FINDING MY VOICE
As I walked into my third grade classroom the nausea that had started when I woke up that morning rose up in my throat. I took some deep breaths and settled into my seat hoping I could keep down my breakfast. My right leg wiggled furiously as it always did when I was anxious and I looked around the room hoping to see that someone, anyone, was as worried as I was about the day’s assignment. It was always a conundrum for me - do I want to go first to get it over with or last to put it off as long as possible, hoping she would forget to call on me or we would run out of time. Standing in the back of the room, her face set, her hands beneath her scapula Sister Myra Joseph began calling our names one by one. Finally hearing my name I slowly rose from my seat and headed to the front of the room, my heart pounding, my breathing quick. Still nauseas but now also sweating beneath my winter sweater I opened my mouth to speak. One day it was a commercial we were meant to make up, another a poem we were to have memorized. Sometimes it would just be a sharing of an important event in my life or a description of what I had done over Christmas vacation. More than anything I hated getting up to speak in front of the class. No matter how hard I tried my voice would come out as a whisper until Sister Myra Joseph would nod knowingly and ask me to speak up. I would stop, wet my lips and try to keep the tears from coming. Taking a deep breath I would begin again:
“Why is the Sky?
What starts the thunder overhead,
Who makes the crashing noise,
Are the Angels falling out of bed,
Are they breaking all of their toys?
“Why does the sun go down so soon,
Why do the night clouds crawl,
Hungrily up to the new laid moon,
And swallow it shell and all . . .
And if it wasn’t enough that my third grade teacher put me through this torment, my 4-H club leader would do the same. Every year there was a public speaking competition and although it was supposed to be optional Mrs. Collins would insist that we all participate. There was no getting out of it and I always wondered why my parents didn’t object to this obvious child abuse.
I had watched my sisters go through the evenings of practice with our Dad and this being my first year I followed in their footsteps. I had written a speech about my experiences camping and every evening after dinner my Dad would take me into the living room, a room used only when special guests came and for speech practice. He would sit patiently while I mustered up my courage to begin my speech. He was a practiced public speaker and gave me tips here and there about slowing down or speeding up, looking up at and engaging my audience, keeping my anxious wiggling leg still. It was an agonizing process.
The evening of the speech competition I sat nervously, leg wiggling, heart pounding, dreading the moment my name was called. I can barely remember timidly making my way to the front of the room to face my doom. The butterflies in my stomach had turned to hornets and my legs felt weak. My notecards in hand I turned and looked out at the faces of all of the other parents, my Mom’s reassuring presence in the front row. I was only 8 years old, what did these people expect of me?! How could I explain to them that I was too cowardly for this challenge?
I opened my mouth to speak and much to my surprise the words flowed out of me. I talked about my camping experiences, my family’s two week summer trips, the good, the bad and the ugly of camping. I spoke of collecting firewood, being sent to fill water jugs we were barely big enough to carry, the warm days and cold nights, the bugs, the dirt and the endless hours toasting marshmallows and singing and laughing around the fire. All of my evenings of practice had paid off and before I knew it I was wrapping it up and then heading back to my seat to the sound of applause. I did it. The timid, quiet girl inside got past her panic and fear and gave a damn good speech.
Such relief I cannot even begin to describe. But it got better because at the end of the evening when the judges announced the winners I was up there at the front of the room once again but this time with a first place trophy in my hands. I was ecstatic, my fear forgotten, the butterflies now sleeping quietly in my stomach. How did Sister Myra Joseph, Mrs. Collins and my Dad know that this timid, weak kneed little girl was a gifted orator.
From that day on I enjoyed public speaking. I still get butterflies before I begin but they are much tamer and provide excitement instead of dread. Within the first three minutes of my talks I am in the zone and you couldn’t stop me if you tried. I have spent many hours in front of classes teaching, at national and international conferences at large venues and grand rounds at hospitals as a speaker. And every time I finish up I get an adrenaline rush like none other. I know I have captivated my audience, gotten my point across and left them with something to think about. When people tell me how much they hate public speaking I just smile and silently thank Sister Myra Joseph, Mrs. Collins and my Dad for taking the time to work with a painfully shy third grader to teach her how to share with clarity and confidence the big voice she had inside her just waiting to get out.