I used to have a terrible fear of public speaking. Unfortunately, my elementary, junior high and high school teachers loved nothing more than to assign oral reports, group presentations, and to call on students for answers when we were clearly not prepared. I am sure that many of my classmates thought nothing of standing in front of the class and speaking on any number of topics. I, however, was not one of these students. When I was younger, I was The Geek, the student who was singled out and tortured at every opportunity. I preferred to blend in, not stand out. Every time I had to speak in front of the class, I could hear giggling and snickering, a clear indication that my classmates didn’t think much of me. It never occurred to me that they felt just as unprepared as me and that they feared public speaking as much as I did.
My worst memory of speaking in front of the class was when my 8th grade science teacher gave a confusing lecture on how to distinguish one species from another. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was too scared to ask any questions. This particular teacher had a nasty streak in which he would ridicule students for asking questions. Simply refraining from asking questions wasn’t enough – not when he would ask a question and call on students to answer. At the end of his never-ending lecture, the teacher asked how we determine if a group of organisms is a species. He called on me for the answer, which was a big mistake. Stumped for even a semi-intelligent answer, I told him honestly that I had no idea. Instead of moving on to the next student (as they were eagerly waving their arms around), he ranted and raved about my failure to pay attention to his lecture. He then explained it again, still as unintelligibly as the first time. After that experience, I made a point to do all of the reading ahead of time and to raise my hand to any question to which I knew the answer. This way, the teacher would not call on me as often.
My second experience with public speaking did not fare any better. I was a sophomore in high school and enrolled in an honors English class. The class was divided into groups in order to analyze different short stories. Fortunately, we were able to choose our own groups and I was in a group with my friends. I prepared wholeheartedly for my portion of the presentation, unaware that my group members were not nearly as diligent with the assignment. I watched group after group complete their presentations and was impressed with the amount of preparation that obviously went into their assignments. It made me even more nervous, knowing that the bar was set high. When it came time to present our analysis of “The Catbird Seat”, my group members were picking through my notes in order to prevent repeating information, or so they claimed. The order had already been decided and I was to go last. To my shock and horror, my friends used the information I had gathered and left me nothing to say. Unsure how to handle it, I simply read what I had prepared. I was also prepared for the usual giggling and pointing. At this time, the college-prep crowd was small indeed and I knew that I would have to suffer through classes with these students until I was out of high school.
It goes without saying that I nearly fainted when my eleventh-grade AP English teacher announced that we would be expected to give an oral report. We had to choose a non-fiction author, read and be prepared to discuss at least two of their works. I was not familiar with many non-fiction authors at this time, and I was delighted to discover the author Pearl S. Buck. I read The Good Earth and other books and discovered that I was truly, passionately fascinated by this American woman who was raised in China. Equally distraught over the idea of presenting a report to the class, I decided that I needed a strategy: I would be so prepared for this report that I wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in my way.
I was scheduled to present my report about halfway through the roster. I watched every presentation closely and paid special attention to the reactions of the other students. A boy named Chris gave a particularly mind-numbing report on Charles Darwin, a report that should have been fascinating, given Darwin’s contribution to science. Instead, Chris droned on in a monotone voice, oblivious to the fact that almost no one (save the teacher and me) was paying attention. Why would they, I wondered, when he was so completely boring? At the end of his lecture, we were expected to ask questions. I asked a simple question about Darwin’s methods, and tried not to notice the eye-rolling and yawning that my classmates engaged in as soon as I spoke. My question was met with confusion on Chris’s part – apparently, he did not know the answer to the question. I made a mental note to anticipate all possible questions.
The day of my report came quickly. My English class was first period, so I did not have to sit through the day worrying about it. I sat through one boring report, and it was time for me to go on. I expected to be competent. I did not expect to be brilliant, but I truly was. My excitement for Ms. Buck and her fascinating life shone through as I animatedly discussed her works, her life, and her uniqueness. My voice rose and fell with the proper intonations. I brought index cards as a reference, but I had gone over my speech so many times that I didn’t even need to look at them. I finished my report confidently and had no trouble answering the few questions posed to me by the students and the teacher. It was at that moment I discovered that all students, regardless of their intelligence or popularity, are afraid of standing out and looking stupid. I also discovered that when giving a speech, the presenter is usually the most knowledgeable on the subject. Therefore, there is no reason to fear saying the wrong thing – it is unlikely that the audience knows the difference. Finally and most importantly, I was met with a great deal of respect and admiration from that point on. I would still be The Geek, but now I was The Geek who feared nothing.
