Club’s Attraction Speaks for Itself

The word for the day, written on a chalkboard in the back of the room, was “jovial,” in keeping with the spirit of the season.

So even before Lesa, the business-suited toastmaster, had announced that it was her job to warm up the 22 members and guests of the Adventurers Toastmasters Club, they were revved and ready.

At the drop of a “Ladies and gentlemen,” they laughed at the punch lines, traded witty repartee and applauded until their hands reddened for every person who walked to the podium.

Stage performers dream of such audiences. Teachers too. When one of the speakers asked the group a question hands shot up, anxious to answer, almost desperate for a chance to speak. And, why not? Such an enthusiastic reception confers wisdom on even the boorish and transforms the merely boring into droll charmers.

In the past, Toastmasters clubs were but a rung to help the shy climb the corporate ladder. You cannot command a corporation, so the wisdom went, unless you can also run a meeting and communicate your great ideas. Now Toastmasters clubs are viewed as but one more path to self-improvement and are enjoying a wave of unprecedented popularity. Membership in the national organization passed 150,000 this year, up 7% for the decade.

But to a one-time visitor it appears that the confidence that allows one to deliver a speech free of “ahs” and “ums” is fired in the kiln of intense scrutiny. And even if that close attention is sugared with friendly comments and smiles it can be unnerving.

In the meeting room of a faux-1950s restaurant on Parthenia Street in Northridge, surrounded by posters bearing famous images of Marilyn Monroe, a timid public speaker’s persistent fears are embodied. In one corner is Robert, the grammarian, noting every misused noun, every slip in subject-verb agreement and every usage of the word for the day. In another corner is Steve, the “ah-counter,” his pencil poised to record every linguistic miscue, every purposeless exhalation. And right up front is the timekeeper, who measures precisely the allotment of adulation that each speaker is due.

In addition, a personal evaluator is assigned to pick apart, phrase by phrase and gesture by gesture, the utterances of each speaker. The evaluator’s job is to cut to the heart of the matter, even if the matter is a matter of the heart.

The Adventurers are less formal than other Toastmasters clubs, an effervescent, white-haired insurance executive named Marilyn explains. She says the club’s version of Robert’s Rules of Order should be known as “Bobby’s rules,” because the venerated rules for running a meeting are interpreted quite liberally.

But they still take public speaking quite seriously. Marilyn, tapped by the club topicmaster, the meeting’s designated buttonholer, for an impromptu speech, allowed an “ah” to slip in. When it was pointed out by Steve, the “ah-counter,” she defended it as a deliberate device to fill a pause.

The club’s name comes from the outings members go on. The club has gone white-water rafting, hiked along the San Andreas Fault to learn about earthquakes and visited art museums. At some point during each of the trips, members deliver speeches keyed to the location. Other clubs, Marilyn says, never venture beyond restaurant meeting rooms.

On this particular night, Linda, a tongue-tied, would-be marketing expert, gives an “icebreaker” speech to introduce herself to the group. It’s her first time as a speaker and, despite her nervousness, her tale about an ill-starred rafting trip gets the group chuckling.

She even manages to use the word for the day, and her evaluator gives her high marks. He recommends longer pauses to give her listeners enough time to react.

Matt, an oil-and-gas attorney, launches an attack on the use of civil lawsuits to settle disputes. The only word Matt stumbles on is “money,” and even that slip occurs because he appears to be distracted by the nubile waitress in a short cheerleader skirt clearing the dinner dishes. Matt wins praise for a strong opening, but the evaluator notes that the speech trailed off somewhat and wandered around like a lost child.

Barry brings the famous “Friends! Romans! Countrymen!” speech, the one that Antony delivers over the body of Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, alive even though he’s wearing blue jeans and not a toga. He gestures to the Marilyn posters and gets down on one knee. Huzzahs are heard all around, and his evaluator offers wild praise and minor quibbles.

In the night’s finale, Jeff, a computer consultant described by toastmaster Lesa as a “Valley guy from Detroit,” arches his eyebrows to an impossible height as he speaks about the Christmas spirit. The club hangs on his every word. When he asks them a question, invoking the “audience involvement” technique for heightening interest, many of the club members enthusiastically offer responses.

Jeff, 43, says he has always been a ham, the kind of guy who “opens the refrigerator and does 10 minutes of jokes because the light goes on.” For him the meetings offer the opportunity to polish his skills rather than surmount timidity. But he keeps coming back because the club clearly gives him a chance to socialize with people who laugh at his jokes.

Outside the club, Jeff might be a nondescript guy of modest height who wears too much polyester. But at the club’s weekly meeting, he is transformed into what his evaluator describes as a “smooth, dynamic” speaker who is among its acknowledged experts in advanced rhetorical techniques.

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