET YOU MYSELF.”

Good thing I got there. It was fantastic. I opened the door of the meeting hall to find fifty or so voices talking and laughing—and everyone was stuttering. I was overwhelmed. John explained what I would find: “You will feel like you are home for the first time in your life. The love may even shock you, but let yourself embrace it.” I did and had a great time. I returned home and told John. He went nuts, telling me how proud he was and how much he loved me for making that step. He launched me into ‘recovery,’ and since then, I’ve never looked back.

John remained in my life for the next few years as a friend and confidante, a hero and role model. I had more ups and downs—being fired from a job because of stuttering, career worries, family conflicts, spirituality, inferiority, depression. . . he listened to it all.

John made me comfortable with my stuttering and who I am. Stuttering has never been pleasant, but it didn’t stop John—and now, I’m not letting it stop me.

But then came the day when the sledgehammer that was pounding my life into shape stopped swinging.

In 1999, John and I were having one of our telephone conversations where we’d talk for ages about anything and everything. Suddenly he turned and started telling me he thought his life was “falling into a black hole,” and that he had to tell me, before it was too late, that I was special, a darling, his soul-daughter, and thanked me for coming into his life. My suspicions and fear became a reality. Just over a month later, I was told that John was dying of terminal cancer.

I was in my first week of university – and I made the decision straight away to use all my university money to fly to Los Angeles to see him. 

Judy, John’s wife, was wonderful and made me feel okay about being there at such a tough time. I owe her so much for her kindness and patience. I don’t think John knew I was coming, because I remember walking in the door, both of us catching sight of each other at the same time, me taken aback because John looked so different from when I had last seen him, and him astounded because I was supposed to be in a lecture theatre nearly six thousand miles away, not standing in front of him.

He responded to me better than I hoped. He was slipping and had stopped recognising people. But as soon as I walked in he said “Oh my God, it’s you, it’s you!” He had me sit next to him on his bed and we began to talk. I told him about my decision to come, and between the bouts of pain he kept having, he got hold of both my hands and said “Well, I love you, honey.”

I managed to tell him I loved him too, and thanked him over and over before I started fighting tears. At one point he turned around and told everyone in the room – “This girl loves me one hundred thousand percent for saving her stuttering life!” – and he was right.

I was there for four days, each day spent at John’s side. The best conversation we had was when neither of us said a word. Thinking John was asleep, I patted his hand. Without any warning he turned his over and grabbed mine, squeezed it, and wouldn’t let go. We sat like that for a long time. When he did let go, he started to cry. He told me he wished I could stay, but I had to leave. When I did, I cried so hard in the taxi that the driver didn’t charge me. I was heartbroken, knowing I would never see John again.

John died peacefully on the 3rd of December 1999.

Three years of his direction, friendship and support gave me a design for life that will never fade. Although I miss John terribly, in a way, he’s still around. I see young kids hearing his music for the first time and for them, the message is as inspiring as it was for me nearly thirty years ago. As role models go, I couldn’t have asked for anyone better than this remarkable and special man. He listened, and he saved my life. 

Every kid should have a John Larkin. I hope you find yours.