The sudden inspiration to join the high school policy debate team, perhaps from a crooked debate flyer strewn on a classroom floor or the drifting words of a passing conversation, was momentous. My spontaneous flick of the pencil etched my name on the sign-up list in finality. As a novice debater who sputtered in the face of sharp rebuttals and even burst into terrified tears in her first practice debate round, I found myself regretting ever putting my name on that sign-up sheet.
Yet, when I found myself standing flabbergasted on the award podium at my first debate tournament, I saw change. With every opponent that challenged me, I found more of my voice. With every round I managed to win, I gained more of my confidence. Competition after competition, debate after debate, with every judge I impressed, with every opponent I stunned, I began believing in my arguments, my abilities, and myself.
I started using debate as an outlet, an invaluable opportunity of expressing the critical thinking and intellectual curiosity I am capable of providing. Never had I engaged in such an intellectually stimulating activity, each round distinct in its pedagogy and each opponent unique in their approach. As I found myself barraging college debaters with a myriad of questions, attending every tournament available to me, and falling asleep to the soothing cacophony of videotaped debates at prestigious college tournaments, for the first time in my life, I found my niche.
My niche revolved around my ability to shape the direction of every round. Sometimes I nitpicked until my opponents’ arguments were invalid. Sometimes I inadvertently missed a lethal part of my opponents’ points that determined the round. Every debate was a war battle, and every outcome was directly influenced by my decisions and arguments. I found my mark, my ability to change those around me by challenging others to think harder and debate better, and I started learning to love myself as my voice influenced, burgeoned, and thrived.
And right before every debate round, I pick up my pen as another war battle begins.
As I stand there with resolve in the center of no man’s land, flanked by only a flimsy timer and a dilapidated laptop, I am rewriting. As competitive opponents turn their belligerent eyes in my direction, planning their counterattacks with a plethora of legal paper shields and gel pen weapons, I am editing. As the judge, functioning entirely on an early Dunkin Donut run and subsequent Starbucks espresso shots, flickers calculating eyes over the debaters on his chessboard, I am finalizing.
A deep breath. A click of a pen. A timer beep.
I am beginning to write a battle victory.
