So like most of you (or none of
you), I spent the last two weeks ingesting political speeches, with varying
results. As a registered Independent I will teeter dutifully on my fence and
vaguely allow that I found some speeches refreshing, some painful, some stirring
and some just downright confusing. And although they’re all designed to spur me
to pour two fingers of scotch and consider the imminent implosion of our
government if I vote for the wrong person in November, what this range of
performances actually has me contemplating is the art of public speaking. I
can’t help but think about the writer who crafts nimble, layered prose; about
the orator who infuses it with emotion; and, above all, about the time in 8th
Grade when I won the Gettysburg Address Recitation Competition.
Oh, yeah, I won. There’s no big
reveal at the end of the story – I’m telling you right now I totally won and I
won because I HAD TO. My budding artist’s heart was burning for validation and
I had no other outlet except Christmas pageants, Sunday choir and that time I
played a frozen mannequin in one scene of a summer camp production of Annie
because they owed a role to every child who paid the registration and my
singing was so abysmal that they had to ensure I wouldn’t open my mouth.
But I was better than that! I
knew I was. I just needed to showcase my talent. I had plotted the trajectory
of Debbie Gibson’s career and understood that with perseverance and supportive
parents I could be a global sensation by next year’s Homecoming game. I just
needed a chance.
I should mention that I was the
only student invested in this competition. Mainly because it wasn’t so much a competition
as a mandatory English assignment dressed up as a competition. It was an annual
chore for each 8th grade class and everyone resignedly accepted it
as another in a string of tortures we had to endure before being released to
high school. Not me. On the day those Xeroxed copies were passed back, my toes
began to tingle. I had a script! And it was all mine! No sharing the stage with
Mary and Joseph or the entire Soprano section or Annie and Grace… this was my
first monologue and I was ecstatic.
In the weeks leading up to the
competition, I delivered the Gettysburg Address to the bathroom mirror, the
washer and dryer, the poster of Joe McIntyre pinned on my bedroom ceiling. I
had never given a moment’s thought to American History but now that it impacted
my performance I was dusting off my parents’ dormant volumes of Encyclopedia
Britannica to devour passages about the Civil War. Taking the stage of the Our
Lady of Mercy audi-cafetori-nesium I planted my feet, looked out at my audience
of 9 school staff and took everything in as if it was opening night at the St. James.
“Four score and seven years ago,” I bellowed to the peeling tape of the
basketball court. Lincoln’s words became my own. “We cannot dedicate, we cannot
consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground,” I humbly declared to the janitor’s
closet. The school bell rang
halfway through and I paused like a pro to wait out the stampede of students
changing classes. The lunch ladies scurried around, queuing up cartons of milk.
The stink of casserole and sternos filled the room but I was transported. I knew
only the rush of breathing life into words. “…. government of the people, by
the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth!” I thundered. I
closed with a small bow and held my place for a moment. Even though there were other students left to speak, I knew I had won.
In my mind, a standing
ovation follows. I’m fairly certain that’s inaccurate. But I think it’s embedded in my
memory because that was the very first time that I felt a standing ovation. I felt the thrill of doing my best at
something I loved and being recognized for it. And that moment was as
satisfying as any Debbie Gibson-scale success I had imagined.
Aside: I got an A+ on my performance and, as a prize, got to ride in the local Memorial Day Parade (in a red
Ford Mustang, which was sowickedawesome because that was my number one choice
for a car whenever I would play MASH) and repeat my recitation for a group of
sweet little old Veterans at the historic cemetery whose name I don’t recall
because I was too excited about getting my picture taken for the local paper. My
picture! Published for public consumption! That never gets old.
Aside II: If you want to brush up
on your Gettysburg Address you can find it here. It's such a powerful tribute to our armed forces and the last line always makes me cry. I mean, I don’t want judge you but pretty much
if you don’t cry, you’re kind of a heartless America-hating troll. Enjoy!
