It was the Spring of 2017. I was preparing to present a case study to the Board of Behavior Sciences at Chapman University when Glossophobia suddenly reappeared in my life. From where did it come? I do not know, but one day I woke up, and there it was in my face, threatening to rob me of the joys of graduation. I could rationalize that I had developed it from working in a male-dominated environment where women were marginalized. Or I was predisposed to the traditional Hispanic home environment where women were seen but not heard. Psychologically speaking, I had subconsciously developed false beliefs that were sabotaging my efforts. None of this mattered; I had to represent myself in front of the board.

I was different from early childhood; I blamed the moon in Aquarius in my natal chart. I wanted to become a public speaker, something my parents did not mirror. They were simple people, and education was secondary to earning a living to pay the bills. All that hard-earned money, to give it to someone else, imagine that. I remember a heated argument with my father, in which I postulated that working hard was for the feebleminded and intelligent people did not work hard; they worked smart. That did not go well with my stepfather, who thought I was disrespecting his workaholic traits. Ours was a traditional Hispanic family where my father was king of his castle, and my mother was a fertility manufacturing machine. My mother, although intelligent, was trapped in a less-than-favorable lifestyle. She did not develop or learn English subjecting herself to factory work as a seamstress. The conditions were horrific and unfavorable. I was raised in a culture where girls were to be seen but not heard, and when they did speak, it was with tears accompanied by sobs, trepidation, and shame. It was the nature of the beast, but as I said, I was influenced by the moon in Aquarius; different.

Admitting that I was an insubordinate child, defending my arguments after they were carefully examined, was not what my parents expected from me. But in my defense, it was because deep down inside, I knew something was wrong with the expectations my parents and the culture had placed on me. It was not a picnic at home. I was the oldest of eight and, by default, expected to be the mother's helper for my younger siblings. I did not mind the responsibilities. I was parentified, and since I was doing adult work, I deserved the same privileges as an adult, and freedom of speech was one of them.

I loved my mother's simplicities, but they were not for me. I did not want to become another statistic, a pregnant, barefooted, and poor Hispanic female. I wanted a brighter future for myself and my children's children. It was not my choice that my parent brought me to America, the beautiful, but it was my choice to take advantage of the education America offered. I had the opportunity to dream big, and I was a big dreamer, but the constant reminder that I had beer money did not leave a good taste in my mouth.

One of my favorite past times was reading, and for those who want to cancel culture, Dr. Suess, let it be known that it was because of his great works that I learned to read and recite books. So, when I discovered the local library, it became an oasis for this inner-city Latina who wanted to explore the world with beer money.

Engulfed in a science book on making a rainbow with a glass of water, I did not hear my mother calling from the kitchen. Instead, she came out to see what I was doing and found me on the floor with my nose stuck in a book. My mother did not read and thought the activity was a total waste of time, an excuse to skip chores around the house.
"You do not need to read so much," she told me. "What you need to learn to do is learn how to wash clothes and change diapers, make baby formula, sweep, mop, cook, and be silent in the presence of the oppressors."

My mother did not know I was born with an Aquarius moon. My ways were not hers, and my path was different from hers. I was only seven years old.

"Reading so much will make you crazy," she continued. I was already feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. Why would reading make me go crazy? I wondered, and was being "crazy" a good thing? I liked reading so much that I could lose my mind in the Adventures of Tom Sawyer or the Odyssey with no regrets. Hercules, Hercules.

There was a conflict in my upbringing. My parents were traditional, but I was Americanized. "Why go through the tragedy of crash landing into America if we were not going to pursue the American Dream?" I was a difficult child with many questions and oppositional views. For this, I apologize, not.

When I was twelve years old, I met the love of my life, the only man who influenced and mentored me at a very vulnerable time. I was young, personable, and yearned to learn the secrets that weld the powers. There was only one problem, well, no, there were two, I had beer money, and my parents did not recognize my potential. They expected me to find a boyfriend, get married and open my baby manufacturing plant. Those ideas would plunge me into binge-reading, which would last for months. Books after books, after books. During one of these moments, I met the love of my life, and even though he was much older than me, he understood my dilemma.

I remember going up and down the New York Public Library aisle in midtown Manhattan. It was an extensive library that stored thousands of books that were thousands of years old. I loved the smell of books and how they felt, and the older the book, the more it enticed me. School was out for the summer, and I was looking for something to help anesthetize the summertime anxiety of living in Spanish Harlem. What was I going to do? I did not want to hang out on the fire escape to get a little breeze in the hot, muggy weather. My parents had beer money, so summer camp was out of range. Instead, I needed something to nourish my thoughts as I worked the lemonade stand. That was when I saw Norman Vincent Peale, the Power of Positive Thinking. I took the book in my hands, and it gave me a shock, like electricity flooding my veins. It could have been the carpet on the floor that caused the charge, or it could have been an enigma; whatever it was, it was shocking, and the shock went from my hand to the top of my head and back down to the bottom of my feet. It was an electrifying connection, so I borrowed the book.

That night I met Norman. I know he was much older than me and from a different era. Still, like in the painting of Michelangelo, the Creation of Adam, I felt our fingers touch, and it charged me with a new energy that only got me more in trouble but was exhilarating.

Of course, my friends laughed at me when I told them about Norman. They thought he was old; his adage teachings did not apply to me; I was a Hispanic female, and the only positive thinking I would be doing would be in a factory if I were lucky enough to be hired. They set me straight, I was a dreamer and needed to face the reality that I would end up working in a factory, and with all my reading, I could promote to floor manager, but that was all Norman had to offer me.

I was crushed. Many of my school friends did not even know who Norman Vincent Peale was; they did not read his books and were perfectly happy preparing themselves for pregnancy with no shoes and beer money. After the initial shock, the power of positive thinking surged within me, and that was my turning point. I wanted to be the female counterpart of Norman, a public speaker and a motivator that inspired others. Sadly, my schools did not offer oral communication, listening, or negotiating skills. I could not expect my parents to teach me to be a confident, comfortable, or charismatic speaker; they did not have those skills.

Life crept forward, and before I knew it, all my childhood dreams were behind me. Self-fulfill prophecies spoken by the well-meaning women came to pass. I found myself married and pregnant at the beginning of my adult life. I did not lose heart; I graduated from pre-nursing school, but I struggled with four years of nursing school, shift work, a newborn, and a husband who was not forthcoming.

I ran away from home and joined the military, graduated from the Medical Corp as a Medic, and then went to Officer Candidate School as a commissioned Officer. I trained medics and military personnel in the military and did an excellent job with no problem. After I detached from the military, the Department of Justice, and the Bureau of Prisons, hired me and soon enough promoted me to the rank of Lieutenant. At this time, I noticed something; something had shifted. I was petrified of speaking in public. I worked in a male-dominated environment and one of the most dangerous Federal Penitentiaries, where men kill for sports. I was the sacrificial female first promoted to that level in a Federal Penitentiaries. Not sure what happened, the new environment or the maltreatment I got from the male contra parts, who did not think I could do the job they did better than they did. On the other hand, it may have been the fear of being cast out from the tribe for having opposing views.

I had collaborated with males most of my life and was comfortable with that. I had no problem addressing issues, reprimanding, correcting, or supervising subordinates or individuals. I could speak up a good storm one on one. From others' perspectives, I had it together. No one knew. I did not think I had it until that dreadful day. A week after my promotion, I learned I was required to attend weekly and monthly staff meetings. Not just observe them but brief, train, and update the executive staff, the line staff, and other department heads. The round table meeting required everyone to speak. It should not have been a problem. I had done that before, only this time, it was different. It was a hostile work environment, a dog-eat-dog culture that I had never encountered before. I dreaded these meetings, not because I had nothing to contribute, I had plenty, but it was that dreadful fear that I would make a fool out of myself in front of all those high-ranking males.

The funny thing about fear, it does not allow you to prepare for the task ahead of you because you are too busy worrying, and your brain does not work that way. It takes you to a primitive stage where everything is magnified, and the fear is so natural that you do not prepare. I tried to plan, but the harmful and toxic perfectionist thoughts that I might mispronounce or use a word out of context were overwhelming. I would spend 90% worrying and 10% preparing, and it showed when it was my turn to share my pearls of wisdom. I knew what I wanted to say. I had done my research and had my facts, but when it came to presenting, my voice would crack, my stomach would roar, my tongue would tie, and my mind would blank out. How did I kick Glossophobia out of my life? Stay tuned for another chapter of "As Glossophobia turns."