“Here, in town, the average person speaks at a speed of 437 words per minute. For those of you doing the math at home, that is a little over 7 words a second. Outside of town, people tell us we speak faster than people at an auction. We say"yesweknow," in slightly under half a second. We also tend to speak louder than people, and have be known to put jack hammers to shame. Of course, this is because of the interrupting.
No one knows the first time that it happened, though many say that a hundred years ago there was a very important girl. She had much to say and whenever someone else began talking, she felt a tickle on her lips, a pulling on her tongue. She just had to interrupt them. Back in the olden days, people found this distasteful, and she was swiftly punished, but our little hero would not stop. She got faster. She got louder. And then it spread. It seemed like every day children were coming home and interrupting. The school shut down to try and stop the plague, but it was too late. She had won. Soon every house was being instructed in the art form of interruption by their children. As interrupting grew more common, so to grew the volume of our voices. Soon our new voices were part of our town, like a dialect. To interrupt someone, you have to be faster, louder, things that our town strives for. Every year, our mayor must prove himself by interrupting at least thirteen people. Our heroes are the mute middle aged people who sit in coffee shops, their lips unable to move from their extensive use and muscle tearing, their throats permanently dry because they used all their words. Our children learn how to talk quickly in school, but only with the proper dedication can you achieve supreme interrupter status.” The school teacher said in three fourths of a minute. She said it twice a week, seeing how far she could get without being cut off. It was a test, and all of the children were younger than her, and could not talk as fast or as loud, but she was working on it. In fact, the teacher was very disturbed that no one had tried to interrupt her during that story. There was one child, the only child, who had failed to interrupt her at all. His name was Martin. He was slow. She did mean to imply that he was stupid. He just moved slowly. He did not try to interrupt any of the little children, and when he talked, if he talked he did so at a sluggish pace. 119.5 wpm. Of course she knew exactly what his words were. Children were given not report cards but Word Per Minute reports, which followed them throughout their lives, normally determining who could run for mayor and who would be a trash collector. The teacher guessed where Martin would be. Martin knew that he was slow. He knew that everyone thought he was slow. Even his family did. His younger sister already had a 320 wpm, and she was only in third grade. He was nine years older than her, and was painfully aware of it. But, instead of inspiring him to talk more and talk louder, he slunk into silence. His parents had transferred all of the money that was in Martin’s college account to his sisters. He did not blame them. To go to college, one must be able to interrupt even the fastest of lectures. Martin only wanted to listen to them. What a disappointment. “How was your day at school?” His mother asked his sister. His mom was an exceptionally fast speaker, one of the top twelve in town. She asked that question in .0125th of a second. “It was pretty good. We heard the story again, and then I interrupted Jason and the teacher sent me to the principal’s office to get a gold star and then-” His sister respond, not taking a second to breathe. “Wow. Good job, honey reminds me of when--” his dad started. “When you were in school you were in the principal's office all the-” his mom spitted. “time.” His sister finished, knowing this story. It seemed that they all knew each other stories. This made sense to Martin because they were always talking all the time. The did not have enough time to make stories to tell. Martin listened to them banter like that for a while. Why couldn’t he be like them? He would have asked, but they would have just laughed at him, or he would not have been heard, considering how slowly he talked. He excused himself from the table early, as he did every night and walked to his room. He put on music. Classical. It was the only type of music where the songs lasted more than thirty seconds. He stared into the mirror and looked at himself, looked really really hard. Then, in his head, he told himself the same story that he always had. “Be still,” he thought, “be quiet. Wait. Be so still and quiet that they forget all about you and leave you alone. Then, once they leave you alone, you can think. Think harder than anyone else has ever thought. Think so hard. Be still. Think hard enough that you begin to understand all that you can. Be quiet. Wait. Wait until you swim in your thoughts, but it is all in your head so others think that you are perfectly still and empty. Let them take your quiet for granted. Be quiet. And then speak. Speak not because you want to but because you have something to say, and they will listen. They will have to listen because they will be so surprised that you are no longer quiet and still. And talk slow. Let every vowel dance out of your mouth, taste your words because you have waited to say them so long. Taste your words because you mean to say them and you have chosen them for their taste and they taste good. Do not talk slow just to be contrary to them, talk slow because it is who you are. You are contrary to them. But when you talk that day, they will listen and you will share with them all you have observed in your quiet, and it will change them forever. So be still. Be quiet. Wait.” And with that, Martin drifted back to sleep.
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