Back in school. I get to speech early. It’s Amber’s turn. Can she talk for ten solid minutes about truth and be convincing? Can she stand in front of the class and tell a moving story? I’ve never heard her say more than a couple of sentences at a time, maybe because she’s hesitant about putting her thoughts into words. Still, maybe she can pull it off.
David walks in and sits at his desk. He faces forward, staring at the blackboard. He’s reliving his speech. I see it. Other kids come in and glance over at him, but he’s oblivious, a detached look on his face. Three more minutes until the bell.
Does Amber hope to make a grand entrance? The seconds tick by. Mr. Scott erases the blackboard, sending motes of chalk dust drifting through the air. Blank slate, the perfect backdrop for a speech about truth.
The bell rings. Mr. Scott closes the door and turns to the class, searching the room. “Anyone know where Amber is?”
Heads shake. “Paris?” someone calls out. Someone else laughs. Mr. Scott ignores them. “Let’s give her a few more minutes.” He opens his book and looks through it. He reminds Sharon Stein that her speech is due tomorrow. Teddy Morris goes the following day. Then me. I’m fixated on the second hand on the big, white face of the clock in the front of the room. Nine. A sixty-second circle: 9:01, 9:02, 9:03, 9:04.
At 9:05, Mr. Scott lifts a door-stopper-sized book off his desk. I read the spine: Great American Speeches. He turns through the pages and finally stops, going off on a boring tangent about the importance of opening lines and the power of words to change us. Please, not the “Gettysburg Address.”
This is definitely filler.
He talks about the beginning and the end of a speech as the “verbal bookends” that support the content inside. Since I ate a light breakfast, my mind is picturing two slices of bread on either side of some chicken salad. My stomach starts to growl.
This is not fun. Or enlightening. I start to write my name in puffy, cheese-doodle-style letters. I look back at Mr. Scott and hear something about grabbing the audience’s attention immediately, the way a good newspaper reporter starts a news story with a “gripping lead.” He goes on. And on. Finally, the bell rings.
So Amber’s way of handling truth is to cop out and not tell it. I’m annoyed. And disappointed.
But really? I can’t blame her.