Eaglecrest High School Speech Tournament -- An essay

So, what is one to do on a snowy Saturday? I don’t know about ‘one,’ but I know what I did yesterday. I was a volunteer judge at a high school speech tournament – The Eaglecrest Raptor Rumble.

Eaglecrest High School is on the far side (meaning away from the mountains) of Centennial, Colorado. I’ve been to Centennial before. My husband likes a woodcraft shop down there and my father’s ophthalmic neurologist’s office is there. Say that twice, fast – the ophthalmic-etc.-part not woodcraft.

Our region was under the weather gun with promises of the biggest snow storm in three years. They were predicting five to ten inches, maybe more. Rain turning to snow Friday night, then snow Saturday through Monday.

I’d never been to the east side of the city of Centennial. I started to say town, but with a population of more than 100,000 and me being from Oklahoma, that qualifies as a city.

I got lost twice. Once going to and again coming from. Saturday morning the highways were wet and a little snow-packed in places, but generally fine. I had never judged at a speech tournament before and it was many years ago that I competed in them.

So, by the time I drove the twenty-five-plus miles on iffy highways through unfamiliar territory on my way to do something I’d never done before in the midst of people I did not know, I needed a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll.

Actually there were two people there I knew. Bob O’Daniel and Cortney Green, both of whom are practically family by way of my daughter Grace. And it was reassuring to see them.

I had planned to stay until noon, and considering the weather, I stuck with that plan.

That means I only judged two events.

The first was Extemporaneous Speaking, my personal favorite back in the day. In this event, each competitor draws a question involving either a national or international issue. They have 30 minutes to prepare a seven-minute speech.

In the old days we would come with a box full of file cards bearing various and sundry bits of information, quotes, research sources, and concepts. Man, today I’d just bring my tablet and Google away.

The competitors came into the room one at a time and give their speeches. There is no audience -- only the speaker and the judge. The judge has been admonished not to judge the speaker based on whether or not you agree with them. The judge is not to discuss the speech or speaking style with the student. The judge writes comments on the ballot sheet, hopefully including at least three statements of what they did well and three pieces of constructive criticism.

Of the five young people I judged, one was outstanding, two were very good, and one only slightly less so.

The fifth was a young man who was great. He was immaculately dressed and presented himself with great élan. He spoke clearly and confidently. He cited sources for his information and presented a good argument for his answer to a question. However, he only tangentially connected his speech to the question he drew. It appeared he had prepared his speech before coming to the competition and did not let the question he drew dissuade him from his chosen course.

He’ll make a fine lawyer, or politician, or TV preacher. But I ranked him dead last. In fact, the officials requested that I not give him such a low score because it was 15 points below their lowest allowable score.

The other event I judged was Poetry Interpretation. All five of these competitors obviously understand that poetry is a performance art. It was hard to rank them, but we weren’t allowed to have ties. They each chose very different poems to perform.

Only one chose a rhymed poem which, to my mind, gave her a handicap. One which she did not completely overcome. Rhymed poetry is so hard to read without falling into the sing-song trap. The rhyme is too easily given more importance than the story.

The poem was The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes. If you do not know it, it is a romantic ballad with the traditional star-crossed lovers. The young woman dies to save her lover who in turn dies attempting to avenge her death. A situation I find more poignant than Romeo and Juliet where the young people end up dying because he failed to get the memo.

In The Highwayman love concurs all. The ghosts of the lovers continue to meet.

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor . . . .

If done right, the performer can even avoid melodrama.

Those high school age people participating in the tournament are the future of our nation, our culture, our species. And they promise a bright future indeed.

There were no baggie pants, no dirty jeans, no fuzzy house slippers. Come to think of it, there were no flip flops either, but that could have been because of the weather. Best of all, there were no slovenly thinkers.

P.S. Bob taught me how to use my phone as a stop watch. I suppose I'll have to learn how to use its GPS app, too.