A Reflective, Reconciliatory ‘Thank You’ to Debate

Did I spend my time in a way that I’ll regret? Did I waste a part of me, pouring it into ideas that won’t resonate, skills that will go to waste in time?

What does it mean to succeed? And what matters, after I’ve burned through four years? How do I tangibly measure what I’ve done? Because the bolded red W’s and L’s and the 3–1’s lined next to Leland WP seem like the clearest measurements, the best indicators. So what did these four years mean?

The last four years were of beeping timers, adrenaline, stuttering, warmth, of leaving classrooms long after sunset, aching limbs from carrying boxes of evidence, strained eyes, of tears and passion and ultimately, satisfaction. These four years are jam-packed with details, moments that truly don’t matter, because they don’t make a dent in the grand scheme of things. But really, they do, because they left a dent in me.

There is no trophy for these moments or subjective Reason For Decisions to review as my season inches to a close, but that’s okay, because for once, the judge is me. In this, in the issues that matter closest to me, I get to decide what I make of it, and as one insignificant individual caught up in the unpredictable and uncontrollable procedures of high school debate, I choose to take control, of what it means to be happy and what it means to succeed.

That poses two questions, and let’s start with the first: What does it mean to be happy?

Happiness, to me, is fulfillment and satisfaction, and fulfillment comes, in so many ways, with policy debate.

In what ways? In the end, its structure makes me happy — its very intricacies, its creativity, its research, the practice of polishing something to perfection, of immersing yourself and fully grasping the words you are saying. Being wholly immersed in an issue makes me feel like I am at the peak of productivity, that I am being used to my best potential. It gives me satisfaction, like the blinds are gone and I’m finally looking at the topic in direct sunlight. Of course debate lights up something innate in me. It’s impossible to voluntarily be involved and not have at least part of that motivation come intrinsically. This realization came later, though, because no one as passive as me imagines themselves enjoying arguing.

In the beginning, fulfillment came from my team.

It is a team, a community, a family, inspiring me from the very first debate to the very last meeting. As a terrified and vaguely lost freshman, the experience of watching my first policy debate round felt as if I was struck by something. No, not our future VP’s unmistakable and inescapable voice, though she was memorable. It was watching debaters one, two, maybe three years older than me articulating nuanced ideas on their feet, effortlessly conveying their rich knowledge with graceful enunciation and easy coherence. With the force of their passion and maturity, their presence in the room was not just warm, but dominating. I was struck by a need to find that stirring potential that they so easily exuded. I didn’t want to admire idly. I wanted to find that passion, that drive, and that dominating warmth within me.

It wasn’t easy. Debate is terrifying. The version of yourself you present doesn’t get to be perfected and polished: it’s you, on the spot, in the most nerve-racking circumstances, desperately trying to wrap your mind around complex and polarized social issues. If I thought speech was hard, debate was a whole other nightmare.

I was so bad at it.

Actually, learning the basics was easy. The structure was easy information to keep in my head, but the tears came once we started debating. There are eight minutes of time to fill in a speech, with preparation time only enough for a quick glance at the evidence. Policy debate topics are so broad that a resolution on education can have debates that range from STEM classes to homeless students to teacher shortages to the merits of capitalism. There is no guarantee that I have any base knowledge on an imminent debate. As a freshman, this reduced me to a stuttering, panicking mess on the verge of tears — I remember all too well.

My first year, I was trying to get my bearings, unaware of the forming bonds in my surroundings, nor actively trying to be a part of them. It wasn’t until my second year did I realize: I was engulfed in warmth. There was a community of warmth waiting to embrace me, a community that understood my struggles. Every varsity member, my fellow novices, even our coach, started at base zero. My fears? My shaking? My loss for words? No one could understand better than them. I will always be thankful for the people who brought this community to me, who held me as I was, this stuttering, panicking mess, and told me I was what this team needed.

My peers taught me the significance of everyday things, and the importance of valuing them. It is kind words, it is smiling, it is pulling your weight in file production and staying hours after school to practice with another team. It is debaters spending their weekends scouting at tournaments they aren’t even competing in so our team can have the upper hand, a novice team willingly debating a varsity team for practice because they would take being slaughtered if it meant the chance to learn, our team coming together to find answers for a new argument the night before a tournament, even though all we want to do is to take a break and relax.

Everyday things is me glowing with pride when watching a novice team debate at their first tournament. It is them being receptive and appreciative of my 10-minute lecture on what they did well and how they can do better. It is me bursting into tears during a meeting or after a tournament because of sleep deprivation, stress, or unmet expectations, and individual people coming over to console me, at different times, offering to alleviate some work, to talk, or to just to tell me that I am enough. This type of support, the feeling of pride, and genuine affection is why I cannot stop loving this team.

Before every tournament, we have a day where we all bring out evidence boxes, print out all the files, and take turns organizing our respective boxes. There are little details that stick out, like the inexperienced freshmen watching the varsity to learn the routine, someone in the corner explaining the strategies of specific key files, another person crouched behind a computer, taking notes for everyone who’s too busy to listen. These meetings are more than just a routine, they represent comradery. We may be going off into our debate rounds in pairs, but the stacks of evidence, the compiled strategies, suggest otherwise. When we are in a round, we are armed with evidence from our team, messages of support in the margins, their advice and strategy ringing in the back of our heads.

Leland policy debate taught me to lead, to care, to hold someone’s hand during the awards ceremony, to take someone who is putting themselves bare and vulnerable, and accepting them as they are, inspiring them to pursue their inner fire.

I hadn’t considered the possibility of being a leader when I first joined, but watching my peers play an active role in building the team I loved made me desperately want to give back to it, too. I knew I had more to contribute to the team, and it didn’t sit well with me that I wasn’t giving it my all. Sending in the chair application was a culmination of a year’s worth of yearning for more power. The announcement that I was selected brought warmth and promise, promise that I had the power to contribute more in the upcoming years.

Despite that, for the first month of being chair, all I could feel was fear. Fear that I wasn’t qualified. That year, we had brought in eighteen bright and dedicated freshmen to Policy with our successful demonstration. All I could think was: how was I supposed to teach them to love this event that meant so much to me?

This is how: prioritizing helping freshmen over doing my own work, judging practice rounds every other day of the week, always being online, available, for anything. I learned some things: we should set aside our fears and take chances because no one knows 100% what they’re doing before they actually do it. No one feels qualified for a position until they take it. A leader doesn’t have to be perfect. They don’t have to know anything or always make the right decision. They just have to be there, to listen, to act on what they’ve heard, to help the individual feel fulfilled.

I didn’t hesitate to apply for the VP of debate. I wrote my aspirations into the application. I trembled in anxiety and anticipation, and when my name was announced, I felt, again, that warmth. I have more power to evoke change and be one of those seniors that inspired me to start debating.

But how does this apply to being happy? My team held me, supported me, and gave me the space to discover this: debate isn’t a competition, it is an opportunity — an opportunity to speak and defend things that are true and matter to you. It’s not about winning, it’s about a platform to grow and learn and achieve. How am I happy? Because I know I’ve taken this opportunity. Because despite 3–1s, despite losing, I am learning and achieving and pinpointing what it means, for me, to debate. Every time I take the stage, I claim my opportunity.

And through this risk-taking, through vulnerability, through holding and being held and striving and speaking, I am happy. I am happy every time I nail a speech, develop a strategy, cut a card and learn the answer to something. When that novice runs out of her first round at her first tournament, eyes glowing, adrenaline rushing, I am happy because I see that she saw the day as an opportunity, and I am happy because she took it, without fear, without anxiety, and came back smiling.

Now the second question: What does success mean?

That’s a multifaceted question with multifaceted answers, so we’ll go with the one I can live with and the one I believe. To me, success is your truths, your integrity, and the virtues you take with you as you’re debating. Simply put, are you debating to win, or debating for the truth? Isn’t that the core of advocacy, to fight for the causes that you deem true?

Debating the truth means not arguing something blatantly false just for the sake to refute. On the surface, truth in debate is making arguments that your evidence actually supports, not misconstruing what your opponents said, and just being generally honest. On a more personal level, truth means asking two questions: “am I doing the best I can?” and “is this how I want to do it?” It’s why I submitted a 90-page file instead of the usual 30. It’s why I helped write a 40-page negative strategy, and “poured my soul into that CP” against a case that I once lost to because I know the truth indicates that they weren’t supposed to win, but if I or anyone on our team ever face them again, we’ll be armed with the best evidence to disprove them. It’s why after my first tournament, I’ve never ran a case because it was easy or evidence was readily available. From homeless students to detention centers, they have been cases I believe in.

I learned how to adhere to my truths. To be true to my passions and not take the easy way out. Yes, it’s been hard. Yes, I could’ve slept so much more and cried so many fewer tears if I had just met the minimum requirements, letting the four years pass by without investing a piece of myself into the activity, but would I have felt this kind of fulfillment at the bottom of my heart if that had been the decision I made? No.

How do I know I’ve succeeded? Because debate has left a dent in me. It forced me to learn, adapt, to find the reason why I’m doing anything. It hammered resilience into me with such force it feels almost involuntary.

Each round can feel like a slap in the face if you let it. It can be a source of complaint, a blame game. You can blame judges, nerves, luck, yourself — or you can accept it, accept the revolving mess of fortune that is reality, that is debate tournaments, that is life. Do not give meaning to those numbers that do not encapsulate you. You do not fail when you lose, but you fail if you let that loss get to you, when you let that loss decide you.

Remember, you are the judge in your story. You choose the speaker points, you write the RFD’s. You don’t have to decide between the extremes of ecstatic victories and devastating losses, but you can choose to remember who you have become, the multifaceted, contradicting, beautiful human being who loves and is loved.

The last four years have been a journey of finding joy, learning to spark joy in a competitive and cut-throat environment. Debate has, unarguably, made me someone better. The blunt force of my decision to debate thrust me through the years, the frustration, and the tears. Thank god it did, because now I can claim without a doubt, with all the evidence pointing toward this conclusion, that this was worth it.