On tour: MS and public speaking
I’m a public speaker.
Even before I transitioned I started talking about gender diversity. When I trained as an Educational Psychologist I was taught how to give trainings and had a lot of opportunity to practice. I was energetic, I liked to present without shoes on, and I quite enjoyed jumping around the stage.
I had a lot to learn.
But public speaking quickly became my modus operandi in processing the unusual experiences that frequented my life as a transitioning person. I’d spend some time writing and telling jokes about how doctors often pondered whether my transness could possibly be the root cause of every ailment, headaches, grazes, broken bones. I’d talk about how being seen as a woman in the world immediately meant that people assumed I was no longer capable of changing a tyre independently, which they were right about but that’s besides the point. I’d joke about how people now suddenly started speaking over me at meetings and how I’d find it was no longer ‘my place’ to protest when they did. My trainings for a time became a lot like a standup routine. I’d be laughing with audiences all over the country exposing the hilariousness of the gendered rules and norms that transition transgressed.
Then I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and things changed a little. I’d run trainings, speak at events, and I’d find it hard to stand long enough to finish the set. I’d become fatigued and out of breath. My stomach would bulge as I lost control of the muscles that so habitually would hold everything in. I’d be constantly at risk of wetting myself on stage, or of farting uncontrolledly.
For a time, then, I reduced my public speaking. Realising that MS was interfering with who I could be, what I could do, I began to refrain from taking the stage. Things turned more disastrous when I had to back out of a major speaking gig at short notice after I picked up gastroenteritis, relapsed, and lost the ability to fall asleep at appropriate moments. This relapse took me out of work for six weeks, ruined my quality of life for six months, and necessitated a wheelchair and intermittent catheterisation forever after.
I lost confidence in my ability to do public speaking well and I slowed things right down. Public speaking is all about confidence.
But then came Vienna.
I started working out, building my strength, and I took my wheelchair alone to Vienna. I had the most wonderful time and my confidence grew. I bought my second wheelchair, took it to London to present at Google’s HQ, and presented the whole time from my chair.
But it was only after I realised that MS could itself be funny that I really started to enjoy public speaking again.
MS is intimidating, threatening even, and a monster I’d never wish anyone to face. But the effects of MS can be pretty funny. From how a wayward cranberry led me to wet myself on the kitchen floor, to how I tried and failed to disguise a fart during teaching when lower muscular control could not impede its release, to anthropomorphising MRI machines when they clearly blush at my scan results, MS can be funny.
The story of how I learned to catheterise is hilarious all on its own. I mean when a team of people are staring at your nether regions and using a literal map on cardboard to navigate them… you have to laugh.
I’ve also been getting stronger. My 5k daily wheelchair pushes have graced me with greater stamina generally, helping to minimise my fatigue. I find that I can do more, push harder, without my body needing lengthy recovery periods.
So this year over four weeks I presented in four locations. I was in Swindon, Cardiff, Devon, and Southampton. In Cardiff I wheeled myself through the city centre to get from my hotel to the University, presented all day, and wheeled myself back to the car. I put the chair away, drove home, all on the same day as presenting. When I presented in Cardiff I alternated between walking and wheeling during the presentation and I had the chance to tell the very best MS stories and gender stories, even including some stories from the intersection of the two.
I got to tell people about the kind woman on the train who tried to find me a seat by calling for aid loudly ‘can someone give up their seat, I have a disabled woman here!?’ I sat there mortified and trying in vein to be swallowed by the carpet, while secretly cheering that I’d been gendered correctly.
I got to tell people how rolling in the chair I’d frequently be approached in bars by attractive people who’d bend low, get close to me, and they’d say ‘hey…’. I’d say ‘hey!’ back, mustering my best sultriness, which involves rasp that treads up against but does not transgress into ‘boy voice’ - it’s a delicate art. And they’d look me in the eye, get closer, their breath on my cheek… and ask if I needed any help. Gods if that isn’t a cold shower of a question.
I got to tell the story of passing a rather handsome looking stranger running with two dogs and being distracted enough to tip right over in the chair. He was the first person to rush over to my aid, though my capable, debonair self fell out of my ears the moment I hit the ground. I still swooned, ok? I’m not that much of a feminist.
This autumn and winter I’m headlining a digital festival, keynoting a conference in Stevenage, and speaking in a bunch more venues. On one occasion I’m speaking about speaking, in a kind of meta-presentation that I can’t wait to balls up royally. At least I can point to moments I bomb as useful teaching material.
It might be against my better judgement, but when I’m speaking, when an audience laughs with me, there are moments of pure bliss. I know my self-esteem shouldn’t depend so heavily on whether audiences like me. But when the audience is with you, interested, and you tell a joke that lands surprisingly well, you can hold the moment by remaining still, continuing to communicate through your face and body whatever the emotional context was that got them laughing. When it happens, I take a moment. I breathe in.