Public speaking has always been a hurdle too high for me to clear. A car wreck to steer clear of.
To make sure I wouldn’t have to stand up to the microphone and face a few hundred folks during a recent high-school reunion, I had a solution. I gave a committee member information on books I’d published as well as details about my award-winning journalism career and asked that someone read the bio to the audience.
When I was assured that someone would act as my presenter, I relaxed and settled into the event. I listened to others talk about how their high school teachers made a profound impact on their lives.
Then my name was announced. Instead of someone reading my bio, however, the emcee asked if I’d like to say a few words.
This should have sent me into a cold sweat, but I didn’t panic. I decided to just have some fun with it. I talked about how, as a high school student, I never thought I’d live this long.
Mild laughter.
Then I mentioned a music teacher whose tuft of white hair seemed the very personification of old age. When someone told me he wouldn’t be teaching us one day, I asked why. “He had to take his father to the hospital,” was the answer.
“His father?” I yelled to the audience. “He’s got a father who’s still alive?”
Stronger laughter.
I now felt like no matter how this went the rest of the way, the audience was with me, the same way friends are with you when you relate a story to them. We were one.
There was the recollection of someone asking me where I got my ideas for the three books that were published. I said sleep and walking. They asked me if I’d thought about sleepwalking. I said I wasn’t sure how to take that.
The warmth of the crowd emboldened me to share an important moment.
I went on to mention an English teacher who gave me a C+ for an essay that finished third in a contest titled “Speak Up for America.” The third-place finish brought $50 in prize money.
I confronted my teacher with the inequity of it all. How could he justify a mediocre grade for something that brought $50 in prize money?
He could tell I wrote what the committee wanted to hear, not what was in my heart and soul. I didn’t remember his exact words, but the message was that I was offering up a counterfeit version of my true self. Give them the real thing, suggested my teacher, Mr. Walton. Nobody likes a counterfeit version when they can have the real thing.
When I was finished, I thanked the audience, mindful of how rewarding it was as a journalist, and now as a public speaker, to practice what my English teacher preached.
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