Tours to Heaven

I got five minutes into my angel speech and forgot the rest of it. Really, it was surreal and wonderful because I didn't care in the way I've cared. Here I was in a contest against a guy who delivered a speech more polished than mine. Though, I had props. My molting wings were a hit with the members of my queer Toastmasters group who adore frivolity. ("I loved it, " John said.) When I was ten, I was in a spelling bee and was eliminated for not capitalizing November. As I sat ready to be called to talk, I told myself, "Honey, it's okay if you don't capitalize November." It was okay. I had a moment after I sat down when I fussed inside. My competitor gave a better speech. But was it better or just different? The kind he does well. I'm good at pretending be a tour guide to heaven, to demonstrating halos and wings, to insisting that, upon arrival, you travel on a conveyor belt to the main office with stops for coffee and snacks. At the office, you meet the person in charge. "I call her, 'the boss,'" I said, "but you can call her god if you want." That got a laugh. I had an audience responding in all the right places. I won. So did he. Maybe I don't get competition anymore.