In March of 2011 my dad and I appeared on a radio show in Abilene. I was taking a creative nonfiction writing class at the time, and today's post comes from one of my assignments.
I am sitting in my chair, back ramrod straight, staring at
the microphone in front of me. I can hear soft music as it drifts quietly
through the headphones that rest on the table in front of me. I am nervous and
I have to stave off the nausea that I feel welling up in my stomach. My mouth
is dry, so I take long gulps from the water bottle that I have placed
conveniently by my hand. The man in front of me signals that we have one minute
until we’re on the air. Public speaking is one of my greatest fears, and I’m
not sure I’m comfortable talking live on the radio. In fact, I’m sure that I am
not. My eyes dart to the door. I wonder if I could escape before the show
starts.
“And we are live in three, two, one.”
Too late. The microphone in front of me is now connected to
the airwaves and anything I say will be broadcast to the listeners of KWKC. I
guzzle more water, hoping to drown my nerves. The guy next to me introduces my
dad and then introduces me. This is actually kind of cool. I’ve never been
introduced like this before.
I relax infinitesimally as the first question is directed to
Dad. And then the second.
But now I hear the interviewer say, “This next question is
for you, Rebekah. How did the military interact with the citizens of Cairo? Did
they treat them okay?”
I am momentarily frozen. But now I remember that Mom is
probably the only one listening to this broadcast.
“Yes.” I reply. “As far as I could tell, the military and
the people were getting along. I didn’t
see much direct interaction. But the military were everywhere. I think they are
stationed everywhere to remind the people that they are in control.”
Okay, that was easy enough. I can do this. Dad answers a few
more questions and I sit back through the commercial break. My nervousness is
slowly seeping out from me. It’s a nice feeling, a relieving one. My whole body
feels lighter and my head clearer. I think I just might make it through the
rest of this hour. My water is almost gone, but already my mouth feels less
cottony.
We are live again and the interviewer asks about the
archeological museum and if we visited.
“It was great!” I reply. The museum had only been reopened
for a week before we visited and we had to walk down a line of tanks to get to
the museum, but we felt very safe. There still weren’t many people in the
museum, certainly not many westerners. We had been told that the museum would
be crowded, that the room that houses King Tut’s funerary mask would be packed.
Everyone would be crowded into the little room and we would see the mask for a
few seconds. Instead, there room was almost empty and we just stood in front
the mask and gazed at the boy-king’s face.”
 |
| Everyone wanted their kids to take pictures with me. And the tanks. |
I take a breath and look over to Dad. He smiles at me,
letting me known that I did fine. Maybe it’s sad that I still look to my Daddy
for reassurance. It’s almost certainly a little juvenile. But maybe that’s
okay.
