Poetry

I have little fear of public speaking. I think it's because of what I learned in Lithuanian school.

Lithuanians, like Poles and Russians, love poetry: people break into poetry recitations at dinner parties. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, for example, sat many Sunday afternoons at the dining room table with her contemporaries—including the maternal Grandfather of my friend Kris—repeating the words of tender poems and lyrics. After a few after-dinner cognacs, the verses flowed especially freely.

The cultural ties to poetry made recitation a key lesson at Lithuanian school. We memorized poems about bumble bees and honey, boats sailing toward the homeland, and mischievous squirrels. The Lithuanian-school teachers prompted us to rehearse what we'd learned every Saturday. When a "minejimas," or commemorative program, took place, the children took turns on the stage reciting the charming poems.

By the time I enrolled in American school, I already had tasted the discipline of memorization, and I had begun to overcome the terror of public speaking.

Suburban Chicago, February 1964. I recite a poem at my first independence-day "minejimas."

The Annual Commemoration

Suburban Chicago, February 1964. My Parents' friend Lily addresses the members of our suburban, Lithuanian community at the Independence Day "Minejimas." This was the same "Minejimas" at which I recited poetry.

The woman with her back to the camera—and wearing the matronly hair bun—is my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana.

A Poor Listener

Suburban Chicago, February 1964. I'm not paying attention to the poetry recitation; I'm watching Dad.