LESSONS FOR THE TEACHER

The day had arrived. My job on this day required skill, nerves of steel, determination and the ability to be myself. As I stood touching up my makeup, going over the topic, checking for spots on my clothes, not that I could have done much about that; I acknowledged that I was nervous.  Leaving the ladies room, I had one of two options; I could push on knowing I was well prepared and risk not doing as well as I hoped, or I could give up entirely, and would definitely fail. More than that, it would be a lost opportunity, and while there may be other opportunities, I would never know if someone out there needed to hear what I had to say. Taking my seat, I listened to the others, then, nervously moved to the stage. I was introduced to the audience and smiled. I did not dare count the numbers in the throng, it would hold me back.

“Good morning Ladies and Gentlemen…”

First day nerves, did not affect me, I was poised and ready.

“My name is Patricia Lee. I will be teaching you Australian history this year,” I said it every first day of school to several classes. Alternatively, I changed the word to “English” my other subject, or indeed the counterpart, Literature.  I was a good teacher. I was programmed right from the start.  The routine of class preparation, marking homework or essays, being stern with those who needed it, discerning tears; whether they were ‘crocodile’, or a deep-seated hurt that only the recently widowed Mrs Lee could fix; I had all this under control. I considered myself good at my job, and I was paid for it.

This particular day after telling everyone about the English aristocracy versus the ‘scum of the earth’ the convicts, I was conscious of the fact that I felt down. A colleague, who coincidentally lived in the same street as I, greeted me in the staff room.

“Are you okay, Pat?”

“I guess Ian, I miss…  oh well you know.”

He nodded and patted my shoulder lightly.

“What you need is an interest where you learn something and meet people.”

“So, do you have that kind of hobby in mind?” a statement that bordered on facetious, and a little schoolmarm, but he was not offended.

“Yes,” Ian answered quietly “public speaking.”

“We do that every day.” I protested

“No, we don’t Pat, we teach. We were taught to teach, to obey the rules, abide by the curriculum. Public speaking is totally different, there is an art to it and there are various organisations to help you achieve your goals, it’s a whole new ball game.    In actual fact, there is a big contest on this coming Saturday, by the mob I’m with; and ‘the powers that be’ have hired our school hall for the occasion. Check it out for yourself. Visitors are always welcome, and there is morning tea!”

The period bell sounded.

It was a contest of epic proportions, I sat in awe. To prove the point my mouth was wide open; wide enough, in fact, to swallow a fish whole, and not sardines either. Did I always look that stupid? Well perhaps not. I had listened to a few speeches over time; some were good, some were interspersed with nerves, some downright boring. The same could be said for sermons, but half the problem there was I did not want to listen; at least I was honest, even if I looked stupid, at both events.

How can anyone sum up their thoughts, and deliver a speech in a small time-frame while still managing to inject humour, empathy and a little of the truth? After all, I had heard it said (and proven sometimes by the media), that you never let the truth get in the way of a good story!  Sermons are different: the thoughts should be truthful, bible-based, theologically sound, and if your audience is bored, two things are apparent; they either don’t want to be there, as in me, or the speaker needs to improve. No disrespect to the clergy intended it’s a fact. There was an art to public speaking, no wonder it scared many people. It was something I had not considered, after all, a ‘chalky’ can speak, Ian made me think.

Speeches over and silence was required so that the judges could complete their evaluation and the winner and runners up selected.  The third place was awarded to the person whose speech I liked best, the second place to another whose speech I also liked, but the winner…oh dear me what a bore. Again that “open wide dear I will insert the filling, now” look, any dentist would understand: not a good look for a woman my age, make that any age. I was flabbergasted.

That bloke must have ticked every box, yet, I could not see why.

Over morning tea there were a few people who challenged the norm and said ‘Hi’ to strangers but Ian approached me, grinning. 

Hi Pat, how are you?”

“Well thanks, Ian” I smiled” I had no idea you did this sort of thing.”

Ian laughed; the kind of laugh that started from his toes, and burbled up his body so that within seconds his grand piano keyboard smile was evident, and his eyes it up with merriment.

“A mere amateur, compared with these guys, Pat.” he took a sip from the cup “what do you think?”

“I’m amazed.” I said, “I wonder how it’s done.”

“Did you pick the winner?” Ian’s look was serious.

“Um, no!” I answered feeling stupid yet again, Ian smiled

“You would not be alone there, Pat.” he said wisely “there is an art to judging; at least judging a specific gift, rather someone’s character. Just because someone can speak well does not follow that it goes hand in hand with evaluating and therefore judging contests well.” he smiled “however we get a rounded education in this organisation. We learn how to do most things, with hands-on practice,.”

He put his cup down and continued speaking.

“I’m in the next batch; A Tall Tale contest, so I’d better scat “ he smiled “How would you like to come with me to an ordinary meeting one night and see how it’s done?”

“Wouldn’t your wife mind?”

“Not at all; Kath attends these sorts of events but not meetings. Chat soon.”

For a second time I sat mesmerised When Ian came on stage, I imagined him doing the teacher pose but it was nothing like that. I could not put my finger on the difference, I decided I had to go to a meeting.  It may not be for me but I was darned curious, for the first time in ages.

The meeting night arrived. Once seated beside Ian, I looked around me. People of various ages and walks of life. A few folks introduced themselves and one young lady who was MC for the night explained the agenda and asked if I could take on a chore.

Thinking it might be drying dishes, I agreed but it was to be the Ah counter. It suddenly hit me that the speakers I heard did not have the usual ah’s um’s or … during their time  I did not realise how often one could say ‘ah’ in the middle of a sentence or a paragraph; one bloke got a staggering 20 “ahs” during an off the cuff story. There was only one way I would know for certain whether this was the hobby for me, therefore I went back again, and again; until I signed on the dotted line, paid my dues and found who Patricia most often called Pat, Lee really was.   

On stage, I spoke to a five-to-seven-minute timeframe, in the Tall Tale Contest, where the truth might be stranger than fiction, but evokes humour. Unlike teaching, there were no little hands gingerly raised to ask for clarification, the audience just listened. I had tears in my eyes at the sound of applause, I knew I had done my best though I may not win. In life it is participation that is the key, winning is a bonus

Oh incidentally, I won second place Good old Pat! Yay!