Speech and Debate: The Creation and Inspiration Behind the Thing I am Most Proud Of
In my first year of teaching, I taught 8th graders. We were working through an argumentative unit, and, as my partner had usually done each year at this time, we watched The Great Debaters—a complex movie about a college-level debate team at Wiley College in 1935 Texas surmounting racial instability, civil rights, and working to become one of the most prestigious debate teams in the nation. We watched that after having worked on persuasive speeches in 8th grade.
Two students came up to me nearly immediately after watching the movie and said: “We should do that. Can we do that?”
“Do what? Watch the movie?”
“Create a debate team.”
“I mean, do we not have one?”
“I don’t think so. But we should.”
“For real?”
Two weeks later, we had prepared to do debates in class; the structure was very loose, and we debated about very high-level issues that probably shouldn’t be touched on in 8th grade English: abortion, equality, and welfare. I had done research on how to run debates, stumbled upon the National Speech and Debate Association. Within a few weeks, I was talking to teaching friends who had run teams in the past; I was looking for materials to use to create a team; I was putting together a binder proposal for my principal of all the benefits a Speech and Debate Team has for the school and for the students on the team. By the end of the year, I had a committed group of students, an accepted proposal—that was hardly even looked over, even though I made two 20-page binders of goals, resources, etc.. for the starting two years—and the start of a team that would begin at the start of the following school year.
The rest, as they say, is history. Six years later, we are stronger than ever.
Now, every year, as the season winds down, I tell this story, and we watch the movie. They weren’t there, obviously, when the team started—those kids have long since graduated.
But, keeping the essence of the team alive matters.
I am going to try my best to explain the significance of this team, but, as I have said many times, it may end up being one of those things—one of those magic things in teaching—that simply cannot be explained to the proper degree in words. The value this team holds for me throughout the career can really only be boiled down to one thing: this team has been the reason—so many times—that kept me from walking away from teaching and my school entirely.
This team is the one thing in my career that I created—from the ground up.
This is the one thing in this school that is one-hundred percent mine.
This team is the thing in my career I am the most proud of.
I have fought for the representation of this team, for the existence of this team, for the students of this team, for the payment of my work for this team, for an entirely new middle school team. I have fought for this team more than I have fought for anything else in my professional and probably personal life.
And, each year, I prove that by telling my team: “Speech and Debate comes first—before anything else—in the list of things I have to get done. You send me an email with a Speech and Debate need? I respond to that before all others. You need help with the upcoming competition? I drop everything. That’s what it means to me.”
In hopes of giving these memories a place to breathe and exist and speak for themselves, here are some of my most favorite moments from this team:
Playing Spike Ball during an online tournament, pushing through defeat and growing in spite of it, walking the halls alone after the same tournament in pure and undisputed awe of my team and the way they care and are reflective about each and every experience.
Going to In-and-Out on the way back from a tough and also wildly successful tournament. A tournament where one of the team leaders was holding back tears and two other teams were celebrating winning a trophy. In-N-Out has now become a staple of after-tournament traditions whenever we drive by one. IHop, Village Inn, and Buffalo Wild Wings have also predominated the list of after-tournament, late-night snacking in celebration or in defeat.
I rented a passenger van for a tournament way down south in the mountains—two hours away. We had a mini road trip there and back to an entirely successful tournament for our team. We got back after midnight that same night.
Singing along to Taylor Swift in the car—“All Too Well” (10-minute Version) [Taylor’s Version] {From the Vault}. “Into the Unknown” will never not give me the feeling of having the windows down, driving down the highway, and singing at the top of our lungs.
In my second year of competing, two students qualified for state—right before the world shut down and cancelled the state tournament for the second time ever. The heartbreak that stemmed from that is still something I bring up. The team disbanded a little after that.
After a tournament that ended early, the four competitors and I decided to go a see movie—to brush off the sting of not placing or performing to our best efforts. We went to see Onward. When I purchased tickets, that team said, “Thanks, Dad!” loudly enough for all those in the lobby to hear. During the movie—and the tears that inspired at the end, some of us piped up: “Imagine having good relationships with your family”—embracing and connecting through our individual traumas.
That same night, we went to Village Inn for a handful of hours and sat around and talked simply and hushed over adequate breakfast food. Some of us cried when we go into it. A student who I didn’t know could express emotion got too choked up to continue. I remember him intensively drinking water to cover up those emotions: “Have you ever truly been happy?” was the question that sent us over the edge.
We played Cards Against Humanity in the hallway of a high school waiting for the final awards to start for the night.
There’s no other team or event or teaching experience in the world that can allow for all these things to happen. We spend entire Saturdays together: in and out of competitions, taking naps on the hallway floors, eating so much junk food that we crave healthy foods at the end of the night. We spend the longest days together as a team, and the experiences and conversations that transpire there are some of the greatest.
Susan. If you know, you know. On a trip to Wyoming for a tournament, we stayed overnight and needed breakfast. Naturally, we went to Target.
“We should get Toaster Strudels!”
“How are we going to cook them, you guys?”
“You can eat them without cooking them, though!” Someone else piped up.
“We could, but we don’t hate ourselves that much.”
“For real.”
“Could we buy, like, a toaster or something?” I don’t remember which team member said it, but we all thought it was brilliant.
“Only if they are cheap.” I finally said—literally willing to do anything to get us to make a decision and get to the tournament. We loudly made our way to the kitchen section, found a twenty-dollar toaster oven. Since then, Susan has come to every competition with us—heating up dino nuggets, pizza rolls, toaster strudels, anything we feel like eating. She’s carried us through tough days and has become a staple to our team; many schools, in fact, only know us as the school with the toaster. Even when we don’t use her, Susan comes to every tournament. And she will be coming with us long after her use as a toaster ends.
She’s only once nearly burned down a school, too; it happened just as you probably think that it would.
I have bought a toaster oven for every graduating senior from the team since.
You know what’s funny, though, about the two students who helped me create the team? They only competed in one tournament. Some of those inciting members never even competed. It is because of them, though, that this team exists at all.
I have already told you, but, if you happen to be reading this, thank you for forcing me and helping me create this wonderful thing that I am the proudest of in the entirety of my career. I would never have done this without you.
There’s a story with this team that I think of often, and is the story that I will end on for now:
There's a quiet magic in an empty school. Every day, students come into the halls to experience these very formative years of their life; it's loud, chaotic, emotional. On the weekends, with all the lights off, hearing the squeak of my shoes against the floor, there's a magic in all that has already transpired there.
In my first year of coaching a middle school team, the middle schoolers on the team had an online tournament. I brought a waffle maker, bought coffee, prepared snacks, ordered lunch, and we all sat in a singular hallway and debated all day.
The tournament itself was meant as practice—practicing with private schools from all across the country. We did not expect to win, but we wanted to practice. My small squad of 5 6th and 7th graders—and a high schooler who I could not appreciate more if I tried—handled each and every moment with such grace, professionalism, and passion that the twelve hours we spent together are some of the best 12 hours I have ever had in my career.
I have this moment a lot, though, with this group of kids. I get goosebumps just thinking about it. After the tournament was over, I gave them a classic inspirational coach talk: celebrating their growth, expressing my pride, and looking forward to the future. And they listened to every word. And they were a team. And I know they felt proud. I wanted to keep them in that room, in that moment, in that experience for as long as possible.
That magic I spoke of? It was in that room, and now it always will be.
When they all left, I found myself wandering around the school, listening to the quiet—listening to the magic settle in the walls, soaking up as much of it as I could. I walked as slowly as possible, reliving as much of that day as I could.
It's hard not to get emotional in moments like that. I was—and still am—in awe of it all.
As I am writing this, in a few months, we will go to our first in-person National Tournament. I am getting chills just thinking about it. It’s our second year as a middle school team, and they are already so committed. Someday, this team will really be something.
There are so many stories to tell. How could I even scratch the surface?
