“Aunt Nancy, can you judge at our school’s forensic tournament March 6th and 7th?” He said he would earn “lots” of points for every person he rounded up to help out with the big affair.
Now, we all know how full my social calendar isn’t, so I told him to sign me up. I well remember my own sorry days as a struggling debate and speech student and the quest for earning points toward the tiny, silver National Forensic League (NFL) pin and the coveted “gems” (as in, glass) that went with them. We’d start out with an emerald, then go for the sapphire, ruby, etc. Teachers were also awarded points, based on how many their students won. Our instructor, The Bat, (see May 2, 2008 blog) had been working on the Grand Poobah Award, the double diamond, since the invention of dirt.
My first year on the team, I earned enough points for a pin and emerald, thanks to being paired with a stellar debate partner, also familiar in fine blogging circles as the razor-sharp Literary Diva. The second year out, I had just reached the sapphire level when tragedy struck. I’d been having fainting spells, thanks to a case of what is now popularly known as anorexia nervosa, and a blackout chose to hit me at a debate tournament at Wichita Heights High School--the one-time academic home of Big Bore, when he wasn't busy skipping classes.
I light-headedly approached the lectern to deliver a rebuttal when the lights went out. “I can’t see!” I freaked. Someone escorted me back to a desk, but I never recovered composure enough to continue, so we had to forfeit the round. The Bat was not happy, and she became even more furious the following week when I told her I was quitting the team, orders from my doctor and Mama Bore. I’d gone from 150 to 96 pounds, was having chest pain, and I had to get well. I sacrificed receiving the sapphire, since I was a "let the team down" has-been on The Bat’s Black List, but that was a small price to pay for getting back my health.
Fast forward 30 or so years, and I’m telling a high school speech-teaching friend about my lowly, abbreviated career as a public speaker, joking about my dismal experience.
“I knew that woman!” he said of The Bat. “When she retired, I was hired to replaced her! It was hell!” He explained that he was fresh out of college and ill-prepared to step right into the steely spike heels of God’s Gift to High School Speech. The Bat delighted in his failure, he said, and he was not re-hired to return for a second year.
A few months after our conversation about my crisis from 1966, my teaching pal came into my classroom with a little box in his hand. “I have something for you,” he said. Unbeknownst to me, he’d contacted the office of the National Forensic League. My name was still on its registry and lo and behold, I was listed as a sapphire recipient. “Here’s the pin you should have been given 30 years ago.” He made the belated formal presentation, I gave a dramatic acceptance speech, and we had a great laugh.
Come next weekend when I go to Bo’s school to judge at the speech tournament, I’m going to attach that fake silver and sapphire pin to whatever I’m wearing and strut my sassy stuff. It’s somewhere in the bottom of one of my jewelry boxes in the bathroom. I just hope it doesn’t take me another 30 years to find it.
1 comment:
I have one of those pins too. I can't remember what jewel I got up to..but it was sure fun in forensics acting with all my classmates.
Nancy, that is a sad story about your health, and I am glad you got help when you did. There are too many girls out there who have the same problem..and need help.
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