Some years ago, while delivering a speech at a small liberal-arts college in Virginia, I noticed a student in my peripheral vision mimicking my hand motions. I can’t recall the topic or even the name of the school — though I remember the hall was packed, so the talk must have been compulsory. Amusing at first, the spot-on aping of my movements soon became grating and distracting. After a few minutes, I caught the imitator’s eye and gave him a quick smile to let him know it was amusing but to cut it out. After sending me back a knowing smirk, the kid went right back to making fun of me. And so it went the rest of the disastrous night.
It was probably the first time in my life I became aware of just how zealously, and annoyingly, I use my hands when speaking. Turns out I’m an aggressive gesticulator. Sometimes I employ the entirety of my wingspan to convey an idea. I point. I clap. I snap. I sculpt the contours of simple objects I’m describing. When I’m irritated, all my movements go into overdrive. I bang unconsciously on tables with my fists and flail my arms. Hand gestures divulge a lot about a person’s essence, and evidently my essence is that of Benito Mussolini.
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