My birthday was Saturday, meaning that I spent it at a debate tournament. Not as altogether bad as it sounds. I pretty much spend most of my time with the debate team anyways (more than twelve hours every Saturday, plus an extra, I dunno, four hours during the week). It must have been the birthday mojo or something, but I slept especially well on the bus and woke up feeling refreshed. For those of you who don't know, this is an unusual happening. We all (about thirty of us every week) clamber into our uncomfortable seats on the bus around five in the morning, give or take a half an hour, come rain, come sleet, come snow. Only some of us bring blankets, and the Freshmen haven't figured out what sleep means yet. Sometimes the bus doesn't have enough heat. Sometimes, like last week, it has way too much. Other times the bus driver is dangerous, or someone throws up, or... the list goes on and on. But I think you might understand my point. The debate bus, while a wonderful forced-bonding experience, isn't the most comfortable of places.
To those of you who have never experienced a debate tournament, this is how it goes (at least for us...):
Of course, as I explained above, we all get on the bus around five thirty, on average. After a half an hour of driving, we stop in Newport for Dunkin' Donuts. This is half because we need sustenance, and half because at this point, those who haven't written cases should start writing them. Just kidding, we really just need our caffeine. Add another two hours of driving, and we've arrived. By this time it's light out and most of us have woken up. We arrive at the school, and those of us who wear our pajamas on the bus scurry to a bathroom to change. It's usually about this time that I get a stomach ache. I don't know what it is, and I've tried everything, but I almost always get a stomach ache at debate tournaments. After this, there's a few things that could happen. If you're feeling diligent and motivated, you might work on your cases or go "talk to a wall" (Practice your speech by..well, talking to a wall). But more often than not, a group of us from our school and other schools will scavenge up a deck of cards and begin fierce games of President, ERS, or MAO. This goes on until postings. To be short, postings are just the printed pairings. As in, who are you going up against, in what room, what side you're arguing, etc. As soon as they go up, everyone hurries off to their rounds. It's something of a lather, rinse, repeat cycle from there. We usually have four rounds in a tournament, dispersed with cards, apples to apples, or attempting to *break the schematic. Somewhere in there is a longer break for lunch, and after the fourth round is a long period of waiting while Tabulation tallies up scores and determines placings. Awards usualy come in about an hour, sometimes not for an hour and a half, depending on the complications of the tournament. After awards, we change back into bus clothes and board back on for a long ride home, broken up by an hour stop for dinner at a sandwich shop or Whole Foods.
All in all, it's a good day, if a long one. My team's day is a bit different and a bit longer than others, because we're one of the northern-most teams. Other teams only have to travel a half an hour to most tournaments, if that.
We tend to do pretty well- we're currently the leading school in our state, but we're closely followed by Cape Elizabeth. They do speech. Lots of it.
We swept on Saturday, claiming first in Congressional, a second in Public forum, and a first in Lincoln Douglas (that was me! I still blame birthday mojo).
*Breaking the Schematic is a term for when a student (or someone else) takes the postings, and off of a few base conjectures, figures out the results of the matches and the scores of everyone involved. It's addicting, and highly logical.
Showing posts with label Debate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Debate. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Law Breaking Challenge of 2011
It's kind of a funny story...
In ten days, I will be seventeen. It turns out that you don't actually really get anything awesome when you turn seventeen. Y'know, like, when you're fourteen, it's the legal age of consent. When you're fifteen, you can have a permit, when you're sixteen, a license. When you're eighteen you can vote and actually be a citizen and buy cigarettes and porn. But seventeen? Nothing. Nonetheless, it seems so much cooler than sixteen that I'm bursting with Obnoxious Birthday Excitement (hereby referred to as OBE).
Last night at debate, we were discussing the new resolution (In the United States, juveniles charged with violent felonies ought to be treated as adults in the Criminal Justice system), and it came up that in the United States, most seventeen-year-olds are treated as adults already. In response to this fact, I burst out with OBE, saying "HEY! I'm seventeen in ELEVEN DAYS. Or, ten days and five hours..." And then, after a minute of thought, I made up my mind.
It went something like this...
"Guys! Let's go do illegal stuff! I have ten days and five hours before I'm treated as an adult LET'S GO!"
A: "Or we could just work on our cases."
B: "What kind of illegal stuff did you have in mind?"
I immediately blurted out, "Drugs!"
But not actually, because somehow, I don't think I would fit well into the role of heroin addict.
But all of this led to some interesting mind bubbling and brewing. I decided to fuel my OBE with a challenge. A good challenge, because I like them.
Welcome to the Law Breaking Challenge of 2011.
Haven't heard of it? That's because I made it up. In the next ten days, I will try to break as many laws as possible.
These may include, but won't be limited to:
-Not bringing a shotgun to church (in case of Native American attack)
- Driving (no license!)
- Walking outside naked at four in the morning
- Walking a dog on a leash more than eight feet long.
-Spitting out of a second story window
In ten days, I will be seventeen. It turns out that you don't actually really get anything awesome when you turn seventeen. Y'know, like, when you're fourteen, it's the legal age of consent. When you're fifteen, you can have a permit, when you're sixteen, a license. When you're eighteen you can vote and actually be a citizen and buy cigarettes and porn. But seventeen? Nothing. Nonetheless, it seems so much cooler than sixteen that I'm bursting with Obnoxious Birthday Excitement (hereby referred to as OBE).
Last night at debate, we were discussing the new resolution (In the United States, juveniles charged with violent felonies ought to be treated as adults in the Criminal Justice system), and it came up that in the United States, most seventeen-year-olds are treated as adults already. In response to this fact, I burst out with OBE, saying "HEY! I'm seventeen in ELEVEN DAYS. Or, ten days and five hours..." And then, after a minute of thought, I made up my mind.
It went something like this...
"Guys! Let's go do illegal stuff! I have ten days and five hours before I'm treated as an adult LET'S GO!"
A: "Or we could just work on our cases."
B: "What kind of illegal stuff did you have in mind?"
I immediately blurted out, "Drugs!"
But not actually, because somehow, I don't think I would fit well into the role of heroin addict.
But all of this led to some interesting mind bubbling and brewing. I decided to fuel my OBE with a challenge. A good challenge, because I like them.
Welcome to the Law Breaking Challenge of 2011.
Haven't heard of it? That's because I made it up. In the next ten days, I will try to break as many laws as possible.
These may include, but won't be limited to:
-Not bringing a shotgun to church (in case of Native American attack)
- Driving (no license!)
- Walking outside naked at four in the morning
- Walking a dog on a leash more than eight feet long.
-Spitting out of a second story window
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Recap of the Gubernatorial Forum
The debate last night was a success, at least on our end of the spectrum. We had been told by our administration to make the presentation as professional as possible. Their goal for the night: Make the school look good. They didn't care so much about the candidates, just so long as we looked good. Well, I for one cared about the candidates.
The forum focused mostly on the education issues that will be facing the next governor, whoever that may be.
For those of you not familiar with the Maine elections, Here are the candidates, listed in order of poll results, highest to lowest.
Paul Lepage
Libby Mitchell
Eliot Cutler
Shawn Moody
Kevin Scott
Out of all of the candidates many speeches last night, I got the most of of Cutler's, Lepage's, and Scott's speeches. Moody and Mitchell fell short. I like most of Scott's ideas, but he does need a little bit more substance. His speaking skills were phenominal, and I went up to him after the forum and told him so. He thanked me, and we launched into a ten minute discussion. One thing Scott has emphasized throughout the entire campaign process is that he isn't really a politician. He doesn't come from a political background, and he uses this as an advantage. I think it's a unique way to go about campaigning, and I love some of his ideas for how to run the state and fix our problems, but he's the lowest in the polls, and needs some more umph in his campaign. I can't remember if it was he or Moody who didn't take their public campaigning money, but if it was Scott, hoooboy, he should have.
I have a Cutler sign outside of my house, and I support him the most out of all of the candidates. One thing I noted last night was the manner in which the candidates answered the questions that we, the students, presented. Going from left to right from my point of view, Scott made a point to use your name and look at you and only sometimes at the audience or the camera. Moody looked mostly at the camera, and a little bit at you, and also made sure to use your name, Mitchell... well, heaven only knows where she was looking. I think she was aiming at the camera, but from my angle, it looked more like she was talking to a fly on the ceiling of the auditorium, head held high like a day dreamer. She didn't look at me even once. Lepage gave the camera and the questioner equal attention, used names, but mostly talked about policy. It was an efficient way to deal with the questions- I was impressed, despite my general dislike for the man. Cutler, however, really impressed me. Perhaps he had an advantage, because he was closest to the questioner, but he made it a point to look directly at you the entire time he was answering the question. For him, it was about answering YOUR question, not turning every question into a chance to campaign. I felt like all of his answers were honest and down to earth, and I respect him for that.
I was also incredibly impressed when, after the debate, both Cutler and Scott remembered not only my name, but the names of all of the other students around me. There's something to be said for charisma.
Lepage's answers, I think, had the most information in them. His plans do make a good deal of sense, and I like some of his positions quite a lot. However, he's shown a lack of diplomatic ability- something that's very important to have as governor of Maine, or any state. I'm not just talking about his "get the hell out of my state" comment, but his entire campaign. He was well behaved last night, though, so he gets a brownie for that.
All of this having been said, I have to admit that I'm not the most politically minded person on the planet. I am swayed sometimes by emotion, and am not always well read on the issues. But I do think it's important that the voice of youth be heard before the elections. Your decision affects us too. Most of all, everyone needs to vote, and understand what they're voting on before they go. I know, I sound like a nagging public service announcement, but it's true and you know it. Just do it.
The forum focused mostly on the education issues that will be facing the next governor, whoever that may be.
For those of you not familiar with the Maine elections, Here are the candidates, listed in order of poll results, highest to lowest.
Paul Lepage
Libby Mitchell
Eliot Cutler
Shawn Moody
Kevin Scott
Out of all of the candidates many speeches last night, I got the most of of Cutler's, Lepage's, and Scott's speeches. Moody and Mitchell fell short. I like most of Scott's ideas, but he does need a little bit more substance. His speaking skills were phenominal, and I went up to him after the forum and told him so. He thanked me, and we launched into a ten minute discussion. One thing Scott has emphasized throughout the entire campaign process is that he isn't really a politician. He doesn't come from a political background, and he uses this as an advantage. I think it's a unique way to go about campaigning, and I love some of his ideas for how to run the state and fix our problems, but he's the lowest in the polls, and needs some more umph in his campaign. I can't remember if it was he or Moody who didn't take their public campaigning money, but if it was Scott, hoooboy, he should have.
I have a Cutler sign outside of my house, and I support him the most out of all of the candidates. One thing I noted last night was the manner in which the candidates answered the questions that we, the students, presented. Going from left to right from my point of view, Scott made a point to use your name and look at you and only sometimes at the audience or the camera. Moody looked mostly at the camera, and a little bit at you, and also made sure to use your name, Mitchell... well, heaven only knows where she was looking. I think she was aiming at the camera, but from my angle, it looked more like she was talking to a fly on the ceiling of the auditorium, head held high like a day dreamer. She didn't look at me even once. Lepage gave the camera and the questioner equal attention, used names, but mostly talked about policy. It was an efficient way to deal with the questions- I was impressed, despite my general dislike for the man. Cutler, however, really impressed me. Perhaps he had an advantage, because he was closest to the questioner, but he made it a point to look directly at you the entire time he was answering the question. For him, it was about answering YOUR question, not turning every question into a chance to campaign. I felt like all of his answers were honest and down to earth, and I respect him for that.
I was also incredibly impressed when, after the debate, both Cutler and Scott remembered not only my name, but the names of all of the other students around me. There's something to be said for charisma.
Lepage's answers, I think, had the most information in them. His plans do make a good deal of sense, and I like some of his positions quite a lot. However, he's shown a lack of diplomatic ability- something that's very important to have as governor of Maine, or any state. I'm not just talking about his "get the hell out of my state" comment, but his entire campaign. He was well behaved last night, though, so he gets a brownie for that.
All of this having been said, I have to admit that I'm not the most politically minded person on the planet. I am swayed sometimes by emotion, and am not always well read on the issues. But I do think it's important that the voice of youth be heard before the elections. Your decision affects us too. Most of all, everyone needs to vote, and understand what they're voting on before they go. I know, I sound like a nagging public service announcement, but it's true and you know it. Just do it.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Go Fight City Hall, or At Least the Superintendent.
Tonight is the night of the gubernatorial debate, and it's going to be a long day. Tune in, if any of you get ABC.
Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.
I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.
Yesterday, Dad got an e-mail from our superintendent, concerning the letter I sent her. As far as I know, it said nothing besides requesting an "audience" (her word, not mine. It's an interesting choice of words, and it indicates and ego complex, if you ask me..) with myself, dad, and our principal (Mr. N). It took her three weeks to get back to me, and she didn't even get back to ME. I'm sorry, but if someone takes the time and trouble to send you a carefully planned letter, you ought to do your best to return the favor. It's not like she's celebrity status or anything. I'm sure she has more important things to worry about, but...really? I have to be a little offended that after proving that I am capable of thinking for myself and acting like an adult, I deserve to be treated like an adult.
So, the way I figure, this could go one of two ways:
1. Oh, shniekie, I'm in trouble. The superintendent wants us to drop the issue and just keep our heads down and do as we're told. Bad dog! Sit!
If this happens, of course, dad, as an employee, has to say "yes, ma'am". I think he's under the impression that that's what I'd say, too. But I'm not obligated to say "yes, ma'am". I'll say ma'am, of course, but I think it'll be more along the lines of "No, thanks very much, ma'am. I'm right, and you know it".
2. She actually wants to discuss her reasoning and why she is or is not planning on changing her policies.
I'm almost hoping for the first option, because this one is a whole lot more fun, even if we do get in trouble. The more difficulty we have getting what we want, the more people can get involved. I was telling my fellow debaters about the situation, at one of our tournaments, and they got very fired up. They're ready to go to a school board meeting and (respectfully) speak their minds. It makes a captain proud. Either way, I got the meeting, and that does say something. I suppose I shouldn't be too offended that they contacted dad rather than me- I have to pick my battles. But by George, I'm going to win the ones that I do pick.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Exciting stuff and things! Stuff and things! Excitement!
It's a gubernatorial election year. Woooohoooo.
Yeah, I know, not super exciting. But! It does allow some exciting things to happen. For example, last week, a "debate" (more like a Q&A. Not a single one of these candidates would stand a second in a real debate round) was held at my school for the candidates.
Debate team kids got free tickets. I don't really remember why, but I think their line of thinking was that the geeks are also politically minded. Oh. 'Kay then.
That's not that exciting though.
What's exciting is that next week, we're hosting another one. But the students are running it! And, because geeks are politically minded, the debate team is heading it up. We'll be moderating online chat rooms, where people can discuss the issues and send in questions, greeting people and candidates, helping some with press, and moderating the debate.
Yup. Geeks are politically minded.
So, I'll be moderating the debate. The hardest part will be refraining from asking pointed and sarcastic questions.
Yeah, I know, not super exciting. But! It does allow some exciting things to happen. For example, last week, a "debate" (more like a Q&A. Not a single one of these candidates would stand a second in a real debate round) was held at my school for the candidates.
Debate team kids got free tickets. I don't really remember why, but I think their line of thinking was that the geeks are also politically minded. Oh. 'Kay then.
That's not that exciting though.
What's exciting is that next week, we're hosting another one. But the students are running it! And, because geeks are politically minded, the debate team is heading it up. We'll be moderating online chat rooms, where people can discuss the issues and send in questions, greeting people and candidates, helping some with press, and moderating the debate.
Yup. Geeks are politically minded.
So, I'll be moderating the debate. The hardest part will be refraining from asking pointed and sarcastic questions.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Fight, Fight for Victory Today, or, I Thought My Principal Would Kill Me, or, Flubber Neck.
Yesterday, I was privy to a conversation between my father and another teacher.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:
-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).
-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.
*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.
Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.
So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:
-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).
-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.
*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.
Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.
So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.
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