Just Sayin'

16 September, 13

I have done a fair amount of public speaking. Churches, Rotary clubs and Junior Achievement all seem to have a desperate need to fill speaking voids in their calendars. I don’t mind speaking in front of large crowds. I don’t mind speaking when I’m all by myself either. My dad told me once, “Boy you got diarrhea of the mouth.” He was always my biggest cheerleader.

The problem I have with speaking is not glossophobia, but people’s perception of me. My mama says that I am the only child of hers that has exactly half of both mother’s and father’s traits. That is to say I am really messed up. My brother and sister are weighted a little more to one side or the other. I am more like the junction between a cold front and a warm front out in the Atlantic Ocean, just itching for a little warm water, so I can make a hurricane.

My father is somewhat reserved and brooding around a crowd. My mother owns it. My daddy is a man of relatively few words, but they are incredibly insightful, kind of like a walking haiku. My mama is loquacious and effusive, like Gone with the Wind. Really the only thing they have in common is playing bridge and reading. They are divorced, but I can’t divorce myself. Superheroes rip off their “human” costumes to become their true selves. My true selves live together in some sort of 38^th Parallel brokered peace agreement.

So you can understand why people would be a little confused about who exactly is in front of them at any given moment. Generally speaking most people gravitate toward thinking either that I am always joking or that I am always serious. When I say a joke, half of the audience is rolling and the other half is trying to understand the deeper truth of my obviously pithy statement. When I make a profound comment, half of the crowd laughs, even though they can’t figure out the humor in the situation, which makes it even funnier, because it must be a really good joke.

Now add to the mix that I am speaking a foreign language. If English speaking Americans can’t understand me, how in the world can Spaniards? As we walked through the apartment for the first time with the realtor and owners, I asked if the wine was included. We now have wine in the cupboard and fridge. When I crashed my bike, Julio thought I was playing around. Then he saw my wounds. Blood speaks. I asked Pepi, the butcher, if she had anything with blood in it. We ate morcilla that night. Look it up.

I can’t wait for the opportunity to speak at the local Rotary clubs in Murcia. They are going to be talking about that day for years to come. Some will laugh. Others will cuss.