Public Speaking

I’m not good at public speaking.

I’ve never been good at it.

I understand there are classes for this—

and I suppose they help.

I wouldn’t know.

I’ve never taken one.

It’s not that I don’t have something to say.

I do.

I’m voicing ideas in my head—

so close to the surface,

almost spoken—

but no,

I remain mute.

Who would I disappoint?

Who would I embarrass?

Good questions—

and I have the answers.

I’d only embarrass myself,

but I’m okay with that.

It’s a process.

I’d only disappoint myself

if I stayed mute and isolated.

I hold back

because I don’t want to offend,

don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.

I know what I look like—

a fairly good-sized man, older, bearded—

and I understand

that some might find that threatening.

So I measure myself,

soften the edges,

choose silence when speech might seem abrupt.

But writing it out like this

makes it all feel so controlled.

As if I’ve handed perfect strangers

the right to silence me

before they’ve even spoken.

Maybe I need to ease into it—

a slow rehearsal for volume.

Maybe I could wear

a pair of dead headphones,

a disconnected Bluetooth earpiece—

make it seem

like I’m just talking to someone far away.

Then, even if I’m speaking aloud,

no one would be quite sure.

Not threatening.

Just a little rude.

I might pull this off.

Public speaking, my way.

You might even see me

sitting at the table next to you,

murmuring softly at Starbucks.