The Song of Hiawatha

   In junior high we had final exams at the end of each year. They seemed to be a big deal, and since this was different from grade school, finals were stressful. Suddenly thrown into this mix at the end of 8^th grade English by Mr. Constable was an oral exercise – we were to each get up in front of the class and speak as part of our final exam!

    We could make up our own talk or memorize something that someone else had written. I don't remember how long it had to be – probably no more than five minutes, and I do not recall any of the specifications other than that it was required for our final.

    I was terrified and had seriously considered taking a zero for the talk – I was desperate not to speak all by myself to the class. After giving it a lot, and I mean a lot, more thought – and only to myself – I could not talk to my parents about this, and if I spoke among my classmates about my reluctance and terror, it was probably whiney rather than conversational or problem-solving, finally I was able to convince myself that this was merely a one-time assignment. If I put myself through the horror of giving a short talk to the class in order to get past 8^th grade English, I would never have to talk in front of a group of people ever ever again. I don't know where that gigantic leap from reality came from or how I convinced myself of it – but I was convinced, and it was the only way I would be able to gather the courage to do what was needed to be done at that point in time.

     The poem The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was in a book I had at home. The first few stanzas of the poem looked about right for the talk that was required. I memorized the words focusing on the enunciation and putting no emotion into the poem whatsoever. I do not recall any of the other classmates memorizing a poem for their final – but I did not care – memorizing a poem was allowed, and all I was willing to do was the minimum required to get me through this grueling, horrible exercise.

     When it was my turn, I remember standing in front of the class and trying to feel as numb as possible – the faces in front of me looked numb too. Mr. Constable appeared emotionless when I announced I would be reciting a portion of The Song of Hiawatha. And I stumbled through – uncaring, just wanting the moment over with.

     Returning to my seat, I felt my performance had been lame – but it was over, and I would never have to do anything like that ever again in my life.

     The irony of what was was expected of us in English class over the next four years did not escape me at all as the next years came and went and as each required oral assignment unfolded horrifyingly before my eyes – the monthly speeches on any topic in 9^th grade, the emotion-eliciting talk of sophomore year, the reviews of Leo Tolstoy and then Tennessee Williams senior year. I eventually realized that this abomination was never going to end.

     And then came the choice, much later in life, to get in front of a microphone and tell a room full of strangers a personal story. And love it. And wonder if I could make a living at it?

     Perhaps my story has always been about embracing irony – even before the shores of Gitche Gumee!

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