Do You Talk Funny?. David Nihill
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me. On either side of the stage stand large organ grills. Even though I have the musical ability of a dead pigeon, the idea of playing a few notes at this point seems distinctly more appealing than allowing my vocal cords to do what science intended—simply emit words.
To those fourteen hundred pairs of inquisitive eyes in the audience, I probably look calm, collected, and confident. This is far from the truth. Turbulence is sweeping through my insides. I am so nervous I could lay an egg. I am, however, not just expecting to talk without imploding, a challenge enough in itself for someone with a distinct fear of public speaking—I am going to try and be funny. Moreover, I expect to be so funny that I believe I will not only make these strangers laugh but keep them fully engaged for the next several minutes.
The really crazy part is that not long ago I had never told a joke on stage. I had never even really been on a stage. The truth is that public speaking was, and still is, my single biggest fear. Even more than a stare down with a shark.
Byron Bay, Australia. I took a deep breath and swam within a few feet of the resting shark. He sat oblivious to my attention twenty-five feet below the surface, next to the Wollongbar, a sunken ship that lost its tie to the old Byron Bay Pier during a cyclone in 1921 and sank. Long abandoned by its intended occupants, the wreck is now home to Wobbegong sharks, which can grow to ten feet in length. They are the pit bull terriers of the ocean. Their often sleepy demeanor makes them appear passive, but they can leave a serious, lengthy, and rather painful impression.
In February 2004, a snorkeler named Luke Tresoglavic learned this the hard way. Bitten on the leg, Luke swam a thousand feet to shore, walked to his car, and drove to the local surf club . . . with the shark still attached. Luckily for Luke, the shark was young and just two feet long, and he only suffered puncture wounds to his leg from the shark’s razor-sharp teeth.
The target of my attention was a bigger creature—an impressive seven feet. I carefully detached my snorkel pipe from my mask and used it to reach out and tap the shark gently to initiate some movement. It obliged, rising and thrusting into motion with the same labored enthusiasm I do whenever I have a 4:00 A.M. flight to catch. As sunlight reflected through the clear waters, I looked upward toward my friends, only to glimpse a sea of bubbles and panicked limbs as they fled the scene of what I am sure they thought was about to be my untimely death.
Most people are afraid of sharks, it seems. I love them. Always have. The story has always rung true in my life: what most people are afraid of, I have been drawn toward. Danger, risk, and fun have always been intertwined for me. Skydiving, cliff jumping, bungee jumping, free diving, poking wild animals—these are exhilarating to me, not terrifying. I don’t chase the things that do scare me because being scared is about as pleasant as a cliff jump gone wrong. (Incidentally, when my cliff jumping did once go wrong, it led to a shattered leg on an isolated island, where the only form of medical assistance was a vet. I am thankful that despite his prior experience, he didn’t put me down.)
One thing, however, has always had the power to turn me into a shaking, sweating bag of wobbly jelly: public speaking. To say I hate it would be a huge understatement. For me, it’s everyone else’s shark, dentist, spider, and mother-in-law rolled into one big ball of terror.
So that’s why my being on stage in the San Francisco theater that night in front of fourteen hundred people is so crazy. I was a specialist in running away from stages at high speed. The times I did end up on them, I was a true Jedi Master at embarrassing myself. I have several such occasions to consider—all opportunities for me to shine that went south quickly.
“My name is Mustafa, and I am an exchange student from Southern Yemen.”
That was how I started my college Human Resource Management class presentation. Introducing myself as a person I clearly was not, from a place I was not, to a group of people who already knew me. Why? If only I knew. It seemed like a good idea after taking down four bottles of Corona in quick succession before taking to the podium. Before the presentation, I had walked into a group meeting with a six-pack in hand—two of which were already empty—and proceeded to drink two more while prepping for my turn to speak my brilliant opening lines. When speech time came, the lecturer understandably didn’t take kindly to my lighthearted approach and lightheaded comments. Don’t get me wrong—I am no alcoholic and your intervention is unnecessary. Drinking just seemed like a good idea to relax my nerves before speaking to the class. Had I known then what I know now, I certainly would have quickly vetoed my own plan.
That year, my final year at one of Ireland’s top schools, I received first-class honors in all subjects but one: Human Resource Management. Seventy percent was the magic number—it defined a first-class honor and was generally the highest mark one received at University College Dublin. My beer-soaked presentation had knocked me into a lower percentile and I graduated with a second-class honors degree. I felt bitter about it but only had myself to blame for my near miss. Damn fear of public speaking.
I took a year off to work and travel in Australia before returning to earn my master’s degree. I selected the same course with the same lecturer in order to correct my mistake and do better the second time around. The lecturer certainly hadn’t forgotten me or my terrible public speaking ability. For the second time running, she gave me the exact same grade. Again, it was her course that brought down my average, and that meant the difference between a first-class and a second-class honors degree. Essentially, in both my undergraduate degree and master’s degree, I narrowly missed out on earning the highest level possible due to my fear of public speaking.
It didn’t take long for my fear to worm its way into my new working life. I landed a job with the Irish government as a marketing executive, helping high-potential Irish startup companies expand in the United States.
The new recruits, myself included, had to present at a team get-together in New York. I had no beer available to calm my nerves this time. I also had nowhere to place the chart I had drawn to illustrate my main points to the assembled executives. As my nerves took hold, I frantically searched for the best section of wall to stick it to. One 4 × 4 framed section stood out. Perfect. I pulled a piece of duct tape and . . . “No!!!” I heard people suddenly scream. In my bumbling state, I had tried to stick my poster to a $40,000 piece of artwork that I didn’t even notice. Some say I made a terrible first impression. By some, I mean everyone.
Several years later I found myself in Shanghai, China, the only Westerner working in China for Hult International Business School, the world’s largest business school by enrollment. This sole-Westerner status, apparently, was enough to make me the ideal candidate to host the Asian leg of the Hult Prize, a global competition run in partnership with the Clinton Global Initiative. I actively tried to avoid it, but I needed the help of the organizer on another project, so I ultimately gave into the arm-twisting.
I was a nervous wreck as usual. As I took the stage, I had enough paper in hand to rival War and Peace. I stumbled through it terribly, relieved only by the knowledge that most of the assembled four-hundred-plus Chinese officials and participants had no idea how to comprehend an Irish accent. Of course, then I screwed up their Chinese names, too.
That certainly translated.
Three opportunities to improve my educational and professional standing, three tremendous failures that stemmed directly from my inability to stand in the front of a room and speak like a person. It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t fit with my personality. I wasn’t a painfully shy guy. I was outgoing. I could hold a conversation with just about anyone and walk away seeming intelligent, competent, and capable of handling pointy utensils. But the second I was faced with a captive audience, I became a guy my friends jokingly referred to as “Shakin’ Stevens.” My alter ego sweated. He stammered. He shuddered. Sometimes he BYO-Corona’ed. You wouldn’t trust Shakin’ Stevens with a sharp fork, let alone a roomful of clients.
The time came to put an end to this sequence of embarrassment, but it was certainly not a decision I made on my own.
When my friend Arash suffered a severe spinal cord injury, I suggested organizing a comedy show and recruiting some top comedians to perform in order to raise funds for his continued physical therapy. As luck would have it, my old neighbor, Tim, was a headlining