A recent survey found that most people's greatest fear is not heights
or needles or vicious criminals. It is having to speak to a large group.
Few literary writers experience that fear because our readings are so seldom
attended by large groups. Nevertheless, every reading has its potential
for disaster.
Once I was reading when the previous reader fell asleep and began to snore. After a particularity loud snort, he fell from his chair and spread eagled at my feet. (He revived with nothing more serious than a carpet burn).
My performances for children draw larger numbers but not always luckier numbers. Once I was performing my story, The Always Prayer Shawl to 600 children who sat crowded on a gym floor. I was reaching the most touching moment when the middle of the crowd began to stir. Students scrambled to the sides with a general groan. Then the smell struck me. They were avoiding a girl who was on her hands and knees throwing up in a most impressive manner. Janitors and teachers rushed in, kids rushed out. I exited as best I could.
I was ending a presentation in Birmingham Alabama when the tornado siren sounded. We jammed the inner hall far from windows that might shatter. The lights went out and frightened children began to cry. I gave a second unscheduled show, telling tales about my friend, Simon Tookoome, an Inuit hunter and artist in Baker Lake. We soon forgot the tornado that was tearing off roofs and wrenching trees. Instead we entered the still and quiet centre of a story set far away in the frozen north.
That same northland once hosted me as an author. I had a reading in the second floor of a hockey arena. It was attended by a half dozen older Inuit women who came with a gaggle of kids. The hockey game drew the kids away but the seniors seemed happy to stay. I read two literary pieces. They kept smiling and nodding so I did another, more avant guard. When I finished, they remained sitting and smiling so I asked if they had questions or comments on my work. I then discovered that not one of them spoke English.
My most memorable reading was just outside Winnipeg in a tent on the edge of lovely meadow by the river. There were over a hundred people, a good crowd for a literary reading and I was billed as the grand finale.
It was a hot afternoon with the show running an hour late when we came to the act before mine, a choir of enthusiastic men and women.
They'd sung for half an hour when the host, a toothy young fellow in a damp shirt darted over to me. He seemed to love darting about and waving his clipboard.
"Everything's just terrific! You need anything? No? Fantastic!" He frothed some more and whispered earnestly, "I'm giving the choir more time. Most of the audience came for them -friends and family, you know."
I didn't need to know that; I'd hoped some came for me. Still, it was a large audience and I was the grand finale.
I tried to look over my story. I'd spent the week writing it and all morning setting it in my mind but I was drawn to the singing - a rousing blues number from Deep South and then a powerful Maritime miner's chantey.
A singer stepped forward. She announced that this was more than the end of their concert season. Their choir mistress was retiring. She thanked the mistress with a bouquet and hugged her with great emotion.
"Very nice," I thought. The whole audience was murmuring and cooing. The choir mistress responded passionately, recounting times of despair, moments of triumph, characterizing various members - all like family to her. The murmurs deepened. Some fluttered Kleenex.
"Oh, stop it!" she laughed. "Let's end on a high note - a song from Zimbabwe!" She described how she'd learned the song as a child in Africa, how the natives would sing it at the end of church services as they danced out of their humble straw chapel.
The choir raised their voices and hearts to Zimbabwe.
"Inspiring!" I thought. The man beside me was quite transported, swaying and singing. Three older people lolled their heads as if speaking in tongues. Two very attractive young women began a folky romp at the side of the tent, raising their long dresses while the sunlight played wonderfully on their legs. Two fellows in Timberlock boots shuffled towards them, caught up in the music, of course. The aisle filled with people rocking and swaying.
The choir mistress charged through in a dramatic departure. Her choir spontaneously followed as everyone sang and danced behind them. Off they went, heading to that lovely meadow by the river.
I then noticed that I was alone. I stopped clapping at that point, though my right hand did waver in a sort of feeble wave to the host who was all toothy with smiles. At first he mouthed something like, "Fantastic!" Then he understood and looked bewildered. He started darting again, on the heels of the audience. He called out, "Excuse me! We have Sheldon Oberman reading now. The program is not over yet. Excuse me!"
He actually motioned to me to the microphone. As if I was going to do something. I actually went. I stood at the mike and cleared my throat, just once as I watched the last of the audience, my audience, singing and dancing towards the meadow. That clearing of my throat, as it turned out, was my grand finale.
THE END