Debatable
Anya Jain
“And for all these reasons, I urge a strong vote for the government side,” concluded my debate partner, Arishka. We were in the middle of a huge, maroon and gold complex of buildings: Menlo-Atherton High School. It was one of those deceiving California days, when the sun is out but it’s freezing cold. We were doing a practice round against two of the high schoolers on our team. I was in fifth grade at the time, but already competing in high school tournaments. After the judges gave both sides feedback, and announced their decision (we had won!), our debate coach gathered us all around a set of metal benches.
“I’ve talked to a few of you about this, but there is a big tournament coming up in the next few weeks at Columbia University, and our team will be flying there together,” said my coach. Immediately, Arishka and I said that we wanted to go. We had never been to such a big tournament before, let alone one where we had to fly to get there. When our parents came to pick us up, we begged them to let us go. My parents were immediately on board. However, Arishka’s parents were a little more hesitant.
A few days later, my parents said, “I don’t think Arishka will be able to go to the Columbia tournament. Do you still want to go?” I thought about it for a second. I didn’t want to go without her, but this was an opportunity that I might not get again. With that, I decided that I wanted to go. But it was only once I got into the flight, the day before the tournament, that I realized exactly what I was getting myself into.
———
The airplane’s engines roared to life, and I heard a voice over the intercom: “We are about to take off. Take a minute to watch this video, and go over the safety card in your seat pocket.”
After the flight attendants had gone over the safety procedures of the plane, we started backing out of the gate. My team and my coach were all flying together on another plane, and they were staying at a separate hotel from us, which made me feel nervous right away. I didn’t know how I would be able to find them or get in contact with them, if I needed help. It was pretty much going to be just my mom and I.
I decided to make use of this time to prepare myself for the tournament. I knew that I would be the only elementary schooler there, among thousands of high schoolers and judges and parents. I also knew that the Columbia University campus was enormous, spanning 6.8 million square feet. Putting these facts together, I knew that I was going to be pretty intimidated. How would I ever find my room? Would my opponents laugh at me? Would my judges even take me seriously?
Twelve hours later, these thoughts still with me, I stood with my mom in front of the main auditorium of Columbia University. It was a huge, ominous building with a large, arching entrance. It was a Saturday morning in the middle of February in New York City, so naturally, there was snow everywhere. High schoolers, parents, judges, coaches, and spectators streamed in and out of the auditorium, dressed in winter clothes. Everyone had abandoned the traditional attire for tournaments in favor of protecting themselves from the cold.
I took a step inside, relieved to be in the warmth of the auditorium, but not knowing at all what to expect. I thought it would be a more grand setting with people sitting neatly in rows, listening to a speaker call names. Instead, it was a chaotic mess. Coaches were meeting with their teams in various areas of the room, and people were scrambling to check in and get set for the first round. I was a novice, so I was taken to the opposite side of the hall, away from my coach and teammates. After a few minutes, they gathered us novices up, and walked us to a different section of the campus. All the nerves that I had been feeling got doubled, realizing that there would be no one I could get help from if I needed it. And just like that, they posted the pairings on Tabroom, the universal website for debaters, and the tournament officially started.
My room was at the very end of a long hallway, on the third floor of the building. I was very grateful that my mom was there; otherwise I never would’ve been able to find my room. The whole place was a maze. I waited for a bit, refreshing the live document to make sure I didn’t miss the topic announcement. A few minutes later, the topic was posted: This House believes that the Supreme Court should be abolished. I prepped sitting right outside of the room, with only my brain, my notebook, and my pens. At Columbia, as with many East Coast tournaments, there is no internet prep allowed, and you only get fifteen minutes to prepare your arguments for your side.
When I walked inside the room, I was surprised to find that it looked like a normal classroom. That’s the thing no one tells you about debate in general, and especially these kinds of tournaments: There is no giant crowd of spectators, or fancy-looking podium at the front of the room. It’s just you, your judge, and your opponents. When my opponents walked in, I was kind of nervous. They looked very proper and dignified, and conducted themselves with a sense of authority. But as soon as they started talking, I could tell that they weren’t actually that good. There was no superhuman-debater sense about them; they were just high schoolers trying to do well at a debate tournament. Admittedly, I still lost against them, but I now had the confidence that I could succeed and win the next rounds.
Okay, well, not quite. I lost the second and third rounds also. I had a bye (automatic win) for the fourth round, so I got to go watch some of the older debaters on my team, Maya and Peter. They both did amazing, especially Maya, captivating the audience with their persuasive, articulate arguments. Watching them, I realized two things: One, that I still had a long way to go in becoming a really good debater; and two, that I could learn from them and try to incorporate their techniques into my debating.
Going into the fifth and final round, I knew I had one last chance to win. I tried to channel some of my inner Maya, and be super clear and confident. I delivered my speech and felt pretty good about it. Then, my opponents got up and proposed an entirely new framework, or structure, for the round. I froze. I had no idea what to say to that. I had no idea what their new framework even meant. But I tried to keep calm and figure out a plan. When I got up to speak, my hands were trembling and my heart was pounding. I stumbled through the first minute of my speech. The other team snickered, not even bothering to take notes on what I was saying. Then, something in me clicked. I wasn’t just going to stand there while they laughed at me.
I collected myself, and said, “Judge, the other side is trying to propose a new framework for this round, one that would change the very foundations of what we’re debating about. That is completely abusive and unfair for me. The burden of the government team is to provide the framework, and I have done so. They have not contested my framework, so it should still stand.” I sounded sure of myself in a way that I hadn’t been during the entire round. My opponents sat staring, their jaws slightly dropped.
I tried to keep that positive attitude for the rest of the round, and I was feeling pretty good after my last speech. But, I knew that the decision could go either way. I held my breath and waited as the judge filled their ballot in on tabroom.
“I’d like to congratulate both sides on a great round. However, after much deliberation, I have decided to give the win to the government side!” declared the judge.
When the decision was announced in my favor, I felt like flying. I was so happy.
I heard one of my opponents whisper-shout, “How could we have lost to a 10 year-old?! We must be the first people that’s ever happened to!” He started yelling at the judge, which is the exact opposite of what you should do after a round. At the same time, he was trying to comfort his partner, who was crying.
After the tournament was over, my team huddled together in the main building to go over their takeaways. I already knew mine. By going to this intimidating tournament without a partner, and then seeing that I could succeed in it, I gained the confidence that I could do well in any debate setting. I realized that my age didn’t make me any less or more of a debater than anyone else, and that although I was nowhere near becoming a top debater, I could eventually get there.
Since then, I’ve moved up to the varsity division, and even gone to semifinals. But my Columbia debate experience has stayed with me to this day. Every time I encounter a topic I know nothing about, or a judge who is biased towards the other team, I know how to handle it. Now, I am much more willing to take risks and put myself out there.
The reason debate is such a big part of my identity is that it pushes me out of my comfort zone, time and time again. It makes me think deeply about complex issues, and find flaws in how our society currently operates. It has taught me how to think on my feet and look at both sides of topics. I’ve learned so much about the world through debate, and I’ve been able to get a lot better at public speaking. I’ve been doing debate since first grade, and it has made me a much better person. As my debate coach always says, debate is a vessel. It will only give you what you put into it. It’s what carries you through your journey, but you have to be the one to put in the effort to get there. Going to the Columbia tournament made me truly understand this idea for the first time.
