What Did She Say?

I talk fast. Really fast. I know it stems in part from growing up on the East Coast, but I also think it’s somehow tied to a perception that “time is of the essence,” so make the most of it. For me, that means getting everything out as fast possible when I speak. For those I’m talking with, however, the experience can either be amusing or downright confusing. 

I’ll never forget this one time in seventh grade. My family had recently moved from New Jersey to Indiana. I was 11 or 12, and instead of the larger schools we had attended out East, we were now in a very small K-8 school with one classroom per grade. (It was also during this time when I learned that “pop” meant soda and that pizza can actually be cut in squares. Huh?)

As part of the class, we had to do a book report, as well as a presentation of no more than five minutes on the book we selected. I don’t even remember the book I chose. All I know is that I read my report in a minute-and-a-half, and when I looked up, I saw bewildered and shocked faces among my new classmates. I truly think they thought I was an alien. Even the teacher was taken aback.

I realized then and there that maybe I did actually talk too fast, so I tried (key word!) to see if I could slow it down a bit after that, especially when presenting. The next report took two-and-a-half minutes, so I was making progress. Still, despite my efforts, I never really felt comfortable talking at a slower speed. It was as if I were in a constant state of awkward pausing. (I learned years later that I was not alone in that feeling. A pastor friend from Brooklyn, N.Y., once shared that during his first year serving a church in the Midwest, he often would hang up on people thinking that the phone call was over, when, in fact, the person on the other end was merely taking a pause. I could relate!)

By ninth grade, we were on the move again, this time to Washington state. Out west, I continued my efforts to prevent those same looks of astonishment that stretched across my seventh-grade classmates’ faces. It worked — sometimes. That year soon passed and another year followed back in Indiana before I learned about the final move during my adolescence.

The summer before my junior year of high school, my parents announced our next stop, but this move seemed different, almost welcomed. This time we were moving to Long Island, New York. Translation in my teenage brain: we were heading to the mothership of fast-talkers. YES! My memories of New Jersey quickly came flooding back as I figured Long Island had to be similar. Upon arrival, my hunch proved true. The NY accent, the fast pace of life, my conversations at lightning speed but without any funny stares. This was unbelievable. I was home.

I still have fond memories of all the places we’ve lived, and I enjoy traveling to this day, but there is something about the East Coast and talking fast that always makes me feel at home. My husband often jokes that if I ever need a back-up job, the Mercks and Pfizers of the world could hire me to read the health warnings for TV/radio commercials on their latest drugs. Maybe they could, but in a world that oftentimes feels rushed, I’m glad that I can keep up in my own small way. It’s one of my “floats,” and I’m thrilled that I found it again -- along with fantastic pizza cut the “right” way.