Like most people, I have a fear of public speaking. But they say it’s good to face your fears, so when my sister invited me to join her in giving a presentation on the merits of a career in communications to a room full of 6th grade 4-H’ers, I told her I would. I figured if ever there were an opportunity to attack this fear of mine, blabbering in front of a bunch of tinsel-mouthed kids would be it. Talking about my job would be quick and painless, I thought – plus, I’d get out of work for a half day in the name of public outreach. Maybe I’d hit the beach afterward, or nap on my couch.
So, yesterday, my sister and I joined a group of 40-50 kids for lunch in the private “Elvis” room at Ed Debevic’s, a touristy diner in River North with excellent, if greasy, lunch fare and notoriously rude service. (Really – that’s their schtick. It’s actually quite amusing.) We showed up a little late, so the first thing we saw was 50 little heads turning as we stepped across the threshold into the room. The kids, decked out in matching red t-shirts, had been loudly making fun of one another but were suddenly silent. Who were these two intruders?
We were escorted back to our table to dine with the gang, an awkward moment made even more awkward when the only words I could muster were: “I must have missed the memo about the red shirt.”
No one laughed. Not even a little bit. I sheepishly pulled in my chair, ordered a Route 66 burger with guacamole and bacon, and resigned to sit in silence until given my cue.
My sister, meanwhile, attempted to make small talk with our 6th grade lunch buddies. Really small talk. But the fact was, we had nothing in common, so there was nothing to say. The kids were undoubtedly cursing their luck for having been seated at the table with the lame-ass grown-ups. I began to grow uncomfortable and wondered how the hell I was going to get over my fear of speaking here. At least adults are empathetic. They understand when you’re having a rough go and will give you a break. Kids are ruthless…and when they smell blood, the frenzy is on.
When it was our turn to stand and present, my sister, sensing my discomfort, smiled and offered to lead things off. I thanked her with a nod. We stood up to a warm round of applause and accepted our introduction as a “brother and sister, both college graduates with careers in communications.” We were now going to share our wisdom.
I looked around the room. It was warm. Everyone had just finished gorging on greasy diner food. The food comas were beginning to set in – our audience looked like a room full of rubber chickens in red shirts. Imagine 50 kids in red t-shirts with the posture of dirty laundry, draped lazily over their chairs and tables, barely able to keep their eyes open. Before I had been worried about how my story was going to compete with the things they’d done that morning – field trips to the Chicago Board of Trade and the WGN radio studio. Now I was worried about how the hell I was going to keep them awake singing the praises of a career writing junk mail.
My sister started talking and was a little over their heads, I sensed, using words these kids wouldn’t see until they started practicing for the ACT. They yawned and fidgeted nervously with dirty spoons and napkins. And I was doing what I always do when standing in front of a bunch of people who are looking at me – I took turns folding my arms and putting my hands in my pockets over and over again until I started to feel seasick. And then my sister turned to me. It was go time.
I was frozen. I had nothing to say. I was here because I had a job and one day they would need one. I should tell them to avoid work at all costs, I thought. Then I imagined that wouldn’t go over so well with the chaperones. And picturing the audience naked to get over my apprehension about public speaking, in this case, was out of the question. I didn’t know what was going to come out of my mouth, but I knew I had to say something. And then, just as I was about to stumble into an impromptu lecture on the merits of reading and doing homework, a kid in the back raised his hand.
Saved!
“Yes, did you have a question?”
“Are you famous?” he asked in earnest. I couldn’t help but smile, flattered that anyone would mistake me for a celebrity. Although I do have a menacing grin and looked fantastic in my pressed shirt and dress pants.
“That depends who you ask,” I said, trying to be clever. This kind of remark would be understood by people over the age of 16 as a joke to mean: “No, I’m not famous.” But to a room full of 11 and 12 year olds, I’d just outed myself as a star. I saw them suddenly sit up, interested if only because they thought they might be in the presence of a star. I instinctively decided to talk it out.
“Actually, I’m not really famous. But I wanted to be. Like some of you, I’d imagine, I always wanted to be a rock star, you know? Write my own songs. Sing and play guitar. I was so sure I was going to be a star, I even made my own CD.” I looked around and saw I had their full, undivided attention. The chaperones, on the other hand, rolled their eyes, secretly hoping I wasn’t about to wade into a history of casual sex and recreational drug use.
“But I found something out while I was trying to be a star.”
“What?” I head several voices say.
“I found out I had stagefright.” They laughed.
“And you can’t be a rock star if you’re afraid of being in front of people. Nobody wants to see a rock star sitting on a stool next to a pail because he thinks he might throw up.” They laughed again, shouting “Gross!”
“So…I couldn’t be a rock star. But I still liked to write. And so I tried to figure out a way to make money writing. I wrote short stories and poems and songs. I even wrote a column for my school newspaper. I wrote a lot. And today, I have a job writing, so when I go to work, it doesn’t really feel like work at all. It’s actually kind of fun.”
“What do you write?” they asked.
“I’m going to guess that some of you watch television. Who here has a favorite television commercial?” About half the hands in the room went up. I called on one, then another, then another. I went around the room listening to them describe their favorite TV spots, most of which happened to be beer commercials. When it became clear that the exercise could go on all afternoon and I would miss my trip to the beach, I cut the discussion short.
“All of those commercials you just mentioned have something in common. They were all written by someone. SOMEONE had an idea and wrote it down. And that’s what I do. I come up with ideas for stuff and write them down. And I do a lot more than just television. Advertising is everywhere.”
My sister handed me a folder full of samples I’d brought with. I started pulling out direct mail packages I’d written and held them up. “Your parents get a lot of these. They’re offers for credit cards, and most of them end up in the garbage before they even get opened. But somebody has to write them, and that’s what I do. I also write radio commercials and print ads and outdoor boards. Anything that’s advertising, I write it.”
I’d made a connection with my audience and realized I no longer felt scared. In fact, I was in complete control and actually enjoying myself. One curious kid raised his hand again.
“So if everybody throws that mail away, why do you keep writing it?”
“That’s a great question. Do you know how much this one letter package costs to create? Our client paid us $15,000 to make this. And then they had to pay to have 100,000 of them printed. And then they had to pay postage to mail it to 100,000 people.” I saw that I now had the adults’ attention as well. “And most of them will end up in the garbage. But these companies pay that kind of money because they only need 1% of the people to respond. That’s 1,000 new customers to them.”
“So wait,” interrupted one of the red shirts in the back. “You got $15,000 to write that?”
“No, I didn’t. The agency I work for got that. A lot of different people had to work on it to get it to look like this. I just get paid every two weeks like everyone else. But the point to all of this is that if you enjoy what you do, you’re not really working. I see a lot of people on their way to and from work downtown every single day, and they look tired. They look disappointed. They look upset and frustrated and beat down. And it’s because they don’t like what they do. And so as you get older, it’s important to take notice of the things you enjoy in life so that when you start considering different careers, you choose something that won’t make you miserable.” I could see the adults in the room nodding in agreement.
My sister and I tag teamed the room for another half hour, taking questions and describing all of the specialized jobs there are out in the world – and they ate it up. The afternoon of public speaking I had dreaded when I woke up that morning ended up being an extremely rewarding one, even if no one asked me for my autograph on the way out. And I even got to nap a bit on my couch afterward.
I don't think I'll be seeking a career in public speaking any time soon, but it's good to know I can handle a room full of 6th graders if I need to. You get their attention by pretending to be a celebrity, make them laugh with jokes about vomit, lead a discussion about their favorite beer commercials, and then close with a few interesting facts and dollar figures.
If that's not what the 4-H Club is all about, I don't know what is.
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1 comment:
great entry.
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