Rule 1: Never, ever, begin a speech with “Imagine a world.” It would be more clandestine to tattoo “COMPLETE NOOB” on your forehead and dance on top of a table while singing Lady Gaga.
Rule 2: “Honourable chair, panel, opponents, audience…” is an equally bad (if not worse) way to start. It reminds me of the oozy stickiness of tree sap, the way it clings to your hair and begs to be acknowledged. It’s “tryhard” and slimy and cringe.
Rule 3: Debate sucks.
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Okay, not really.
I’ve been a debater for nearly three years. Flown abroad to compete? Check. Won tournaments? Been there, done that. Stared at a ceiling all night worrying about the absolute torture I’d have to go through the next morning, debating topics no reasonable teenager should know? Of course! I think I’m pretty qualified to slander the living daylights out of my favorite hobby.
When you start debating, it's mostly info dumps on banning zoos and sugar-coated commentary on your thirty-second speech. Your heart pounds when you step in front of the podium for the first time. Your palms sweat like they’ve never sweated before. It’s exhilarating.
When you’ve debated for a while, it’s not so exciting. I enjoyed vast success initially. I placed well at my first intra-academy tournament, qualified for Canadian Nationals, and was a quarterfinalist on my first try in Grade 8. Like your average high school joe, I was prideful and riding the high of my potential. In the back of my mind lurked evil voices saying my achievements were only because of my insanely talented partner hard carrying.
I tried my best to ignore the voices at the back of my head.
I did not ignore the voices at the back of my head.
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Debate is inherently competitive. You can only win rounds if the other person loses. You can only become the champion if you crush every other team underneath you. And it’s not just competing with strangers. Despite its growing popularity, the debate circuit is small. You form close relationships with opponents and teammates knowing that your success is dependent on outperforming them. Only a limited number make Team Canada every year, only a limited number can break into outrounds, and every single person you have ever cared about poses an obstacle to you fulfilling that dream.
(Not to mention the oversaturation of kids who were forced into the activity. Or the institutions that pit students against one another.)
It’s no wonder that debate is a breeding ground for suffering. At the end of every tournament, a “tab” is publicly released: a public spreadsheet listing every single competitor from best to worst. Wonderful. For the cheap price of your reputation, you can see your failure in 4K! Of course, that doesn’t discredit the validation one feels from top speaking. But it’s hard to move on from the lingering bitterness of “not being enough.”
What do you do when you fail? You can give up or you can try again. Most people go with the former. It’s hard to compete with those who’ve been debating since elementary school, those who’ve poured thousands of dollars into tuition, or those who haven’t had a free Saturday for six months on end because each and every weekend has been spent competing. I have friends who pay $400/hr to learn debate. And there’s no guarantee that even if you do all those things, you’ll succeed. The skill ceiling for a debater is so high that not being naturally talented can mean a world’s difference. But even if you’re extremely good, you need connections to know the debate tea, or get early access to tournament applications. Nepotism runs within the top currents of the circuit, and most debaters are small goldfish in a sea of sharks.
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I would be lying if I said debate didn’t change my life. My Grade 7 self would have had an aneurysm if she had known the butterfly effect of it. Half the people on my social media are debaters, I’ve had the opportunity to travel all over the world to compete, and I’ve grown to be a more confident, outspoken version of myself. If I had never agreed to partner with my close friend in Grade 8 for that one tournament, today I’d probably be sitting at home doing nothing. I never would have had that Michelin star steak that still makes my mouth water at the memory, I never would’ve had stacks of medals on my desk, and I never would have had the chance to become friends with so many passionate and intelligent people. It's definitely stressful and tear-inducing and the main reason I’m doing so badly in school right now, but there’s this irreplaceable thrill that no other activity invokes in me.
When I stand in front of the podium, it still feels like my first time doing so. Constructing complex arguments or debunking seemingly irrefutable ones is exciting. Skrribl.io games in between rounds are exciting. The pumping of your blood as the awards ceremony begins is exciting. I want to share that. And as a debate coach myself, I feel immensely privileged to be able to pass on what I’ve learned over the last few years to other kids who have just begun to dip their toes into the water. When they succeed, I feel like I’ve succeeded too. And it’s okay that I’m not on the same level as a Team Canada member. I’m not so shabby that I can’t spread my knowledge to others. And at the end of the day, on the simplest level, it's fun.
So what are you waiting for? Start debating today – I promise you, it's well worth the pain.
Not sponsored by the Sentinel Debate Club, though you should still definitely join that too.
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