I spent the week with the people in this room. I don't know most of them. Some I met this week. Some I met years ago. Many had walked across the huge stage the front of the room. Many had sat in their seats and cheered for their friends. Medals drape from necks. Ballots are clutched in arms holding drawstring backpacks and snacks bought at the last minute.
My brown high-heel shoes hang from my fingertips. I'm not looking for one specific person. I'm looking at everyone, trying to be with all of them at once. The hours I'd sat through the awards ceremony, the days I spent walking around BJU's campus, and the week I spent with these people is taking its toll. The energy I had throughout the day and week is failing.
Here it is. Here we are. The end.
The end of the awards ceremony. The end of the day. The end of NITOC. The end of the 2014-2015 speech and debate year. No more electronic surveillance law or federal jurisprudence or communities' moral standards in TP and LD rounds. Broadcasting has been rotated out and replaced with monologue. Trade policies with Asian countries, liberal arts, developing countries, OI's continuance. Another year coming.
It all makes me want to cry. A long week has gone by too fast. There are so many people here I won't see for sixth months or more. Some I won't see ever again. Some have impacted me in ways not even I can see. I can only hope that I've impacted them in some way. There are so many people I need to say goodbye to, but no matter how much time I spend in this room, I cannot say enough goodbyes, enough "I love you"s, enough "thank you"s.
I didn't break in my original speech, but I did break in impromptu (to the great excitement of my club). I didn't win any events. I didn't get last place in any events. There's no trophy for me to lug back to my car. That's okay.
I watch friends and strangers mill around the room, saying their own goodbyes and congratulations. I've said a few already myself. I can almost taste the bittersweetness in the air.
"I'll see you next year!"
"I cannot believe the president skipped my name."
"Any ideas for next year?"
"I'm moving in ten days."
"I'm so proud of you!"
"...College in California."
"I love you."
Not much time passes as I stand in the back of the room. I'm so unprepared to say goodbye to my friends, so I'll be cliche and say 'see you later.' An open statement. 'Later' could mean at the ballot party, 'later' could mean next week, 'later' could mean next year. An open promise, though. Even I don't see some of these people ever again, I won't forget this week, or this year of speech and debate.
I leave my spot in the doorway. I make my way through the crowds and have to hug most of my friends at least three times before I'm somewhat satisfied with the beginning of our separation.
NITOC is over. There were a lot of hard spots. Thursday night breaks. Occasionally confusing behavior from my friends. Short nights. Long walks. Heavy boxes. Small hotel room. Three flights of stairs. Leaving my meal tickets at the hotel. Leaving my goldfish at the hotel. Feeling like passing out. Folding two hundred t-shirts. Friends breaking, friends not breaking.
Yes, there were hard spots. But the good spots, the perfect moments, the rejoicing, the small conversations, the frisbee games, the outrounds, the cute suits and kind hearts, getting lost with friends, seeing chipmunks, cheering for my friends and club mates, the sunglasses, the first round, the last round. Every real smile. Every kind word. These things overshadow the rough patches.
When I finally get in the car to go back to the hotel for the ballot party, my mind rolls over the past nine days. The lessons I've learned or relearned. Moments I'll hold onto for years.
I take a deep breath and stare out the window. I won't likely drive down this road again, so I watch the trees blur by in the darkness. I memorize the way the moon looks in South Carolina. I don't cry, but I could. Not necessarily from sadness, or happiness either. But from both.
I thank God for my friends and my family, because without them I wouldn't be anything like the person I am, and I kind of like who I am. I like where I am, right now. This tournament was long and hard and wonderful. Maybe not the best tournament ever, but it's been pretty fantastic. Even if I won't remember every detail, I'll remember what's important. I'll remember the love and pride I feel for my friends, however well they did in competition this year. I'll remember the relationships. I'll remember the people.
Vote affirmative. I'll see you next year.
(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #26)
Here it is. Here we are. The end.
The end of the awards ceremony. The end of the day. The end of NITOC. The end of the 2014-2015 speech and debate year. No more electronic surveillance law or federal jurisprudence or communities' moral standards in TP and LD rounds. Broadcasting has been rotated out and replaced with monologue. Trade policies with Asian countries, liberal arts, developing countries, OI's continuance. Another year coming.
It all makes me want to cry. A long week has gone by too fast. There are so many people here I won't see for sixth months or more. Some I won't see ever again. Some have impacted me in ways not even I can see. I can only hope that I've impacted them in some way. There are so many people I need to say goodbye to, but no matter how much time I spend in this room, I cannot say enough goodbyes, enough "I love you"s, enough "thank you"s.
I didn't break in my original speech, but I did break in impromptu (to the great excitement of my club). I didn't win any events. I didn't get last place in any events. There's no trophy for me to lug back to my car. That's okay.
"I'll see you next year!"
"I cannot believe the president skipped my name."
"Any ideas for next year?"
"I'm moving in ten days."
"I'm so proud of you!"
"...College in California."
"I love you."
Not much time passes as I stand in the back of the room. I'm so unprepared to say goodbye to my friends, so I'll be cliche and say 'see you later.' An open statement. 'Later' could mean at the ballot party, 'later' could mean next week, 'later' could mean next year. An open promise, though. Even I don't see some of these people ever again, I won't forget this week, or this year of speech and debate.
I leave my spot in the doorway. I make my way through the crowds and have to hug most of my friends at least three times before I'm somewhat satisfied with the beginning of our separation.
NITOC is over. There were a lot of hard spots. Thursday night breaks. Occasionally confusing behavior from my friends. Short nights. Long walks. Heavy boxes. Small hotel room. Three flights of stairs. Leaving my meal tickets at the hotel. Leaving my goldfish at the hotel. Feeling like passing out. Folding two hundred t-shirts. Friends breaking, friends not breaking.
Yes, there were hard spots. But the good spots, the perfect moments, the rejoicing, the small conversations, the frisbee games, the outrounds, the cute suits and kind hearts, getting lost with friends, seeing chipmunks, cheering for my friends and club mates, the sunglasses, the first round, the last round. Every real smile. Every kind word. These things overshadow the rough patches.
When I finally get in the car to go back to the hotel for the ballot party, my mind rolls over the past nine days. The lessons I've learned or relearned. Moments I'll hold onto for years.
I take a deep breath and stare out the window. I won't likely drive down this road again, so I watch the trees blur by in the darkness. I memorize the way the moon looks in South Carolina. I don't cry, but I could. Not necessarily from sadness, or happiness either. But from both.
I thank God for my friends and my family, because without them I wouldn't be anything like the person I am, and I kind of like who I am. I like where I am, right now. This tournament was long and hard and wonderful. Maybe not the best tournament ever, but it's been pretty fantastic. Even if I won't remember every detail, I'll remember what's important. I'll remember the love and pride I feel for my friends, however well they did in competition this year. I'll remember the relationships. I'll remember the people.
Vote affirmative. I'll see you next year.
(This post is part of a series called The Third Year Chronicles. Click here for TTYC #26)
