[unabashedly uncorked: your daily dose of EPH]

To my [freshman year] Public Speaking Professor:

I find it comical that I don’t remember your name. Perhaps it’s the fact that my brain was so engaged in absorbing all your teachings. Or maybe it was the traumatic events that preceded the final months in your classroom. However, the fact that I remember you were a HUGE Carolina fan and that you left teaching to get your doctorate in Speech Pathology following the end of year 2002.

I remember standing up before those 35 upperclassmen [how was I actually able to get into that class to begin with?] with my knobby knees practically knocking and a reverberation in my voice. I stammered on about something I don’t quite remember, you kindly critiqued me with the up-most constructive criticism, and I returned to my freezing plastic seat [with it’s attached desk] thrilled that it was over.

Each time I presented, I grew as a speaker. For some, you video taped their performance. For me you removed the podium so I couldn’t shield myself from the crowd.

You can’t hide yourself behind that thing, Elizabeth. Don’t be concerned with them- I promise they won’t bite.

You told me to stop talking with my hands, to hold focus on a specific subject and to s.l.o.w. d.o.w.n. my words.

I talked about Grace Kelly and my fascination with her life, I gave a speech on my favorite food [way back then- mac and cheese- hello dorm living], and I filled the crowd in on my lifelong idol, my cousin Jane.

and then the unthinkable happened

I was scheduled to give a lecture. I don’t remember the exact subject, or how many minutes I was set to talk. I, thankfully, was prepared and had written my script over Spring Break while I was at home. The evening before a huge speech, I lost a best friend.

I resorted to the only thing I knew I could do. Oh- I do remember your name now! Dave Smith! I called every David, Dave and D. Smith in the phone book trying to tell you that I wasn’t going to be able to speak in the morning. My soul was crushed and I had to get home. But alas, I couldn’t get a hold of any Dave, David or D. Smith. 

I showed up the next morning looking something like a horror story. Bags under my eyes, red stained cheeks from the tears. I’m surprised I actually got dressed in a somewhat logical manner. You took one look at me and pulled me out of class to ask what was wrong.

I fell apart; could hardly get my words out. You took my script out of my shaking hands, gave me a hug and told me you would give my speech for me that day. You sent me home with orders to miss as many classes as I needed so that I might properly grieve my friend. 

On that morning in April, Dave Smith, you taught me true kindness.

You would be proud of me. I still talk with my hands and chuckle each time I hear the clank of my bracelets while leading a lecture or seminar. For my southern counterparts, I’m certain I still talk much too fast. But I’m no longer scared of a throng of people. With your help, I found confidence in my voice and a trust for the kindness of strangers.

For that, Mr. Dr. Smith, I’m eternally grateful.

Elizabeth