It was during my freshman year of college that I enrolled in an elective class called “Intro to Public Speaking.” On the first day of the class the instructor announced that there was an error in the catalogue and that the REAL name of the class was “Intro to Pulblic Performance.” Apparently, I was the only one in the class who did not know this, because while the class was an elective for me it was a requirement for all drama majors. Suddenly it made sense why the class was filled with wraithlike girls who wore a lot of make-up and dressed totally in black and tall skinny guys who wore slightly less make-up and also dressed totally in black.
I was concerned that the class was a “Performance” class and I have no talent so I spoke to the instructor. She advised me to stick with the class and assured me it would be an easy A: the main “performance” requirement was that once a week I had to do a 5-minute oral presentation on a topic chosen randomly from a jar: “My Favorite Childhood Memory,” or “How I Learned There is No Santa Claus” or some other aspect of my dull and tedious life.
I could handle the weekly presentations all right, but I knew immediately that there was no way I could match the dramatic flair of my thespian classmates; these folks were not just majoring in drama — they lived it, and each had an uncanny ability to turn a routine trip to the restroom into a riveting 20-minute monologue of “My Traumatic Trip to the Restroom.”
It was after the midterm presentation that the bomb fell: By then, when it was too late to drop the class, I learned that I was expected to participate in the Department’s Annual Talent Show. Concerned, I cornered the instructor after class.
“I have no talent,” I told her.
“Nonsense,” she said heartily. “Everyone has talent.” She looked at me doubtfully. “Just do some interpretive dance,” she suggested anI turned pale. “Or sing a song,” she said, and I almost lost my breakfast. “Everyone can sing!” she said brightly, and fled.
The instructor clearly did not know that I am completely tone deaf and have no sense of rhythm, but I was in a quandary: By now it was too late to drop the class but if I did not participate there was a good chance I would flunk and lose my scholarship. If I did flunk, I could always utilize the school’s liberal retake policy and hope for a better grade, but there was no reasonable way I would be more talented the following semester than I was now.
In desperation I sought advice from Mrs. Milligan, a friend of my mom’s who coordinated the Glee Club at a local high school.
“Anyone can sing,” said Mrs. Milligan. “Sing ‘Happy Birthday,’” she commanded, and I did. There was a long silence. “So everybody can’t sing,” said Mrs. Milligan. She thought a bit when I told her my story of woe. “Here’s what you do,” she advised. “If you can’t sing well, sing loud; hopefully no one will notice.”
This seemed like good advice; I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I have no problem with volume. Accordingly I began to practice for the big night by rehearsing, over and over, a dreadful little ditty called “Feelings” a treacly ballad that you could not escape in the late 1970’s.
On the big day I waited breathlessly for my turn and, heart beating wildly, stepped up to the mic. The music swelled and —- I promptly forgot the words. In a near panic, frantically trying to remember, I began to hum the melody – really loudly. I glanced around the small auditorium and saw that the audience was simply staring at me. But then, thankfully it was time for the chorus. That I remembered.
“FEELINGS!!” I shouted. “WOE-OH-OH, FEELINGS! WOE-OH-OH, FEELINGS, WOE-OH-OH-OH!!!”
For three excruciating minutes I hummed the melody and shouted the chorus and when I was done the audience was still just staring at me, mouths open. The applause, such as it was, was tepid at best. I did a little bow and ran for the wings.
The instructor was waiting for me: She was pale. “That was not good,” she said, a massive understatement; “But you tried so I’ll pass you for this class.”
I had already hit rock bottom; “I need an A,” I said, “otherwise, I’ll have to take the class over again.”
I got my A.