History Repeating
Each year in elementary school, a group of third, fourth, and fifth graders was chosen to compete in the Regional Forensics Competition at the Bigfoot High School in Walworth, Wisconsin. The strangest thing about it, aside from the fact that speaking aloud in front of people shares a term also used to describe the manner in which murderers are caught, is that to this day the speech participants do not know why they were picked. When we get together for the Regional Forensics Competition Alumni Reunion, the most common refrain heard is "I don't know why Mrs. X chose me, I was so shy, too quiet, so afraid, too loud, always licking my lips, constantly drooling..." (apparently it was a terrible event at which to be a spectator.)
I know why I was chosen though. It was because someone desperately wanted me to feel the dull, empty ache of defeat. Despite my continued attempts at forensics, I never experienced the extreme satisfaction that I can only imagine accompanied the hoisting of a trophy topped with a little golden orator above your head. Instead I knew well the unique blend of shame, guilt, and embarrassment that courses through your soul when the parent of some first place snot tells "all the Manchester kids, line up with your trophies and ribbons, that's right! Hold them where we can see! Good, now hold up the number of fingers to show us what place you got!" (That might seem redundant, except for the fact that trophies went to the winners, blue ribbons to second place, and a red to me, the sole Manchester Bobcat holding up three fingers and back tears.)
My failures weren't for lack of preparedness, but for the generally unpalatable collection of topics I continually presented to the audience (a nice mix of teachers and parents who enjoyed spending the morning straining to hear, and subsequently being spat upon by, middle schoolers.
"Following that awesome speech by that funny girl who pretended to be a bottle of soda and that hilarious girl who shared anecdotes about being short is Carrie Williams, here to dispel the mirth yet again."
"Are you familiar with the agonies President Andrew Jackson inflicted during the forced evacuation of the Native Americans from their homes through the Trail of Tears? Well for the next four minutes I am going to tell you all about it!" I said in my peppiest voice, waving four fingers in the air. (My forensics coach advised us to express enthusiasm for our subject and to use hand motions whenever possible to seem animated and become memorable.) And another year: "Can l let you in on a little secret?" I said in a mock whisper, leaning forward with one hand cupping my ear."It's about the "Holocaust"! (Keep the excitement! Use air quotes!) It was like a cheerleader narrating a tragic documentary without the benefit of cinematography. No doubt I'd have done better had I actually spoken about solving murder mysteries with science-which l could have done, I read more Agatha Christie than probably most of the other fourth graders.
"Well researched," the judge's comment card read, "try to slow down a bit next time."
I heard that a million times, but if you want to outline all the atrocities of humankind into four minutes you have to talk pretty fast.
Maybe it was the history that so turned people off, as opposed to the generally unpleasant subject matter, because when I wrote my speech about poisons hidden on our food, I became Miss Boone County. And with the crown and sash and entourage, I didn't need to stick my finger in the air to clarify, but just in case it wasn't clear I did.
I know why I was chosen though. It was because someone desperately wanted me to feel the dull, empty ache of defeat. Despite my continued attempts at forensics, I never experienced the extreme satisfaction that I can only imagine accompanied the hoisting of a trophy topped with a little golden orator above your head. Instead I knew well the unique blend of shame, guilt, and embarrassment that courses through your soul when the parent of some first place snot tells "all the Manchester kids, line up with your trophies and ribbons, that's right! Hold them where we can see! Good, now hold up the number of fingers to show us what place you got!" (That might seem redundant, except for the fact that trophies went to the winners, blue ribbons to second place, and a red to me, the sole Manchester Bobcat holding up three fingers and back tears.)
My failures weren't for lack of preparedness, but for the generally unpalatable collection of topics I continually presented to the audience (a nice mix of teachers and parents who enjoyed spending the morning straining to hear, and subsequently being spat upon by, middle schoolers.
"Following that awesome speech by that funny girl who pretended to be a bottle of soda and that hilarious girl who shared anecdotes about being short is Carrie Williams, here to dispel the mirth yet again."
"Are you familiar with the agonies President Andrew Jackson inflicted during the forced evacuation of the Native Americans from their homes through the Trail of Tears? Well for the next four minutes I am going to tell you all about it!" I said in my peppiest voice, waving four fingers in the air. (My forensics coach advised us to express enthusiasm for our subject and to use hand motions whenever possible to seem animated and become memorable.) And another year: "Can l let you in on a little secret?" I said in a mock whisper, leaning forward with one hand cupping my ear."It's about the "Holocaust"! (Keep the excitement! Use air quotes!) It was like a cheerleader narrating a tragic documentary without the benefit of cinematography. No doubt I'd have done better had I actually spoken about solving murder mysteries with science-which l could have done, I read more Agatha Christie than probably most of the other fourth graders.
"Well researched," the judge's comment card read, "try to slow down a bit next time."
I heard that a million times, but if you want to outline all the atrocities of humankind into four minutes you have to talk pretty fast.
Maybe it was the history that so turned people off, as opposed to the generally unpleasant subject matter, because when I wrote my speech about poisons hidden on our food, I became Miss Boone County. And with the crown and sash and entourage, I didn't need to stick my finger in the air to clarify, but just in case it wasn't clear I did.
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