It all started with bitter failure. A long time ago, when I was a simple student in sociology, I was invited to work with teachers as part of a continuing education program. My subject: “The sociology of adolescence”. I used to give tutoring classes, but this was the first time I had to lecture in a large lecture hall, microphone in hand.
I dreamed then to make a beautiful career of intellectual. The opportunity was given for the first time to shine in public. My intervention was scheduled just after that of a large spawn, a recognized psychiatrist, author of several reference books. The kind of guy I wanted to be. It turns out he was also an excellent speaker, a real showman: lively, captivating, funny. The audience was conquered.
As his performance neared the end, I felt the stress rise. To tell the truth, a real panic, totally disproportionate. When my turn came, I immediately understood that my presentation, too long, too abstract, too academic, would annoy everyone. Wanting to “do the scientist”, I had a trap. I took the microphone. My throat tightened, my tongue dried up, my hand began to shake. My discomfort was visible; I felt the embarrassment of the public, which only increased my panic. I would have had to drink a glass of water, but it was not planned. That’s when my tongue literally stuck to the palate of my throat, yes stuck! No more sound could come out of my mouth! For a few interminable seconds, I remained silent.
Until I leave the gallery, shaking and sweating. People thought I was uncomfortable. The great psychiatrist came to my rescue and took over. My presentation had just begun that it was already finished.
Since this disastrous experience — a public humiliation! -, I learned the job. I had to gain experience. In fact, the experience is the name given to these errors. I have almost all done: too long presentations, too didactic, too abstract, dubious jokes that fell flat, improvisations poorly controlled … I did everything. Over time, I learned to articulate stories and concepts, good words and key ideas. I learned to control my emotions, to modulate the tone of my voice, to stimulate rhythm. I learned to slow down the tempo. The good speaker, like the musician, knows how much silences count.
I also learned one thing: the importance of being sincere. Public speaking is often thought of as a pure exercise of style that could serve any cause. An American friend told me that he won an eloquent award at his university, praising the virtues of the Soviet regime, which no one believed. I, for one, have the conviction that the most beautiful oratorical performances, if they are not authentic, end up not sounding fake, like too many advertising brochures.
Recently, I was invited to speak at a ceremonial graduation university. I thought I knew enough about my subject to be able to expose some key ideas. But while preparing the presentation, I felt that something was wrong. The more I advanced in my preparation, the more faults appeared in these ideas that I thought were clear and well ordered. And the more the faults became gaping. I played cash: when I went on stage, I exposed my initial ideas, but also my doubts, my denials, my questions. I was very applauded as if the public had perceived in my flaws and uncertainties an appreciable pledge of sincerity. Rhetorical techniques are useful; they allow us to shine. But not necessarily to convince, move, give thought, transform the world. As in music, public speaking is a matter of accuracy.
