They Taught Me To Think

Chapter Two

A Better Me

Doubtless, I am a better writer than speaker. Writing allows me time to deliberate, to organize my thoughts, and to edit for effective communication. Since my freshman year of high school, I’ve been uncomfortable with public speaking for the same reasons many people are—feeling nervous about facing an audience, stumbling from one point to the next, feeding questions. Of course, the irony of having worked most of my career in a profession that requires public speech does not escape me. Yet for the more than fifteen years of my teaching, each time before stepping into the classroom I psyched myself as though preparing for battle. While I loathed teaching, I reminded myself that after college this was the only related job I could find. In the early teaching days, my effervescent personality served well in concealing my uneasiness about classroom duties. I was sufficiently articulate, witty, and beaming with the optimism of a professional woman in her early thirties as I mimicked the style of my favorite mentor-teacher. It worked, as students jostled to enroll in my classes. But as I aged, sustaining the facade became difficult. I was a fraud in front of the class, a hypocrite, a defector of my true self. For I knew without a doubt that while I struggled to speak publicly, I waxed most comfortably on a page. This was where I felt at home. It was my niche. To know me was, and still is, to read my words.