It was 2015 or 2016. I was on a panel with four other people, and there were approximately 300 people in the audience. I had been quiet for several minutes, with a thought brewing that I was anxious to say. But when I grabbed the mic and prepared to speak, I was paralyzed with fear. The thought included a sentence that was constructed around “zeitgeist” — a word that I’d read and written dozens of times, and was a perfect fit for the smart-arty academese of the room. But I’d never said it aloud before and had no idea how to actually pronounce it. So, when it was time to speak, I leaned so close into the mic you’d think I was praying to it, and I double-time mumble-whispered “zay-ta-get-tee.”

Zay. Ta. Get. Tee.

Fortunately, no one in the audience stood up with “This is more of a comment question than a question question, but, Damon, dude, what the hell was that?” I suspect they just attributed it to some Pittsburgh-specific enunciation and moved on.

I wish I could say this was the only time something like that happened. But the act of saying words aloud has always kicked my a--, has always made me feel like Batman in the sewer getting his back cracked by Bane, and it feels like it’s happening more and more.

There are the words I know very well and use frequently — I read them in essays and books, and on social media, and I incorporate them in my own writing — but I’ve never said them aloud. “Zeitgeist” is one obvious example (I know how to say it now). I’ve also definitely pronounced “meme” as “me-me” in front of people, I think I know how to say “quinoa,” but I’m scared to try, and … well, I’m just going to stop here.

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And then there are the words that I know how to say but just … can’t. A disconnect happens in the space between the word existing in my brain and it leaving my mouth, where the physical act of enunciation becomes insurmountable. Some words, like “rural,” are difficult for many people, and I take solace in that. And then there are some words, like “pattern” and “modern” — which I pronounce “pat-ter-ren” and “mod-er-ren,” giving the two-syllable words a long-lost step-syllable — that are easy for 5-year-olds, but for me it’s like speaking Dothraki.

The worst of them is “hallelujah,” which I can’t even say if I pronounce it one letter at a time, and each time it turns my tongue into origami it makes me feel 8 percent less Black.

Oh, and I’m a great reader — with quick pace, good stamina and easy retention — until I’m asked to read something aloud. My mouth gets juicy, my breath gets shaky and my voice does a magic trick where it sounds both over- and undercooked, like a cake baked with the heat too high.

An explanation for these pronunciation issues starts with my generalized anxiety, which is why I drink before panels now. (Curious how the IRS feels about the restocking of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Honey as a professional deduction.)

Also, I don’t have enough in-person conversations to hear a critical mass of words and develop an organic understanding of how some of them are said. (When I was 3, my parents, worried that I rarely talked, took me to a doctor, fearing that I might have a developmental issue. After giving me a couple of tests, the doctor reported back: “It’s not that he can’t talk. He’s fine. He just doesn’t feel like it.”) An upside of my lifelong introversion is that it cultivated a carnivorous appetite for words, but a downside is that I’d rather talk to myself, in my head, than to other people.

And then there’s the fact that Pittsburgh is in the Appalachian Mountains. Which makes me a Black Appalachian. Which means my accent is some unruly hybrid of Wu-Tang groomed urbanite and Black hillbilly. I sound like someone tried to re-create RZA’s voice from sight, and some words just don’t agree with my mouth.

The worst is “hallelujah,” which I can’t even say if I pronounce it one letter at a time.

Maybe I’d be fine with this if I had the sort of occupation that didn’t require much speech. I don’t know what occupation that is. (A watchmaker? A henchman killed by John Wick?) I’m sure one exists. But there’s an expectation of linguistic fluidity when I do talk, and each time I butcher another Fisher-Price word, I feel the ghosts of James Baldwin and Maya Angelou on my neck, taunting me with the whispers of over-enunciated adverbs. (“Flawlessly.” “Impeccably.” “Schematically.”)

An irony here is that I’m actively choosing to do things now that require even more speech and reading of things aloud. I recorded my own audiobook instead of hiring a voice actor, and I just wrapped the first season of a podcast where each episode began and concluded with me reading a short essay. You’d have to pay me in untraceable cash to persuade me to actually listen to my entire audiobook, but I feel less anxious now, about my voice and how I pronounce words, than I ever have. Maybe I’ll get better at the words I’m bad at. Or maybe I’ll continue to discover new words to butcher. Or maybe both. Either way, I think this is just a thing about myself that I’ve grown to accept, and I think that’s worth celebrating. Hallelujah!

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