Kakkoraphiophobia
“Annie? Annie? Are you listening?” I jerked out of my reverie and faced my friend Amanda, who apparently had been trying to get my attention.
“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head a little as though I was trying to get rid of a bad dream. “I was distracted.”
The two of us and my other friend, Aiden, were walking together through a cafeteria in Raritan Valley Community College. We were there for a field trip, to learn about the Holocaust and hear survivors speak. Right now, the three of us were on our way to one of the mini-workshops with about thirty other kids. After about an hour and a half, the workshop was supposed to be over and we would head back to the cavernous auditorium for a presentation on Illuminations of Genocide. An artist had created these paintings to show the different genocides throughout the years. After, we would hear another survivor speak, and another student would also present a writing piece.
At the end, before we left, it would be my turn…
A few weeks before this field trip, my classmates and I were presented with the opportunity to create a piece of writing about stopping genocide. It could be an essay or a poem. I was unsure about whether or not I wanted to enter, but then the night before it was due, I managed to whip up a twelve-line poem. I turned it in to my writing teacher and thought I would never hear of it again. It wasn’t as if I expected my entry to win anything, what with it being so last-minute.
Sure enough, I did hear about it again. My measly poem had been chosen as a winner by the board. But, there was a catch – I had to read it at the Illuminations of Genocide exhibition on Tuesday evening, and then again in front of students from at least five different schools two days later.
That was something I was not prepared for. Public speaking – especially a poetry reading kind of public speaking – was something I had little to no experience with. Plus, it was a lot of people. I’m no performer, not a solo one, in any case. I had no clue how I was supposed to stand up at that podium in front of a thousand kids my age – who probably didn’t even care about the poem in the first place – and read my writing to them. It seemed to be an impossible task.
On Tuesday night, I had barely survived reading my poem in front of no more than those thirty-odd people who attended the Illuminations of Genocide presentation. This was literally three hundred times worse.
And that was what was racing through my mind when Amanda tried to get my attention. “Is there something wrong? She asked, her brown eyes getting wider with interest.
“I’m just nervous about the poem,” I replied shakily, twisting my mouth into a frown. I had it folded up my poem neatly in my purse. The night before, I had practiced reading it with my teacher once again, and I had highlighted the words I wanted to accent during the presentation. Everything and everyone was ready but me, and I could feel that slim sheet of paper weighing down my purse as though it were a brick instead.
“Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said as she waved her hand through the air, like she was trying to swat away all my worries. “Besides, you’ve already done this on Tuesday, right? This time will be no different.”
Aiden piped up at this time. “And anyway, didn’t you volunteer for this? You did send in the poem, after all.” Both he and Amanda had submitted their own poetry entries, but hadn’t gotten feedback. I had felt bad about winning because of that, but I had been happy that mine was chosen. Now I just felt hollow.
I shrugged casually, pretending that my nerves had passed, and said, “Yeah, I know I did. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Then, we continued our short journey to a conference room. As we walked through a hushed library, the college students inside stared at us younger kids. All I could think about as we moved on was that the auditorium would be the same way, except everyone would be staring solely at me. Don’t think that way, Annie, I chided myself silently. Remember, they’re middle school students. How much do you think they’ll care about or pay attention to your poetry?
We entered the conference room. A man in a suit, who turned out to be a lawyer, began his presentation. “Okay, today we’re here to talk about hate crimes…”
A long while later, the other students and I were yawning and stretching as we left our seats. Really, it had only been about an hour, but each second ticked by sluggishly for me, like I could see my time trickling away. I almost wanted to chase after it and shout, “No, wait! I need you!” Absently, I wandered my way out of the library, my feet following the others while my mind wandered in the woods of worst-case scenarios.
The group trudged through the small cafeteria again and up carpeted stairs. My school had ended up in the nosebleed section of the auditorium, all the way at the back and high in the air. As we entered the section, I was stopped by my writing teacher, Ms. Borbely, before I got to my seat.
“Annie! You’re going to be reading at the end, so you need to be sitting near the podium for this part of the presentation,” she explained. I could tell she was excited about this – her eyes were sparkling and she was bouncing up and down a little. She and I exited the same way I came in and descended those carpeted stairs.
Instead of heading toward the library as I had before for the workshop, the two of us headed into the double doors of the lower floor of the auditorium. I was clutching my purse like a life preserver, no doubt wrinkling my paper with the poem on it, as we walked down the aisle between the left and middle sections of seats. The kids on this level were unfamiliar to me, being from other schools, and I just knew I was being stared at again. It was noisy in the auditorium, but the silence would come later.
Ms. Borbely finally stopped at the forefront of the auditorium, at a short row of three seats directly in front of stage right. She and I sat down, and she leaned over and said, “You’re going to read at the very end. After this presentation, another girl will read. Then it’ll be your turn.” Smiling, she practically squeaked, “This is so exciting! Are you still nervous?”
“A little,” I admitted. But I was lying. I was a lot nervous, more than I would ever admit to anybody. However, I was going to pretend that this wasn’t happening in less than an hour, and take in the presentation.
After the Holocaust survivor left the stage, Peppy Margolis, who was in charge of this program, got up to the podium. She boomed, “Could we please have the next reader come to the stage?” After getting no response, she again asked for a girl with an unfamiliar name. People were turning their heads this way and that, craning their necks for a look at the back of the auditorium, trying to find her. But she didn’t show.
Finally, one teacher shouted, “One of the groups isn’t back yet from the workshops!” Oh, dear God, I thought. If she’s not here, then…
That’s when Peppy Margolis came down the steps and asked me, “Could you read now instead? The other girl can read at the end.”
“Oh, of course,” I responded smoothly, calmly, as though a hurricane wasn’t brewing where my stomach should have been. This was just great. At least before, I had been able to find solace in the fact that I didn’t have to go until the end. Well, that source of comfort disappeared fast.
Shakily, I removed the folded poem from my purse. I went up the short set up steps, unfolding the piece of paper as I went. I waited, trembling, behind the podium while Peppy took the microphone.
“Now,” she announced, “We will have Anne Nazzaro read her poem ‘The Solution.’”
Just then, a shockingly loud roar rose from the far reaches of the auditorium. My friends Amanda, Aiden, and a few others had stood up and were clapping, and Amanda yelled “Yeah, Annie!” before being silenced by a look from Mrs. Miller, a fearsome writing teacher. I could even hear distant screams of “We love you, Annie!” from two students jumping up and down in one of the front rows of that top section. I think everyone in my entire grade was clapping or shouting or possibly even both. The raucous applause had started before I had even begun. The uproar was crazy, with all the clapping and yelling, and I couldn’t hold back a grin. My confidence bolstered by their display, I stepped up to the mike.
Though I felt much better after their enthusiastic reaction, I was still afraid, just less so. I gripped the mike firmly, adjusted it to my height, and began.
It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. As I read, I accented words that I had highlighted on my paper, went softer, then louder, and tried to look up as much as possible. When I did, blank faces stared back at me. All was hushed, except for the echoes of the applause I swore I could still hear. I clung to the microphone the entire time, as though it were a buoy in stormy seas. But even as I hung on for dear life, I knew I would come out on top. Again, time seemed to have slowed down, but why I wouldn’t have known. Was the world trying to savor the few moments I was up there? Or just make them all that more agonizing? As I whispered my last word, I gazed directly into the crowd, and then it was over.
The applause afterward was enthusiastic, and I left the podium and walked down the side of the auditorium with Ms. Borbely, headed toward our school’s section. One of the Holocaust survivors, a blond woman, actually stopped Ms. Borbely on the way and asked if she could have a copy of the poem, which was what made me feel really good about it. Somehow, I, a girl who has had no real hardship in her life, was able to write something that resounded with someone who had gone through real trials. That moment was when I seemed to wake up. What I had done, it wasn’t so hard. I could probably even do it again. All the fretting and inner storms were so useless, I felt silly. I hadn’t had to go through the Holocaust; I just read a poem. That lady had done the first thing and had talked to all of the kids in that auditorium too, and for longer than I had. Perspective on this situation was what I had needed, and she had unwittingly given it to me.
So, I was able to go back up to my seat and smile and laugh with my friends, really laughing at myself. I was such a fool, having let my fears run wild with hypothetical situations. (What if I had tripped on the steps? What if I messed up the words? What if my poem combusted spontaneously?) But in the end, what I’ve gained from this is not to freak out over such situations. They’ll turn out alright in the end, and no one will even really guess how nervous you are. So, I’m going to be calm from now on when I have to speak in front of people. Maybe.
Sorry, I know it would be easier to read if I could get it to indent at the beginning of paragraphs, but I can't. I plan to mess around with the ending a lot before it's done.
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