How I Overcame My Shyness

     Started on the night of the 4th of July 2001. A few moments past ten. I had just slipped into a deep, comfortable sleep when the telephone rang. It was my cousin, Tracy. “Margaret, did I wake you?” she asked. Sleepily, I said “yeah.” She said, “I wouldn’t disturb you, but I need a favor. Your sister said you write poetry…I was wondering if you could write a poem for my baby’s obituary?” I said, “yeah.” She continued “I would like for you to include in the poem some of the things we [she and her husband] would like to say.” She rambled on those few things. Not fully awake, I responded “no problem.” Tracy said “You think you could have it ready in the morning?” Now, fully awake, I said, “I guess…yeah, I believe I can,” thinking WHAT! She said “Could you call and read it to us in the morning, then fax it to the funeral home?” I responded “yeah,” dreading having to go to work in the morning exhausted. [Tracy and her husband Tyrone had just lost their baby boy, Tyrone Freeman, Jr., on the 2nd of July. Sad but true, he died only a couple of days shy of three months from some unexplainable reason, a reason that even baffled the coroner. After receiving his bottle of milk from the babysitter, his heart stopped. Being that I had just left Tracy and Tyrone’s apartment only hours before, I vividly remembered a few things Tracy had missed about her baby while she and her husband were reminiscing. Therefore, I didn’t think at the time the task at hand would be too hard.]
     I slaved through the night, honored and touched, polishing off the poem to the best of my ability the next morning. I called and read it to Tracy and Tyrone from my job. Overwhelmed with tears, they both expressed how beautiful they thought it was, and how it had captured everything they wanted to say. “That’s exactly what we wanted to say,” she said. “You were listening…” It was then Tracy asked me if I could recite the poem at the gravesite ceremony of her baby. I said “yes”, again deeply honored and touched. But, after I hung up with her, the inner voices inside me screamed: Did you forget the fact that you’re shy? You can’t accomplish that part? Why didn’t you tell her “no”? I was not at all confident I could do it. Matter of fact, I had made myself ill from thinking I couldn’t do it by the time the ceremony came about, even thinking seriously about backing out. After all, I had been a prisoner of myself for over 44 years, believing I can’t speak in front of crowds; I just can’t do it. At the time, I was so paranoid of speaking before any sized group, I’d hyperventilate so bad I’d almost need to be rushed to the hospital. My heart would pound fiercely up against my chest. My words would become all jumbled. But I was assured of two monumental facts after promising Tracy I would recite the poem. First, when I make a promise to somebody, I keep it. Second, that “through God all things are possible.” So God and I arranged on behalf of Tracy and Tyrone the most beautiful poem on the night of the fourth of July, and...
     Two days later I stood before Him and a host of others at Little Tyrone’s gravesite above the tiniest white casket I’d ever seen in my life. Crying my heart out. When they called me to recite the poem, I whispered a few words to the Lord, passing the challenge on to him. Afterwards, thinking I had skipped a few lines, I was told I read it beautifully. I can’t remember much of it, but I do remember afterwards asking God “If I can recite here, how come I can’t do it anywhere?” And it was then it struck me—I can, and...
     A few months later, I did. On a Sunday night. It was approximately 8:00 P.M. I stood before the mixed crowd at The Green Mill, a well-known poetry reading and live entertainment site and tavern on the north side of Chicago. Before my cousin Tracy and my sister Veronica, and countless others, I stood facing, first, the open mike segment of the poetry slam contest. I recited my first piece. I received a standing ovation. I recited the second piece. Again, the crowd cheered. The judges advanced me to the next level of the competition. To make an incredibly long story short, I ended up tying for first place. I was ecstatic. Confident. Hyped. Even though, after the tiebreaker, they gave the prize to the gentleman who was a regular, I didn’t care. I had succeeded. I had overcome my shyness and my fear of crowds. I was victorious. A champion.
     Ever since that night I’ve been reciting poetry and singing all over the Chicago area with ease, at cafes, nightclubs, and at special events. So, for those of you who’ve always believed you can’t, believe you can. Once you do it one time, it’s done. The fear begins to dissipate. Once you do it over and over, it becomes second nature. Surrender yourself to it. You may end up like me, enjoying it so much you hardly want to do anything else.


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