Another AutoBio From Me

Sean Tucker
Professor Mary Boland
English 329
10 February 2009
Empty Words from a Dry Mouth
When I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, I was obligated to get up in front of the congregation of the church my parents made me attend every Sunday and read a sermon. I use the word obligated because this duty was a part of the youth group I belonged to at this particular church. My parents, who were always very active with various church activities, expected me to do this task, and me being fearful of what impositions they might place on me if I refused, accepted this assignment rather half-heartedly. I remember the pastor asking me if I would like to write the sermon or if I would like him to do it. I immediately said, “Could you do it?” I was scared to death. I didn’t want to do it. I felt I had to do it. For some reason, my parents thought I should participate as much as they did in church activities. Maybe my participation was their way of participating more than they already were. It was as if they were in some sort of competition with other members of the congregation: who can be holier than thou, who is closer with the pastor, and who is going to be the most visible and recognizable person in the church aside from the pastor. I am rolling my eyes and gritting my teeth in disgust as I write this.
I remember that day as the time approached for me to get up and speak in front of everyone clearly. As my parents gleamed with anticipation of their proud moment, I sunk low in the pew (the very front pew where they always made us sit) with my eyes drawn to the floor and feeling my throat, eyes, stomach, and cheeks cramp up at the same time. I had the sermon in the slot that held the hymnals and sundry church materials in front of me and turned around so the blank side of the pages faced me. I never read the entire sermon. I only glanced at it once after the pastor gave it to me the week before. It was scrawled with his thick, squashy handwriting with letters that were barely legible. I could not even remember the topic. I just figured I would get and read the stupid thing and be done with it.
When the time came, I felt my dad nudge me with his arm. I my eyes crept up from the floor and I clenched my left hand firmly on the pew in front of me and crumpled the sermon in my hand with my right as I rose up from the pew. I walked up to the pulpit looking straight at it without looking back at the eyes that I could feel poking the back of my neck. I arrived to my station, placed the sheets of paper on top of the pulpit, and tried to smooth them out without looking up. When I finally looked up, faced my (parents’) audience, and saw all of the heads pointed at me, my eyes dashed back down on the slightly rumpled paper before me. I squinted at the words, trying to make the first four or so out clearly in my mind before I spoke. My throat felt dry and cramped. My vision was blurred and I could feel a spot on the back of my neck that felt like someone was slowly pushing a hard, crooked, bony finger into it. When I opened my mouth and began reading the words on the first page, I was afraid I might vomit or that my voiced would crack. I just began reading, and reading, and reading, while the finger boring into my neck kept driving, and driving, and driving. As the pain got worse, I lifted my right hand to the back of my neck and tried to rub away the pain. I rubbed it off and on the entire time I read. I had no idea what I was reading, but I just kept on reading with the knowledge that the more words I read on the page, the sooner my pain would be over.
I don’t remember how it ended. I only remember feeling a release after I returned to my seat and didn’t have to ever read those words again—empty words that I didn’t write and that I didn’t want to speak. What I do remember is that after church we went to the area where all the members were allowed to drink coffee, have a donut, and socialize with one another. During this time, my friend Johnny’s dad came up to me to congratulate me on a fine job and also to point out that I mispronounced a word. The word was pupa and I said papaya. I had no idea what a pupa was or how to pronounce it. So in my state of vague confusion, I must have just said the word that closely resembled it. I remember Johnny’s dad laughing about how what I said made no sense and how funny it was. He also raised his hand to the back of his neck to mock me. I just said, “yeah,” not really know what else to say and I sulked away hating my parents for making me read those words so that they could feel proud.
Today, I still feel some resentment towards my parents for making me do that. I realize that fear is a part of public speaking, but I feel that they had me do this to make themselves feel and look better. I admit that I still do not enjoy this type of formal public speaking very much. I do enjoy just being myself and talking to others about issues that matter to me, but I still hate speaking at a pulpit while everyone remains hushed, seated, quiet, and with a look on their faces that indicates they are listening. I suppose that what I am trying to say here is that I enjoy dialogue and resent (fear) monologue. I want to know what others have to say at the moment, not afterwards while sipping coffee later and eating a donut.