I was six when I discovered I had a public speaking gift. I had been assigned an Easter piece. We were not regular churchgoers, yet I had had an Easter piece. My job was to show up on Easter Sunday and make my family proud. I don’t know about it now, but Easter pieces were a rite of passage in the Black church when I was growing up. I was learning a time-honored oral tradition.
My teenage aunt took on the role of a speech coach. She coached me from the brown floral printed couch in our living room as my little girl voice boomed out the following words:
“Momma fixed me up so neat, and daddy said don’t you look sweet. For I was chosen though so small to give a welcome to you all.”
The piece was not earth-shattering prose, but my young aunt devoted her time to me. She made me feel special. She rallied all the adults in the house to listen to my speech, encouraging them to cheer for me and to clap for me. I loved the attention.
When her friends came over, she’d have me recite my speech. I wish I could say that I happily obliged.
I was annoyed.
Six-year-olds are serious about play, and I was no different. My dolls and imaginary friends were very important to me. I rolled my eyes and sighed as I recited my piece. The teenagers snickered.
I was hilarious and didn’t know it.
The coaching continued with instructions to pause, linger on specific phrases, or animatedly say others. My young aunt poured all that she had into my performance.
Easter Sunday arrived, and I was ready. I don’t remember my name being called, and I don’t remember being nervous.
I do remember stepping confidently to the front of the church and taking the mic.
I felt good.
My hair was pressed, my dress was pretty, and I wore a pair of white frilly baby doll socks and black patent leather shoes that clicked on hard surfaces. It is hard not to be vain when you look that good.
I opened my mouth and delivered my piece with all the flourish I had been taught.
The people listened and responded.
There were smiling faces and murmurs of approvals like, “Go on, baby,” and “You’re doing real good.”
They applauded, including my aunt. I felt powerful. At that moment, I felt loved. I felt seen. I felt heard. I would spend the rest of my life seeking out these feelings.
As I coast into middle age, I understand that it’s not what you say but how you say it. More importantly, all of us can benefit from spaces where we can show up as our authentic selves and be affirmed for who we are.
I’m happy to be a member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative. Please explore other writers in the group.
Laura Belin: Iowa Politics with Laura Belin, Windsor Heights
Doug Burns: The Iowa Mercury, Carroll
Dave Busiek: Dave Busiek on Media, Des Moines
Art Cullen: Art Cullen’s Notebook, Storm Lake
Suzanna de Baca Dispatches from the Heartland, Huxley
Debra Engle: A Whole New World, Madison County
Julie Gammack: Julie Gammack’s Iowa Potluck, Des Moines and Okoboji
Jody Gifford: Benign Inspiration, West Des Moines
Beth Hoffman: In the Dirt, Lovilla
Dana James: New Black Iowa, Des Moines
Fern Kupfer and Joe Geha: Fern and Joe, Ames
Robert Leonard: Deep Midwest: Politics and Culture, Bussey
Kyle Munson: Kyle Munson’s Main Street, Des Moines
Chuck Offenburger: Iowa Boy Chuck Offenburger, Jefferson and Des Moines
Barry Piatt: Behind the Curtain, Washington, D.C.
Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Buggy Land, Kalona
Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Emerging Voices
Cheryl Tevis: Unfinished Business, Boone County
Ed Tibbetts: Along the Mississippi, Davenport
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Welcome to our group, Teresa! Delighted to have you with us! I can't wait to read your future columns.
Welcome, Teresa!