A Very Special Episode by Anna Snedden

I was an early comedian but a late bloomer. And when I reached puberty, it happened somewhere between my 13th birthday and the 2007 NBC Thursday night comedy lineup. TV changed my DNA and I’m telling you: I became my very own sitcom. 

When I recount particularly sitcom-y moments in my life – the response I get is often “It could only happen to you!” (Whether that’s an insult or not – I remain unconvinced.) But I don’t blame people for that. They’re not wrong. I live in absurdism, the kind that feels like a mid-season episode. Where you can tell that the writers are getting haggard and zany, and weird shit makes it in the script. And, much like a sitcom, the bungles of my life are funny for an audience and end nicely, with a bow on top, and a moral to boot. Many of these stories took place in the rich comedy fountain that is school. Cue flashback.

Senioritis was in full swing when I was voted to give the speech at my high school graduation. I was funny enough, well-liked enough, and inoffensive enough to be an easy choice. Writing came easy to me, performance more so. But behind the jokes and my awkward teen body, I was sensitive and earnest, and I saw this as my moment to prove to my classmates that I was ~deep~, more than the goofy sidekick. So I wrote a good speech. Quotes from my favorite band, jokes about the school nun, sentiments of nostalgia and optimism for the future. It was good, yo. I was ready to present what I saw as the Thesis of Me.

On the way to the ceremony, I was unencumbered. Literally. My parents looked at me in the rearview mirror and asked if I had a copy of my speech. I scoffed.

“I don’t need it. Mr. G said he would have it up there for me.”

Ah, hubris – my occasional companion. How readily you wrong me.

I remained unencumbered throughout family photo ops, gabs with friends, and the about-to-boil-over energy that only high school seniors have on the cusp of adulthood. We robed, we processed, we sat as the thing began.

I locked eyes with Mr. G, the cherished English teacher who had mentored me through my speech. He gestured his head to the podium, and mouthed to me:

Do you have your speech?

Deer-in-headlights, I mouthed back at him:

No…you have it.

His eyes equally wide as he mouthed:

I don’t have it.

Gut sinking, I responded:

I don’t have it.

At that point, I swear, we actually shit each other’s pants. 

He stood up and snuck off-stage. I stood up and scooted my way out of a narrow row full of high school boys I had never talked to. We met in a hallway as we unpacked the situation even more: no, I didn’t have a copy of it with me. No, I didn’t have it fully memorized. Yes, I’m an idiot!

The clock was ticking. I had no choice but to give Mr. G my Hotmail (shudder) username and password and tell him to scrub through my inbox to find the email that had my draft. I didn’t have time to worry about the dumb high school email shit he would see in there. He looked me deep in the eyes and promised me he would have it for me before I went up to the stage. I believed him.

Hubris, dark mistress, again ye wrongs me!

I sat down and told myself he would make it. My heartbeat marched to the beat of my own demise. 

And then – bam. There it was. My intro. I stood up, passing by a good friend of mine, and in a desperate whisper, I told him “I don’t have my speech,” as if there was anything he could do but confusedly shrug. I eyed the doors, hoping Mr. G would burst through them. They stood, unmoved.

A temporary blackout must have occurred on my walk up, because all I remember is standing at the mic. The only part of my speech my brain could materialize was the first sentence, and so those are the words that poured out of my mouth: “My fellow students, teachers, mentors, family and friends – hi.” 

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It took me a long time to believe in honesty. It takes a leap of faith. Honesty is what has carried me through my mid-20s, emotional trauma, alcohol problems, fights, failings, and friendships. And at that podium, in a hideous yellow robe, literally speech-less…is one of the first times I took the leap.
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“Full disclosure, I uh, forgot to bring my speech. So I’m just going to…wing it!”

They laughed. And from there, I had them. 

I went on for 3 long minutes, weaving the bits of my speech I remembered with improvisation. I had a mic and a hungry audience and I had never felt more confident. And, in a magnificent climax, Mr. G burst through the gym doors and ran down the aisle toward me, waving the pages of my speech in hand, while the audience erupted. I could elaborate on the way I felt, but it feels a bit too much like an ego-stroke. Suffice it to say it felt pretty motherfucking good.

Post-ceremony was an equally satisfying dénouement: I floated through a slo-mo montage, through a crowd with jocks high-fiving me, teachers patting me on the back me, people hugging me. My dad, beaming, told me that he would support me going to LA to live my dream. 

In the show of my life, this was my Very Special Episode. 

The moral of this story isn’t my god, it’s actually really easy to follow your dreams and be fucking cool and have everyone like you. Because it’s not. I am anything but chill. I try very hard. I did end up moving to LA. It was very hard and eventually it was very good. 4 years in, I still feel like I’m falling a lot. But like me, you might find that sometimes, when you take a breath, trust yourself, and take the leap…you see that you aren’t falling. You’re flying. 

Maybe that’s cheesy. But it’s a pretty way to end a graduation speech…or an episode of TV. Roll credits.

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