To know me is to...

Years ago I joined the local Toastmasters Club. I thought that by learning some skills and challenging myself to speak publicly I could develop confidence and ultimately, perhaps, overcome my stuttering. That was my plan. After a couple of meetings where I participated in some minor, spontaneous speaking activities they scheduled me for my introductory speech. I was given a few weeks to prepare a short speech that I would deliver to the club as a way of introducing myself to the other members. I knew immediately what I would say in my speech, I just had to put it down on paper and make sure it was not too long.
I have heard that most people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of death, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the few opportunities I’ve had to prepare and deliver a speech. And this speech was my first ever.
What I said was that anyone who knows me very well knows two things about me: my father died when I was a little boy and I stuttered horribly when I was young. And I still believe that, but it’s ironic because the two things that have most defined me as a person are the very things that prevent me from being confident in who I am and expressing my identity to others.

Bald Spot

When I was like 22 years old I worked for the City of Scottsdale, Arizona, and one of the ladies I worked with was admitted to the hospital. Everyone liked her a lot and we did not expect her to ever return to work so we took a group picture to give to her as a reminder of our friendship and affection for her. There were dozens of us and we stood together on a little hill in the park-like setting surrounding City Hall and posed for our picture. Our photographer snapped several candid photos of our group as we dispersed into the manicured landscape and days later, after they were developed he passed them around for all to see.
I noticed someone in the pictures who looked a lot like me and was even dressed like me and I wondered out loud who the guy with the big pink spot on the top of his head could be. Then I realized that guy was me! I confirmed this reality that evening when I went home and looked at the back of my head in the mirror. And I guess every since that day I’ve been absorbing and deflecting bald jokes. Bald jokes don’t really bother me, though because when I look in the mirror I don’t see a bald person. I see an awkward, confused teenage boy with an unruly mass of coarse waves and curls. Granted that teenager lost most of his hair (and never actually had visible eyebrows), but that reality does not define who I am.
Is it just me or does everybody want the people in their world to know and understand them for who they really are?