I Said What I Said. Now We Wait.
This part-time professional speaker stumbled and sputtered over words while standing before the Board of Control today. I don’t mean the annoying physiological stuttering that has pestered me for the past 20 years when I publicly speak. I just make peace with that chorus of stops and stammers, which have nothing to do with my grasp of the subject matter or with self-conscious nervousness. Neurologists, gastroenterologists, and cardio-pulmonary specialists remain baffled by the condition, but I choose to continue speaking despite the condition. I have something to say.
Today I also had something to say. I am a man of words. A friend once said to me something like “Words are your business.” A former work supervisor once accused me: “You are very good with words.” I mean it as a compliment when I say that I know many people who are better with words than I am. I know better speakers, better writers and better editors. I am sometimes careful with words; sometimes, not so much. Eventually I want to take back half the words I produce, though I rarely regret them in the moment.
I do not want to insult any conversations or compositions from my growing past, but I cannot think (in this moment) of any words I have purposely prepared that are more important than the ones I presented today. Laura reminded me that I once uttered the words, “Laura, will you marry me?” I actually said something of the sort on two separate occasions with the same result (but that is another story). While the impact of those words remains inestimable, I did not agonize over those words. The import of the words had been established beforehand by our living and loving. The words themselves required no heavy lifting.
The words for today were the labor. They required thought and sleep, massage and critique. They needed research and imagination; the former I can force; the latter is not my forte.
Today’s words were for an appeal, which, if granted, will allow our grandson Damon to play varsity basketball for his new high school this season, his junior year. His request for hardship eligibility to play after a transfer of schools was denied weeks ago. Even as I write these words I recognize how unimportant this issue may seem. To some, basketball is trivial. It’s bigger than basketball.
Upon that denial, I sought out the bylaws for the Tennessee Secondary Schools Athletic Association (TSSAA), which governs high school athletics for the state. I pored over the details of recourse after a denial. I woke one morning and drafted a response to each of the four criteria for hardship eligibility. Every night in my dreams I rehearsed my answers to anticipated questions should we be granted an appearance.
We contacted the principal, Mr. Wilson, who had no idea who Damon was. When he read the case, he decided to champion it. Over the course of a couple weeks he worked with the family of one of his more than 1000 students to prepare an appeal. Today he stood with Damon, his Mom and his Peepaw to present the case to the TSSAA Board of Control.
We presented in person to about 20 TSSAA representatives from across the state. Some readers will consider the following comments irrelevant, but others will understand: of the 20 or so members of the Board of Control, 2 were women, 3 were people of color. A majority were old, white men. I have lived in this skin long enough to wonder if my educated Blackness was a help or a hindrance.
Mr. Wilson opened the proceedings with alarming passion for a man who had just met the student. Damon’s mom, Chrissy, stood emotional and solid after him. Then the professional speaker took the podium. As I stood before them to defend my white grandson, I felt sweaty and nervous. I had prepared the written words, which were stellar (I regretted only one word). But standing there, I was a wreck. There was too much at stake.
Lastly, The Boy spoke for himself. He sounded like a teenager, a humble, kind, confident teenager.
My verdict after the fact was that I was not needed in the room. The professional speaker was not the main event. As I write this, we do not yet have a decision. If we prevail, it will be because of a principal, a mother, and a high school boy. Oh, and some stellar words.
