The Room Where it Happens
When I was sixteen, my friends and I sat down to watch the National Champion in Original Oratory, Jared Weiss, on my friend's VCR in his basement. We watched Weiss's speech. Then we rewound (I'm old, y'all. This was 2000) and watched again. And again. And again.
We talked endlessly about being on that stage--being in that room. And I have never been the same.
This past summer, I once again found myself watching Nationals, but this time I wasn't in front of TV or computer. This time I was sitting in Birmingham, Alabama, surrounded by 3,500 speech people watching it all in person. That's when it hit me. Oratory had just finished and we were waiting for awards. I looked around and suddenly felt my heart stutter. Here I was. Sitting in the room where it happens. At last. And not only was I sitting where it happens, but that year, I had been a part of it all happening. I had a student break to semifinals--she finished the tournament 10th in the nation. I was finally a part of this thing I'd always watched from a distance, but never really thought I could do. In that moment, I teared up and quietly whispered thank you. I don't know if my students heard me. I couldn't find the words to tell them how proud I was of them, how overwhelmed I was to be there--and to be there with them. I don't know that they really understood what it all meant to me. They probably never will.
But four years ago one of those same students, upon qualifying for State as a freshman, hugged me tearfully and said, "I've never been good at anything." Until then. He went on to win the State Championship as a junior. And as a senior.
And sitting in that room, surrounded by those people, well I wanted to look back at him and repeat the same words.
"I've never really been good at anything."
Until now.
I'm not the best coach. I've often wondered what my students could do if they had someone else working with them--someone with more experience, more theater background, more creativity, more anything. I've had students succeed in speech--national semifinalists, and state finalists, and even a state champion. But so often those are students who are extraordinary already. So often I feel as though I just watch them succeed. So often I am merely a passenger on their journey.
And yet, sitting in that room--I felt a certainty that I am at least heading down the right path. I'm doing something I'm supposed to be doing. Coaching speech brings me more joy than I thought possible. I've met some of the most beautiful people through this activity. I've gotten to watch students find their voices. I've watched them discover parts of themselves they didn't know they had. I've watched them find passion, find confidence, find power and strength in their words. I've watched them move mountains. And I never get tired of watching them.
My students don't get the recognition they deserve. We are four-time Section Champions, have a two-time State Champion, and a National top ten finisher. We got one mention in the newspaper. The girls' basketball team gets at least one per week even now, six months after their season ended. Our school will not support our trips to Nationals. Our Activities Director and Administrator couldn't tell you how many people are on our team or where we compete.
And yet.
And yet there we sat. Me with two of the most inspiring students I've ever had the privilege to work with. There we sat--a girl who tried to quit the team as a sophomore because she didn't think she'd ever be able to memorize a whole speech; a boy who had never believed he could compete and win. A coach who'd watched from afar and been intimidated by the talent and genius I'd seen in others. That day we were different. The girl who almost quit was tenth in the nation. The boy who'd never won was a two-time state champion.
And that coach who'd watched from afar? She was sitting between them, in love with them, with the activity, with being a part of it all.
We were all quietly in love in that moment. One student leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, "Thank you." My other student looked at me--a little teary himself--and mumbled "Love you." And we all just sat there and took it in.
Finally in the room where it happens.
We talked endlessly about being on that stage--being in that room. And I have never been the same.
This past summer, I once again found myself watching Nationals, but this time I wasn't in front of TV or computer. This time I was sitting in Birmingham, Alabama, surrounded by 3,500 speech people watching it all in person. That's when it hit me. Oratory had just finished and we were waiting for awards. I looked around and suddenly felt my heart stutter. Here I was. Sitting in the room where it happens. At last. And not only was I sitting where it happens, but that year, I had been a part of it all happening. I had a student break to semifinals--she finished the tournament 10th in the nation. I was finally a part of this thing I'd always watched from a distance, but never really thought I could do. In that moment, I teared up and quietly whispered thank you. I don't know if my students heard me. I couldn't find the words to tell them how proud I was of them, how overwhelmed I was to be there--and to be there with them. I don't know that they really understood what it all meant to me. They probably never will.
But four years ago one of those same students, upon qualifying for State as a freshman, hugged me tearfully and said, "I've never been good at anything." Until then. He went on to win the State Championship as a junior. And as a senior.
And sitting in that room, surrounded by those people, well I wanted to look back at him and repeat the same words.
"I've never really been good at anything."
Until now.
I'm not the best coach. I've often wondered what my students could do if they had someone else working with them--someone with more experience, more theater background, more creativity, more anything. I've had students succeed in speech--national semifinalists, and state finalists, and even a state champion. But so often those are students who are extraordinary already. So often I feel as though I just watch them succeed. So often I am merely a passenger on their journey.
And yet, sitting in that room--I felt a certainty that I am at least heading down the right path. I'm doing something I'm supposed to be doing. Coaching speech brings me more joy than I thought possible. I've met some of the most beautiful people through this activity. I've gotten to watch students find their voices. I've watched them discover parts of themselves they didn't know they had. I've watched them find passion, find confidence, find power and strength in their words. I've watched them move mountains. And I never get tired of watching them.
My students don't get the recognition they deserve. We are four-time Section Champions, have a two-time State Champion, and a National top ten finisher. We got one mention in the newspaper. The girls' basketball team gets at least one per week even now, six months after their season ended. Our school will not support our trips to Nationals. Our Activities Director and Administrator couldn't tell you how many people are on our team or where we compete.
And yet.
And yet there we sat. Me with two of the most inspiring students I've ever had the privilege to work with. There we sat--a girl who tried to quit the team as a sophomore because she didn't think she'd ever be able to memorize a whole speech; a boy who had never believed he could compete and win. A coach who'd watched from afar and been intimidated by the talent and genius I'd seen in others. That day we were different. The girl who almost quit was tenth in the nation. The boy who'd never won was a two-time state champion.
And that coach who'd watched from afar? She was sitting between them, in love with them, with the activity, with being a part of it all.
We were all quietly in love in that moment. One student leaned her head on my shoulder and whispered, "Thank you." My other student looked at me--a little teary himself--and mumbled "Love you." And we all just sat there and took it in.
Finally in the room where it happens.
Comments