I taught public speaking for 30 years. This is what I know for sure - Part I

I was 17 years old when I had my first public speaking gig. I didn’t want it; a nun pushed me into it. Dublin, Ireland, 1984 – pre internet; pre hair straightener. It doesn’t get much bleaker than that. In school, I had one thing that defined me: my cred. I was cool. I had mad curly hair and the concept of a hair straightener was over the hills and far, far away. I could barely see out through my bangs. I smoked. I skipped classes. I probably gave cheek. I was a bold girl and I was always in trouble. But I wasn’t a bad girl. My little sister had Downs Syndrome and I had signed up to volunteer at the first Special Olympics ever held in Ireland. ​They needed more volunteers and the way we communicated our needs and wants back in those days was via word of mouth, and if there was a platform from which to enhance the words, that platform was a stage.

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​In this case, the stage in front of the entire school at morning assembly. Six hundred students and a team of teachers, many of them nuns. The nun responsible for putting me in such a daunting position was Sr. Norah, the Principal in a school run by Dominicans, known for encouraging girls towards glass ceilings and such. I’d asked Sr. Norah to announce the request for volunteers at assembly and she thought it would be a much better idea if the request came from me. 
 
I assumed she wanted to make a fool of me, given I was such a trouble maker. No doubt she would delight in seeing me quiver in my boots in front of the whole school, people who considered me one of the coolest girls alive (at least, my sister and her pals did, and I couldn’t let them down). I stood beside Sr. Norah, ready for my introduction, horrified that my entire body was shaking. As I began to speak I knew I had to pull myself together and quick. ​I dove deep into myself, finding a higher power I hadn’t been aware of, something that told me to slow down, breathe deep, look my audience in the eye. My smiling sister, her impressed friends, the heat of Sr. Norah’s fire breathing down the back of my neck. A flimsy piece of paper with some reminding key words on it: hold it with a vice grip and the trembling won’t be so obvious. Keep your other hand in your pocket, and don’t you dare look scared. It was a battle: me and Sr. Norah, and I won. I won! I stayed cool, calm and collected. Maybe Sr. Norah felt thwarted. Maybe she knew what she was doing. 
 
Looking back, I probably had (have) ADHD. I’ve never been diagnosed but there is a general consensus amongst those that know and love me well that I do. I was out of control for a while after that first speaking gig; I went down some dark paths and face some scary demons. ​But somehow those experiences led me back to the stage, and a lifelong career as a drama teacher and theatre director. I spent 30 years building confidence in people of all ages and abilities, and I learned a thing or two about creativity, about inspiration and indeed, about public speaking. I learned how to teach it by observing one very obvious truth: when it comes to speaking publicly, there are two types of people.

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You might be Type A, like me: realise that the audience is on your side; they want you to do well, they want to hear what you have to say and they’re prepared to settle down and give you that chance. You’ll see it in their faces as they smile up at you. If you’re nervous, you’ll see that uneasiness reflected back up at you and it will guide you to be easier in yourself. You’ll understand that these are just people, human beings with their own flaws, listeners who are giving you the floor. If you remember to slow down and breathe, take in their lovely kind faces. If you sense fidgeting, maybe they can’t hear you – all the techniques you learn can go out the window when you’re nervous. Read the room, use the audience as your guide to remember to project, breathe, slow down, speak up, and crucially: engage. If you’re Type A, you’re a communicator and your intention is to genuinely engage and connect with your audience. This can be achieved if you follow techniques for clarity and authenticity. If you’re this kind of speaker, happy days: you’ll only get better at it. The more you practice, the less nervous you’ll be. The more you’ll appreciate the enjoyment of connection.

​If you’re Type B, you’re an actor. Never in a thousand years will you ever feel connected to this audience; you’ve played out every possible scenario in your head and your fail safe plan can’t possibly cover all of them. Nothing will convince you that these people will automatically be on your side. If you look at their faces you’ll die. All you’ll see there will be judgement and condemnation, there isn’t a chance you’re going to be doing that. So you’ll pretend. You excel in your preparation; you’re word perfect and you’ll direct your lines  toward a spot on the back wall; a smudge over there, an empty chair over here; someone’s left ear, a blur in the distance. You can learn, as an actor, to seem to connect. You can fool the audience into believing you’re the most authentic person in the room. You’ll convince them if you believe in what you’re saying – your actual content: some part of all this has to ring true. 
 
And there it is: the key to moving forward and practicing until you’re perfect. Know whether you’re a communicator or an actor and act accordingly. If you’re a communicator, you’ll doubt what I’m saying is true. If you’re an actor, you’re sighing with relief. 
 
It’s been forty years since I stood on that stage, knees knocking together. I’ve spent thirty of those years putting people in front of audiences.  The question is, are you an actor or a communicator? And what about those techniques? Would you appreciate knowing more? 
 
Let me know in the comments – I’d love to know your thoughts!