The other day I delivered another speech, sandwiched in between author Eric Liu and our state’s governor. Both were sharp, intelligent, well-practiced oratories.
I recited lyrics from Bon Jovi and Journey.
I have to admit, the 1,000 or so people in attendance really seemed to know their 80s music.
Some excerpts:
Talk about what you know. Remember, you were once an AmeriCorps member yourself. I'm sure you can relate. You know the confusion they probably put their families through, family members who probably asked, AmeriCorps, what is that, some sort of pyramid scheme? Why are you doing this to me? I'm not buying any dishwasher detergent so you can just forget about that. Because your own wife, who is from Romania had the same reaction when you told her you were joining AmeriCorps, in fact her exact words were, 'Vut eez deez, some sort of Pyrameed scheme? Vy are you doing deez to me? I'm not buying any deeshvater detergent, so you can forgeet about dees.
Yes, I really did do the ‘Alex.’ And it drew one of the biggest laughs. I swear, marrying that voman was the best thing I could have done for my public speaking career.
Try writing down a list about yourself. People like lists. Lists are like comfort food. Comfort food is making a huge comeback. Many upscale restaurants serve comfort food like macaroni and cheese, but unfortunately they use real cheese, which isn't very comforting when you're lactose intolerant. Comfort food, my butt.
I read this extremely fast and with a real nasal, whiny quality. They ate this up.
I sometimes speak to large groups of people. Real, live people who look upon you for words of inspiration and amusement. Sometimes they're so utterly desperate for inspiring words that in their fervor they pass into unconsciousness, though it seems like they're merely sleeping. I wanted to refer to myself as the human narcotic, but that seemed an odd nickname for a public speaker. Sometimes I think about that trick of imagining the audience naked, but that's dangerous in the Pacific Northwest, because much of the skin here has never seen sunlight, and the glare can burn blindspots into your cornea.
This last line got the most applause-laughter. It’s that kind of laughter you get when people seem to recognize some sort of universal truth that also doubles conveniently as a joke.
I am a fan of poetry, but only as written by the greats: Keats, Dickinson, Whitman, Manilow. Barry Manilow would make a great AmeriCorps member. You know, he wrote the songs that made the whole world sing. He wrote the songs of love and special things. He wrote the songs that made the young girls cry. He wrote the songs, he wrote the songs.
I was surprised how many people laughed at this, since the audience seemed predominantly Generation Y. But Barry is timeless, apparently. Thanks to Katie for pointing out the absurdity of these lyrics.
I am an AmeriCorps Aluminum. Wait, shouldn't that be americorps Alum? When are you going to disable spell check once and for all. For god's sake, if you refer to yourself as americorps aluminum again I don't know if you will be able to contain. I mean continue.
I really should have used the phrase ‘autocorrect,’ but ‘spell check’ is universally recognized. Meh. They liked it.
I have made my fair share of mistakes. You need to remind the 10 or so people in attendance that they shouldn't expect to bear the weight of the entire world upon their shoulders. Though it's true, many of them will be mistaken for superheroes during their year, and by being mistaken for superheroes, I don't mean that they will accidentally show up to work with their underwear on the outside of their pants.
Oh, right, I agreed we wouldn't mention that anymore. But it's ironic, because you drove home faster than a locomotive that day. And almost ran into that tall building. And then you cried, oh how you cried. I guess us superheroes have a softer side. Sort of like Sears. Everything is interrelated. It's eerie.
Asia will recognize one of the lines from a comment I left on her site. In the PacNW, we recycle my friends. That goes for aluminum. That goes for glass. That goes for words.
And like the superheroes, tell them that they might not be well understood or even appreciated. But remind them as well that the single greatest band of all time, Journey, never had a number one hit.
Use your knowledge of Journey lyrics to relate to them, if they seem confused by stories of americorps aluminum. Try to help just that girl in the front row. She's just a small town girl. Livin in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere. And that young man, He's just a city boy. Born and raised in South Detroit. HE took the midnight train going anywhere.
And that odd person in the back? He's a singer in a smokay room. The smell of wine and cheap perfume. For a smile they can all share the night. It goes on and on and on and on.
I’ve seen many variations on ‘create a paragraph based completely on the lyrics or song titles of a band,’ most recently by Scott in a clever comment. The audience dug it. The last line was emoted. It was sweet. e-migos.
Remind them that if they ever feel like giving up some time during their year of service, that they should stop being so damn selfish and think about Tommy and Gina from Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer. Tommy used to work on the docks, Union's been on strike. He‘s down on his luck. It's tough. So tough. And Gina works the diner all day. Working for her man, she brings home her pay. For love.
For love.
Remind them that we’ve got to hold on to what they've got. It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other, and that's a log. I mean, a lot. Damn you spell chuck. Check. For love. We'll give it a shot.
Recycled from my post, ‘Our 80s Divide’
Okay, this next part is where I turn serious. It’s a real trick, trying to turn the mood when you’ve been cutting jokes for 10 minutes. There’s always a couple of people who still want to giggle irrespective of what you say at the microphone. But the audience worked with me on this. It was smooth.
It’s a little long, so bear with me.
I continue to volunteer. Yes, tell them that. Inspire them with stories of your own volunteerism after americorps, tales of derring do from when you were a volunteer firefighter. Describe that first house fire you fought.
Don't tell them it burned down.
Talk about the baby you helped deliver.
Don't tell them you sat on the placenta.
During one call, I arrived at a house and found a woman unconscious. She was in her 70s. I had never seen a woman that color blue before. Another EMT and I started CPR. Sometimes you find yourself at a certain time and certain place in the universe where you were always meant to be. I don't know what you call it. The zero point, perhaps. Everything you've done up to now was made for the zero point. And the zero point will influence everything you do afterwards.
Time doesn't seem to pass when you're in the zero point. Quite simply, you just are. One moment, I'm holding a dying woman's head in my hands, giving her oxygen. And then there is a hand on my shoulder. It's one of the paramedics who's just arrived.
He tells me to step aside. Good job he says.
I look down. She's breathing.
Her husband would thank us later, which moved me. One of the older firefighters saw this. Not everyone believes in thank yous. They believe service is its own reward, that the kind words only feed the ego, detract from the deed. He once pointed out how many of the most lavishly recognized and appreciated firefighters often succumbed, not to a burning building, but to the pressure of recognition.
And he came to me, with this look all full of wisdom, and you could tell he wanted to instill some sort of life lesson, and that's all right, I'm all for learning, and he said, ‘Thank yous are all fine and good but that's not why we do this. That thank you and a dollar will buy you a cup of coffee,’ and I know what he meant, and I didn't say it at the time, but I'll tell you all this, in confidence, that was about the best damn tasting cup of coffee I ever had.
I think he knew that. Our mentors often speak in ways we don't understand. At least not at the time. At least one of you will be fortunate enough to find a mentor like I had when I was a VISTA so many years ago in South Carolina, a mentor with the ability to see into the future. When you meet, she'll tell you about her prognostic abilities and you'll laugh, but she'll hand you a piece of paper. On that sheet of paper will be numbers. Those numbers will show that in the next year in our state, over 100,000 families will find themselves at risk of hunger. That in the next year over 167,000 kids will go without health insurance. That 238,000 will live below the poverty line.
And a year later, your mentor will show you the actual figures, and they'll be the same. Her future was right. 'See?' she'll say. And you might feel like you've failed. Because you were told the future, and you somehow let it slide. You had a chance to make a difference, and you passed.
But before you apologize, your mentor will gently laugh and show you a different sheet of paper. And on that sheet of paper are also numbers that show how many people will live in poverty, without health insurance, at risk of hunger. But these numbers will be much larger than what she first showed you. And you won't understand until she says, 'You did make a difference.' The future I foretold was the one with you in it.
There are people out there whom I love dearly. Children, older adults, even a few Romanians, and each of you has taken it upon yourself to help those people. Those people I love. I haven't asked you for this. You've come willingly.
Few things beat delivering a speech that gets people laughing out loud and then absolutely silences them.
But to be sure, you want to end on a high note.
Cue the 80s:
How can I ever measure what that's worth? In a sense, that admonition I received about thank yous seems appropriate. A thank you alone seems like an insult. And the last thing I want to do is start insulting you, especially since many of you come from disadvantaged backgrounds, and by disadvantaged what I mean is that many of you grew up without songs from the 80s, and I know some of you are thinking, pfft, I can download most of that stuff. But you're never going to slow dance at prom to Sister Christian, or deck out homecoming in a Turkish theme to Rock the Casbah, because that ship has sailed, my friends.
Frankly, I don't know how some of you can even get by.
And I could tell you with open arms to don't stop believing because the wheel in the sky keeps on turning until we go our separate ways, but sometimes even journey isn't enough to deal with the world when things start to get tough. Sometimes you also need to throw in a little crowded house.
"There is freedom within;
There is freedom without;
Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup;
There's a battle ahead;
Many battles are lost;
But you'll never reach the end of the road while you're traveling with me."
It could very well be that there will come a time in the next year that it seems like your problems have you hopelessly outnumbered, and this world may indeed try to build a wall between us,
But hey now, hey now, when the world comes in,
We know that they won't win.
Good luck, you crazy AmeriCorps people.
God, I love speeches.
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