Since the canning, I have been in pursuit of finding my voice.
Part of this voice hunt is related to this blog, while another part of it is a bit more personal and internal: Stop giving a fuck what other people think; Start saying what I think.
It’s harder than you would assume.
Especially if you are not one of those natural-born self-esteem wizards. You know who you are…
Back in college, it was a requirement that you take a semester of speech class. I am not a public speaker. Let me make sure you heard me…I AM NOT A PUBLIC SPEAKER. Hell, I’m not even a one-on-one speaker most of the time. I have days that I don’t even talk to myself.
So taking a speech class was basically sentencing me to the firing squad.
In an effort to avoid the public humiliation that was destined to be this requirement, I signed up for Oral Interpretation of Literature,
It met all the requirements for the credit, however,and more importantly, it met the requirements for my anxiety.
- Only one night a week instead of 2? Check!
- The class size was closer to 10 than 100? Check!
- Did not involve speaking in front of the class? Well, two outta three ain’t bad.
Luckily, the class mostly involved us listening to our professor read literature aloud.
I love to be read to.
Not so luckily, the class also involved one student per week performing a piece of literature of their choosing.
My last name starts with H. So that usually lands me smack dab in the middle no matter how you slice the alphabetical order. Of course, the timing is not the issue here. It’s the standing in front of people and performing that makes my legs go numb.
I decided it would be best to have a conversation with my professor. Explain to him the issue. Maybe I could write a 1200 page essay on sticking needles in my eyes instead?
No dice. A requirement is a requirement.
What I did get, was hours of after class and office hour tutoring. And on the day of my speech, I stood before the class and read some poem I don’t remember. Stuttered over every other word, felt my face turn hot bright red, and hammered my fist so loudly on the desk I think it’s still echoing off somewhere in the distance.
I didn’t mean to hit it that hard. I had practiced it over and over. It was meant to emphasize the turning point in the story. Not register as a 4.5 on the Richter scale. But my body has it’s own ideas when my mind enters the void tunnel of public speaking.
But I survived.
And with all this voice meditating, I’ve decided that what better way is there to be understood than to read the posts to you.
Think of it as a little unhinged adult story time. Like the olden days where families gathered around the radio to listen to the serials. Only people, please don’t play me for your children. I do far too much swearing and I’m sure they would prefer Lucky Charms and cartoons.
You’ll have to bare with me. I have no idea what I am doing. Nor do I like the sound of my voice at all.
I told my BFF this earlier and she said it is because of the shape of my head. Not my head particularly, all heads. I mean she wasn’t being snarky or anything.
She said it has something to do with the bass. Then I started singing All About the Bass by Meghan Trainor in my head and I stopped listening. Again, nothing personal, it’s just that song is damn catchy. See? You’re singing it right now, aren’t you?