Learning to Deliver an Award Winning Speech

One day in late May, 1953, several of my friends and I disappeared into the bathroom after the last bell rang. I borrowed a tube of lipstick from one of them and we plastered bright red across our lips, some of the less experienced among us running a bit outside the lip-line — including me of course, looking a lot more like Cruella de Ville than Terry Lynn Huntingdon. Then, attempting to escape down the hall and make a b-line for the two block walk into town to share our favored banana splits — slices of ripe bananas on the sides, one scoop of vanilla ice cream, one scoop of strawberry ice cream, our always requested “bigger, please” scoop of chocolate ice cream, “in the middle, please”, smothered by a mountain of fresh whipped cream and thick chocolate sauce — I failed to make it out the back door, and our seventh grade teacher caught me by the nape of the neck.

”Come to my room,” he said. “Now,” he ordered, as I lingered.

As I sat in front of his desk looking down at my hands folded nervously in my lap, enduring a long protracted silence, he finally said, “You do know that one of my rules is that you are never to wear lipstick at school.”

After enduring my long, protracted silence, “Answer me,” he demanded.

”Yes,” I demurred.

”All right. Your punishment for violating my rule is to present a ten minute speech to the class. You can speak on any subject you choose, but you are to deliver your speech no later than Monday of the last week of school. Do you understand me?”

”Yes,” I managed.

Fortunately, my Mother was Program Director at KWSD, our local radio station, and I was able to secure copies of any newsworthy articles that I wanted. Quickly I decided that I would talk about the Coronation of Queen Elisabeth II, to be held at Westminster Abbey on the second of June. I read reams of pre-coronation material, wrote for days, and then, the day following the Queen‘s Coronation, added several pages to my voluminous notes.

After rehearsing for hours in front of the mirror in our tiny bathroom on Chestnut Street, I walked to school and presented my speech to Mr. Guenther and my seventh grade classmates. Although I placed many pages of notes on the lectern, I looked down not once — instead, I simply began speaking. And as I began speaking, to my astonishment, I absolutely soared. After talking more than five minutes longer than my assignment of ten, I finally walked away from the lectern. And as I slowly walked to my seat, everyone stood up and cheered.

Six years later, when I stood on a stage in front of the audience and the judges as a finalist in the Miss California Pageant, I realized that the lipstick applying punishment that I had endured, in fact prepared me well for that moment. Strange, I thought, that what wounds us so deeply at one time in our lives, returns to embolden us as we continue our long journey.

Certainly never imagining that I would be in the top five, and not expecting to deliver a speech, I had prepared nothing. But seeing my Mother and my Grandmother Ruby sitting in the audience, with what appeared to be halos surrounding them, I thought of how hard my Mother had worked all those years to support my brother and me. I thought of how valiantly my Grandmother had toiled for ten years, building her home with her aged and gnarly seventy-year old hands. And they were all the inspiration I needed.

I began by saying how honored I was to represent Mount Shasta, a village of 2,000 people, where my ancestors had been the first white settlers in what was, back in the 1850s, Wintun Indian territory. I spoke of how my Mother’s side of our family had originally sailed across the Atlantic Ocean on the Mayflower in 1620, twelve generations before me.

I spoke of how centuries later some of my relatives had crossed the Isthmus of Panama during the Gold Rush Era, arrived in San Francisco, panned for gold and then moved to Strawberry Valley in Northern California.

I described how my Great, Great Grandfather had driven the first stagecoach from Strawberry Valley, now known as Mount Shasta, to the Oregon border, forging the trail that more than seven decades later would become U. S. Route 99.

And as I spoke, watching my Grandmother Ruby, and my Mother Iola, sitting in the audience in front of me, I rose taller, lifted by the knowledge of the extraordinary trials that my ancestors had endured.

I ended my speech by saying how proud I was to be a fifth generation Californian. “And as a Fifth Generation Californian,” I said slowly, “I would be very honored to represent California at the Miss United States of America Pageant.

Once the other four finalists had given their speeches, we were taken backstage to wait for the Judges’ final vote. And as we waited, I thought of how blessed I was to have experienced what I had during those three days.

As I thought of how grateful I was to have placed in the top fifteen, not to mention the top five, I suddenly realized that the fourth Runner-Up was announced and escorted onto the stage; then the third Runner-Up, followed by the second, and then the first. And there I stood alone, as Mr. Schwerin pulled the curtain aside, pinned the Miss California banner across my bodice and escorted me onto the stage. I could hear Bob Oliver, Master of Ceremonies, say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Miss California 1959, Terry Lynn Huntingdon.”

As I heard my name and was escorted onto the stage, I began to hear the strains of California Here I Come, Right Back Where I Started From leading me down the runway.

Several weeks later, I was crowned Miss United States of America; two nights after that, I became second Runner-Up to Miss Universe. But what I valued most, was the trophy that I received for delivering the best speech — a result of the punishment I had endured as a seventh grader back in 1953.