I was never a particularly good public speaker. And, going into our debate project, I knew that public speaking would be inevitable.

I think the reason why public speaking has always scared me is because I have always felt that no matter how much you prepare, or how hard you worked, in the moment, anything can go wrong. That’s not an uncommon thing in life – job interviews, exams, important speeches (…like debates). Though, I think that what scared me more than anything else was the risk of ultimately not feeling proud about how I did. 

I remember a few years ago during our Revolutions on Trial project, I left the exhibition feeling really poorly not only about how I did but also the group dynamics in the project itself. It was a major blow to my confidence, and also one of my most memorable public speaking experiences in recent years, albeit a negative one. I also remember the first time I ever gave a presentation in fourth grade. It was a power point presentation, though I don’t recall what it was about. What I do recall is reading off my presentation slides and stuttering the whole way through. I didn’t understand why I was feeling nervous, just that I was. Needless to say, I was never a natural public speaker.

For weeks going into the project, as we prepared our speeches, took notes, and practiced writing, all I could think about was messing up on stand and not being able to recover. I couldn’t stop thinking about what could go wrong. What if I spoke too fast? Too slow? What if I went overtime? What if I stuttered the whole time and nobody could hear a word? What if I made a complete fool out of myself? What if I  – dare I say – failed? 

The morning of the exhibition, despite all the preparation I had done, I couldn’t stop looking at my speech and seeing all the flaws in it. The night before, I had crossed out many, many lines from my speech. I got so in my head, that I convinced myself that it was trash and not good enough and that I would completely embarrass myself. 

I knew from the start that I really wanted to prove myself. Prove myself as a writer, as a speaker, as a learner. I always feel like I’m not measuring up enough to people, or that I’m not smart enough, not good enough, not intelligent enough. And these insecurities had been building up since the start of the semester. In Chemistry and Pre-Calculus, I’m often the last person my friends would ask for help, and there’s always a part of me that just wants someone to acknowledge me as capable enough to assist others. This year in PLP, a “sophisticated” learner is defined as someone who is capable of extending past expectations and teach others how to do it. I constantly feel like I can’t measure up to my peers and there was a huge part of me that really, really wanted to prove myself. My biggest fear on exhibition night was not doing myself justice to my own hard work, my own efforts, and my own strengths. I was so scared of not being good enough.

And I knew that I had to trust myself, because when you’re in front of an audience, anything can go wrong. And that’s really scary.

I was really glad to have been debating with my friend, Teva. I was honestly pretty anxious since she has a reputation in our grade for being greatly intelligent and a hardworking learner. And I look up to her and love her as a friend, and even though it’s irrational and I try not to compare myself to others, I really wanted to prove to myself that I’m intelligent and good enough too.

When I listened to Teva give her argument, I saw so many points that I could use in my rebuttal. There were even points where she fully said things that helped my argument. I jotted them down, and was really excited for my rebuttal. A friend later described my expression as “devious”.

Then, when I gave my argument, there was some stuttering and general awkwardness in my voice. Despite that, I didn’t go overtime or under-time, and I think I was able to stay true to my own experiences as well as the emotion I wanted to convey in my speech. It was, by all means, a strong argument. However, when I transitioned to my rebuttal, my mind totally blanked. I started a point, only to cut off mid-sentence. I couldn’t think clearly, or say much of anything. All I could think was breathe. You can’t stop here. You can’t walk down from this. You need to finish. 

I looked down at the notes I made for my rebuttal, yet none of the words made sense. I couldn’t read my own writing, despite the neatness of it all. I couldn’t think of a single thing my opponent had said. My thoughts flatlined. And it was scary. I was so scared of completely bombing the entire thing after all the weeks I spent working towards this. And that moment seemed to last forever. Only myself, standing in complete silence, with an audience of people looking at me and waiting for me to continue. You could have heard a pin drop.

I told myself to just think and breathe. I knew this topic. I knew what I wanted to say in my rebuttal. I talked about this topic with my fellow arguing-for-the-negative peers. Then, I remembered. I had talked about English being the most spoken language worldwide and its historical correlation to colonization, with my friends in class before. I recovered and managed to deliver a rebuttal that maybe didn’t have all the points I wanted to say. Maybe most of my rebuttal was spent in silence.  Maybe I totally lost the audience in that time. Maybe I stuttered when I began talking again. But I recovered, and everything was okay. I didn’t apologize for needing a moment, for having to breathe, for being human. And I’m honestly glad I didn’t, since I wasn’t sorry about doing what I needed to do to push forwards. That moment had only lasted twenty seconds, yet it felt like a lifetime.

The rest of the debate ended in a blur, with an audience full of signs of green. 

I lost the debate. 

Though, looking back on it, there’s not a single thing I would have changed, had I been given the chance to do so. 

I blundered. I stuttered. I staggered. l spent a solid amount of time during my rebuttal demonstrating my wonderful “public panicking” skills instead of “public speaking”. I lost and totally messed up in front of the audience. I had every reason to feel poorly about how I did and what I said.

Though, oddly, I felt really good about myself. I didn’t regret what I did.

Maybe there were more points I could have said during my rebuttal. Maybe if I wasn’t going straight into my rebuttal after my argument, I wouldn’t have lost my train of thought. Maybe I could have rehearsed more. Maybe I would choose to do things differently had I been given the chance.

Maybe I would rather not change a single thing. 

Even so, I’m pretty happy with the outcome regardless, even if reflecting back on this experience brought me to tears. I lost the debate. That doesn’t make me any lesser than anyone else, or anyone any better than me, and vice versa. It doesn’t discount my hard work, my intelligence, or my abilities as a learner. We all worked hard for this. It wasn’t easy, yet I learned a lot about myself, and learned to trust in myself in the process.

In my learning plan this year, I emphasized how I wanted to focus on genuine, authentic learning rather than getting the highest mark possible. As an overachiever and perfectionist, this was a hard decision to make, since part of me had a strong desire for the 100% grade that my teachers flaunted. I often wonder if that goal of genuine learning was only a mere fantasy, and not a realistic goal in itself.

I’ve come to learn that raw, authentic learning is messy. It isn’t getting the highest grade. It isn’t winning every battle. It isn’t writing a better essay, or achieving a better score on a math test. I think that, to me, real learning is overcoming struggles and as a result realizing more about yourself, your identity, or the world. 

I can ace as many math tests as I want. I can get as many A’s on my report card as I want. I can win as many awards as I want. 

And I can do all that without having learned a single thing about myself at all. 

More than anything, I’m glad to be able to say that that is not the case here.