Hey all! This is due pretty soon, so the quicker the editing gets done the better! Thanks!
262 hours and fifteen minutes. That is the exact time my team spent preparing for states, not counting the some 300 hours outside of practice and class. Going into the We The People program, I knew maybe five amendments to the constitution, and had no idea who James Madison even was. Now, conversely, I joke with my team about Madison's short stature, and can confidently say that not only has We The People molded me into an informed and engaged citizen, but has irreversibly and unequivocally changed my life.
I can remember my anticipation on day of the state competition with aching clarity. My hands remained still, but they were sweating steadily, and my legs trembled. My ribcage felt shaky and loose. When it was time for my unit to compete, we huddled behind the stand before the judges came in. I reflexively tightened my arms around my teammates and bowed my head as our unit's student coach recited the "Braveheart" speech from memory. After that, however, I can barely remember anything. We must have done well, if the applause and judges' comments at the end were any indication, but it's still mostly a blur. The wait had been agonizing, but the actual competition was over in a flash.
The wait for the awards ceremony, conversely, was easy. We talked easily, laughed easily, and listened to the parents talk about nationals as if we already had it in the bag. As the announcer took the stage to divulge the winning units, as well as the overall team state champions, my unit held hands. Squeezing tight, we pressed our lips together as she made her way down the list. When she called "unit five: East Grand Rapids", we smiled and stood and hugged and felt validated. This was how things worked: you worked hard and you won. Life was fair.
Until that wasn't how it worked. Until we heard her announce that Howell High School, our biggest rivals, was the overall state champions, and that they would be going to nationals. I felt sick. There was a swooping feeling in the base of my stomach. My hands felt cold and my face felt hot, and even though I logically knew we weren't entitled to victory, I felt cheated. The tears didn't come until later; at that moment, all I could think was that this wasn't how it was supposed to go. We worked hard-- 262 hours and fifteen minutes-- and we were supposed to win.
Later, our teacher told us we lost by two points. Out of a point spread of 1080, that comes to less than two-thousandths of a percent difference. That April, as Howell flew to D.C., we stayed home. It was painful, but I've come to realize that although we spent nearly 600 hours preparing for states, and learned nearly 350 court cases, losing was an important lesson. It taught me that one is not entitled to victory. I discovered success does not come on a silver platter, trussed up with an apple in its mouth. I learned to cope with the disappointment and helplessness that comes with knowing there is nothing more you can do. I learned that sometimes, after everything, your best isn't enough.
More important, though, I learned that one can win more things than a state title: I bonded with a group of people so close we are now nearly family, I gained an invaluable depth of knowledge, and I unearthed my passion and direction in life. To me, that doesn't seem like failure at all.
It's said that one needs 10,000 hours to master something. I've got 9,379.75 hours of constitutional study to go, and I can't wait to start. Even though I don't consider last year's defeat as a true loss, I still plan on logging some of those hours coaching this year's team to greatness. Howell won't know what hit them.
262 hours and fifteen minutes. That is the exact time my team spent preparing for states, not counting the some 300 hours outside of practice and class. Going into the We The People program, I knew maybe five amendments to the constitution, and had no idea who James Madison even was. Now, conversely, I joke with my team about Madison's short stature, and can confidently say that not only has We The People molded me into an informed and engaged citizen, but has irreversibly and unequivocally changed my life.
I can remember my anticipation on day of the state competition with aching clarity. My hands remained still, but they were sweating steadily, and my legs trembled. My ribcage felt shaky and loose. When it was time for my unit to compete, we huddled behind the stand before the judges came in. I reflexively tightened my arms around my teammates and bowed my head as our unit's student coach recited the "Braveheart" speech from memory. After that, however, I can barely remember anything. We must have done well, if the applause and judges' comments at the end were any indication, but it's still mostly a blur. The wait had been agonizing, but the actual competition was over in a flash.
The wait for the awards ceremony, conversely, was easy. We talked easily, laughed easily, and listened to the parents talk about nationals as if we already had it in the bag. As the announcer took the stage to divulge the winning units, as well as the overall team state champions, my unit held hands. Squeezing tight, we pressed our lips together as she made her way down the list. When she called "unit five: East Grand Rapids", we smiled and stood and hugged and felt validated. This was how things worked: you worked hard and you won. Life was fair.
Until that wasn't how it worked. Until we heard her announce that Howell High School, our biggest rivals, was the overall state champions, and that they would be going to nationals. I felt sick. There was a swooping feeling in the base of my stomach. My hands felt cold and my face felt hot, and even though I logically knew we weren't entitled to victory, I felt cheated. The tears didn't come until later; at that moment, all I could think was that this wasn't how it was supposed to go. We worked hard-- 262 hours and fifteen minutes-- and we were supposed to win.
Later, our teacher told us we lost by two points. Out of a point spread of 1080, that comes to less than two-thousandths of a percent difference. That April, as Howell flew to D.C., we stayed home. It was painful, but I've come to realize that although we spent nearly 600 hours preparing for states, and learned nearly 350 court cases, losing was an important lesson. It taught me that one is not entitled to victory. I discovered success does not come on a silver platter, trussed up with an apple in its mouth. I learned to cope with the disappointment and helplessness that comes with knowing there is nothing more you can do. I learned that sometimes, after everything, your best isn't enough.
More important, though, I learned that one can win more things than a state title: I bonded with a group of people so close we are now nearly family, I gained an invaluable depth of knowledge, and I unearthed my passion and direction in life. To me, that doesn't seem like failure at all.
It's said that one needs 10,000 hours to master something. I've got 9,379.75 hours of constitutional study to go, and I can't wait to start. Even though I don't consider last year's defeat as a true loss, I still plan on logging some of those hours coaching this year's team to greatness. Howell won't know what hit them.
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