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My Earlier Experience With Public Speaking
Fri 9 Oct 1998 [David Butler writes] A few years ago I addressed the largest crowd I'd ever faced in my life. It was in a side chamber of the Bryn Athyn Cathedral in the suburbs of Philadelphia, following the funeral for my friend Sven Soneson, who hanged himself in his apartment upstairs from where I've lived the past ten years in Germantown. I had been among the last to see Sven as he had been my guest for dinner on the Saturday evening before the Monday morning when his roommate found him dead. Following the service the crowd filed out of the cathedral's large main chamber into this side room where they stood talking in groups until a man with a microphone delivered a brief eulogy, then asked to hear from those in the audience. We heard from several who had known Sven from his youth. One of his schoolteachers and some family members spoke. I believe quite a number of people spoke briefly, and I remember being fascinated and not wanting this moment to end. In my thirty-some years I had never lost a close friend, and never had attended a funeral for anyone who died before reaching a ripe old age. I had never considered eulogizing a friend and had certainly never addressed a gathering nearly so large. The mood of this gathering seemed to me not nearly as somber as I'd expected. Several of the early speakers I found quite entertaining. Most seemed to want to share fond memories of Sven, and did not dwell on his unhappiness. I grew up feeling uncomfortably shy in many of my personal interactions. But once in a while I forced myself to confront my introverted nature and turn myself inside out before the world. On this occasion I felt that I just had to speak, and I desperately wanted to know anything anyone could tell me which might give me some clue why my good friend had wandered off without saying goodbye. I really didn't know much about Sven and I hoped that this reminiscence could go on for hours. I hoped that everyone present would have a few words to say. Funny stories especially were what I wanted to hear, because Sven was a satirical and sarcastic cynic, a biting wit who struck a chord with my odd humor. A dozen or so of my friends were present -- many of them very witty and entertaining in small gatherings -- and I knew each had at least one funny story to tell if they could bring themselves to share. I wanted to save the story of Sven's last evening with me until most of the others had spoken, but I didn't want to let my chance slip away by waiting too long. One or two of Sven's cluster of Germantown friends did get up the nerve to speak. I think Karen said that because Sven had always called her mouthy (or nervy?) she felt obligated to live up to the label. When it seemed that no one else would speak I finally took the stage. I remember shaking with nervousness. I don't think I'd ever used a microphone to give a speech before. My voice quavered at first then grew louder as I observed the extent of the crowd my voice had to reach. My confidence grew and I began to revel in the spinning of my tale. I told of the roast chicken and mashed potato meal that I'd cooked and shared with Sven on that last Saturday night. He had spent much of the day struggling to patch together an old jalopy which he and I shared for a few months. While I cooked dinner Sven made one more frustrating trip to the Pep Boys' Auto Supply Store. Frustrating experiences were a big part of Sven's life and he made the most of them. He would rail and laugh then rail again, about the stupidity of sales clerks, about inconsiderate drivers and the trivial inanities of life which seemed to irk him more deeply than most. I spoke of sitting around my living room with Sven that night, watching some (Olympic?) sporting events on TV. We were both exhausted I think and did not have much to say. I remember sitting down at the piano, my back to Sven and the rest of the room, pounding out a few boogie woogie tunes. I was working out boogie arrangements for some of Sam Cooke's more uptempo tunes. I didn't mention this in my speech but I recalled later that one of the Cooke songs was "Twistin' the Night Away," and I wondered whether Sven detected in that title some ironic reference to his own hideous last dance. I wanted to share all this in hopes that someone might understand, and help me understand, just what happened in Sven's head that night and that weekend. My voice broke as I faltered in my speech. Did I miss Sven's cry for help? Is there something I could have done or said which might have made a difference? I struggled to keep my composure, afraid I might have to cut short my presentation, but determined that I would share a funny story or two about Sven. I could remember laughing uproariously with Sven on any number of occasions, but I could hardly think of any. Several that I came up with were the kind of occasion where you "had to be there." A few were just not appropriate for a family gathering. Before getting up to speak I had chosen a story which I'd heard only second-hand, about a ruse Sven devised to keep a roof over his head when an evil landlord threatened to evict him. Sven felt certain that if he ever left his apartment he'd return to find the locks changed. As long as it appeared that someone was home, Sven felt, the landlord might be content to wait a few more days. So Sven rigged a timer to make his home look occupied while he was out, turning on the TV and starting a gadget which pushed a rocking chair in which sat a dummy staring at the tube. The rush of emotions which followed this speech were something I'll never forget. First I felt tremendously relieved that my ordeal was over. And people were laughing. I've always loved helping people to laugh and I felt such an outburst of warmth from this gathering that I just propelled myself into the crowd, hugging everyone in sight. "I'm glad somebody did that but I couldn't have done it myself," said one of my friends. You have to force yourself, I thought. Everybody should just do it. We would all feel so much better. How many chances does a person get to experience something like that?
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