We Have Ways of Making you Talk

It might surprise people who know me now, but when I was in second and third grade I refused to speak in public unless I absolutely had to. Teachers would call me “Kristi” and I didn’t correct them; they learned otherwise only after my parents’ first meeting with them each fall. Now, I talked a lot at home, but I would not talk at school, not because I had nothing to say but because I was shy and didn’t want anyone to notice me.

The problem is, if you take silence too far, someone will notice it. One day Miss Coza let me know that the speech teacher would be coming by to take me out of class during math. A creature of routine, I found this terrifying and pondered sneaking out of school at recess to walk home. Having learned my lesson from the first grade short bus debacle, I stayed put and waited for the speech lady to take me away.

The speech therapist was kind but also spoke in such a loud, slow voice ("Why HELL-O Kirsti. How ARE you toDAY?") that I was worried she thought I was either deaf or didn't speak English. She had me read some words out loud from a series of cards, and, satisfied that I could actually utter audible sounds, tried the psychological approach.

“Why don’t you talk in class?” she finally asked me, the loud, slow voice modulated now.

I don’t remember my answer, but I’m sure it was short and vague. At the time, I didn’t know, but I knew I was afraid to speak and that it was frustrating. I didn’t want to be afraid to talk. I wasn’t happy being like that. I just didn’t know any other way to be. And there were rewards for not talking: my conduct grade was consistently excellent, and teachers did not want to pressure a shy girl who might start crying at any moment.

The upshot of it was that the speech therapist decided that it was beyond her powers as a speech therapist to help a child who could actually speak without lisp, impediment, or other diagnosable problem, and sent me back to class.

That was not the end of it, unfortunately. My father so happened to be the school psychologist at Varnum, so although he could not test me, I had to go elsewhere for psychological testing. Apparently all was well with those tests, but I still wouldn’t talk at school. Nowadays, the solution to children’s social problems often seems to be involvement in sports (Violent child? Sign him up for hockey! Social misfit? Try soccer!), but public schools in Lowell didn’t have organized sports, and my mother’s view on sports has always been very easy to summarize: “Sports are stupid.” She had another idea: Elocution lessons.

Elocution is another word for “public speaking,” but focuses more on performance than persuasion. It was taught a great deal in the nineteenth century, most often in connection with acquiring refinement and poise, and the pieces students read were literary: parts of plays, essays, poems and stories. Even in 1976, elocution was hopelessly old-fashioned, but my mother was determined, and she talked Eileen’s mother into sending her as well. The elocution teacher, Mrs. Lawson, a former librarian, lived in a brick apartment building downtown that was filled with plants, cumbersome furniture, and stacks of books. Everything was old but not shabby—we thought it was elegant, and figured Mrs. Lawson must be rich because she had a four-poster canopy bed and beautiful, flowered carpets, the kind my mother said are only for people who don’t have kids or pets.

Armed with our elocution readers, books filled with short pieces for recitation that I’m sure were discards with “Lowell Public Library” stamped on the cover pages, we read for Mrs. Lawson each Monday night, learning how to sit straight and to project our voices (but not too much—no shouting). Mrs. Lawson never gave those “aren’t you cute” looks that many old ladies did; she was all briskness, and her goal was to get us ready for our public recital at a local auditorium, where all of her students would be performing. She also taught piano and flute, so she had a full roster. Eileen and I practiced after school, although Eileen’s performance on recital night was hindered by her drunken father loudly complaining about Ginger having dragged him there. My mother tells me now that although the look on Ginger’s face broke her heart, Mrs. Lawson’s glare at Daniel, which actually shut him up for a few minutes, almost made up for it.

My piece was a story about mice, and when the recital came, I read it straight through, despite my terror, looking directly at the audience and speaking clearly and loudly. It might seem disingenuous to say that elocution lessons cured me of my public shyness, but I got my first B in conduct at school the next term.