Toast

I delivered my first and last speech at Toastmasters in mid-December, just before I left to have jaw surgery. It didn’t go exceptionally well – the speech, I mean. “Okay,” a comely yoga instructor whispered to me as I rushed past her on the way out after my brief talk. “You were able to get out several words – that’s a start.” Another member e-mailed me the next day: “Hey, I didn’t understand what the hell went on but we all struggle coming out of the blocks sometimes.”
The group was composed of people who wanted to improve their public speaking skills. There were twenty in our cohort, local businesspeople of all ages who trudged in twice a month to a partially abandoned City Hall and took their turns up in front of the fold-away podium and gold and navy tasseled banner. They practiced their delivery, gestures, their tone and their inflection – everything. For two hours twice a month. It didn’t so much matter what the speeches were about. It was more getting up there and practicing. Doing it. “The Key to a Happy Life,” or “The Truth about Toll Booths,” were some. One scientist spoke on, “How to Understand the World of Microbiology.” Another time I heard a reserved, female doctoral student deliver a semi-charming ditty on the metaphysical significance of cat food. I believe she was shooting for a David Sedaris type of thing. It fell a bit flat but I admired the attempt.
There were handshakes, applause, certificates, and once members brought in macadamia-nut cookies, Diet Coke and Ben & Jerry’s for the break. Champagne for the Christmas party. Decent, driven people who wanted to get better at their skittishness and anxiety in front of a crowd. One had to appreciate their guts, their balls.
I delivered my speech after a woman named Mallory shut the lights off, lit a cranberry-scented candle, and led us in a rendition of “Silent Night,” in German. I believe it was in recognition of the English-German Christmas truce of 1914 during World War I. I felt foolish but I sang along to the handed-out lyrics, “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht…” A bunch of us crooning way off key for a minute and a half in a language we didn’t even know.
You wouldn’t think it would be a tough act to follow.
*          *          *
When I was recovering from my operation for condylar hyperplasia (overgrowth of the jaw) in the Intensive Care Unit at Yale New Haven Hospital, my family came by and gawked at my face. My little brother cried when he saw me and my mother blessed herself and said, “That’s it – I’m never getting plastic surgery.” My sister said the operation lasted eight hours and that they had to stop in the middle of breaking and resetting my jaw to order a special saw from a cross-town hospital. My mother recited some facts she’d gleaned from the surgeon  – that my lower chin bled excessively; that the right side of my upper lip would be numb for two to five months; and that I now had five Titanium plates in my upper palate for the rest of my life. “The doctor said you’ll be safe passing through metal detectors,” she said and kissed me goodnight. My brother left without looking at me a second time.
“I get freaked out when I see your face,” he said.

Originally published:
Barely South Review
April 2010