I happened to overhear a conversation between two women while changing in the ladies’ earlier this afternoon. I wasn’t eavesdropping. They were just talking in their much too-loud voices. Their conversation was mainly in Chinese (in which I could not understand) but English phrases were randomly shoved in as well.

I caught words like “daughter”, “teacher”, “kindergarten” and “ladies and gentleman, blah blah blah” and soon figured that one of the women’s daughter was given the opportunity to make a speech during her graduation ceremony. But it seemed like the she didn’t want her daughter to be involved as it requires much time and effort to train the young girl to memorise her speech by heart.

I felt sorry for that little girl I didn’t know when I heard that.

As the mother continued to ramble on to her colleague, my mind wandered over to the time when I was that young girl’s age (six years old, I presume).

I was one of the chosen few among my schoolmates to represent our cohort as the graduating batch of pre-schoolers. In my eyes at that age, graduating from kindergarten was one of the greatest achievements I could ever attain.

I couldn’t remember Mother’s reaction when she got a call from my teacher, informing her that I had to prepare a speech. What I do remember was that she spent a lot of time and effort writing out my speech, guiding me to read and memorise it, and training me to say my speech over and over again in a loud, clear voice.

I learnt how to read that long speech despite many new words I’ve never learnt at school. I learnt how to memorise it and repeat them over the dinner table during my meals. I learnt how to articulate my words, pause at the right moments and speak with expression on my face.

A week before the Big Day, as Mother was coaching me over my speech, instead of telling me to say it sitting down like I usually did, she told me to stand on the footstool. She said it was to make me feel like I’m onstage.

I gingerly crept onto the footstool and wished it was lower. I stood up, hunching. Mother ordered me to stand straight. I pushed back my shoulders with reluctance and stood tall. Looking ahead, I suddenly felt nervous.

I started my speech in a small voice, stumbling over my words as a bee buzzed in my little brain. Mother wasn’t too happy but she didn’t stop me. From then onwards, it was guiding me on being bolder and more confident.

The Big Day came. Graduating has never been so exhausting. Actually, the ceremony was part of the school concert which was held at the end. Before the ceremony started, the graduating students had to present a mass item themed “The Birth of Jesus.”

I was one of the fifteen pre-schoolers dressed as angels. Donned in a white gown and a sequined crown for a halo each, we walked up onstage, holding onto lighted white candles and trying not to let the hot wax drip on our bare feet.

It was hard doing that and smiling like godly angels at the audience.

My school principal came onstage and made a short speech on the graduates and as she left the microphone, Student Number One with Speech to Share stepped forward and presented his speech. I was third in line.

Finally, when my name was called out, I looked towards the audience and tried to find Mother’s face among the sea of unfamiliar faces. I spotted her smiling broadly at me, indicating that I should go towards the mic. I gave her a grin and walked towards the microphone stand.

I was astounded to find that I was quite short. I had to crane my neck but the mic was still a good five inches away from my lips. In an amazingly calm manner, I adjusted the mic downwards but I still had to strain my poor neck.

That was how I said my speech. Since I had to lift my head to shorten the distance between that mic and my lips, my eyes could see nothing but the bare ceiling of the hall. No strange faces, no bright lights, nothing. Just a white ceiling with fans.

I wasn’t nervous, and I didn’t rush through my speech. I said it very well and just the way Mother had taught me all these weeks. When I finished, I looked back at Mother and she was clapping as hard as every other person seated in the hall.

That was how much she loves me. Enough to spend the time and effort to help me through my first speech in front of a huge audience. Enough to make me feel accomplished even at that young age. Enough to make me recall this event and write it down even after thirteen long years have since passed. That was her love for me.

And so if I ever become a mother of a six-year-old down the road, and if he/she gets chosen to make a speech on his/her graduation, I will definitely show him/her my love just the way Mother showed me.

It’s time I work on my future speeches.