The two of us were outside the Debate room, on one of our popular practice spots: a grassy knoll shaded by tall trees. Speech kids were practicing at a distance all around – on benches, under trees, in open walkways – any place where they could speak undisturbed.
The small, shy Asian girl before me doesn’t make eye contact. She mutters softly as she speaks, but I know who she is before she tells me.
She didn’t join competitive speech to win – to clash against other high-schoolers or bare her feelings out onstage. She had only just enough bravery to sign up at a silent frustration at her own timidness – and is even now doubting if she has what it takes. She is not looking to compete, and definitely is not thinking about winning.
But we don’t hold tryouts for a reason – we’re not that kind of team; I’m not that kind of coach. We’re not here to win, we’re here to serve a community: the children of low-income immigrants. The community I grew up in.
I choose a familiar exercise from the bag of tricks I’ve cultivated over the years. I’ve done this one a million times, and I’ve never grown tired of it.
She freezes in hesitation.
“Here, sing with me. ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”
We get into the rhythm of things, and I begin to take a few steps backwards.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…”
“I can’t hear you,” I say from three meters back.
“How do I-,” she asks.
“Just keep going, and do your best. Don’t stop singing!”
She raises her voice and continues as I listen.
“How I wonder what you are”
“No, not like *this*,” I say, in something between a yell and a scream. “Project to me, like *this!*”
She adjusts accordingly. “Good!” I tell her, now four meters away.
Her face strains as she continues to sing.
“That feeling you have right now,” I call out, “remember it! This is what it’s like when you’re pushing yourself, forcing yourself to project!”
As if on cue, her voice falters, and she eases up.
“Don’t get comfortable – if you’re comfortable, that means you’re not pushing!”
I join in again with the singing, inviting her to match my level of projection from five meters away
“Up above the world so high,”
We stay this distance, looping through the stanza. We begin to draw a crowd of other debaters – curious freshmen intrigued by the spectacle and seniors smirking at the all-too familiar routine. Some of her friends sit in a semicircle in front of her, forming an audience of wide-eye peers who’ve never heard her voice with such clarity.
“Like a diamond in the sky.”
I stop singing, and let her finish the final iteration of the song herself.
They clap, and she looks away – a little overwhelmed, a little embarrassed, but smiling, mostly surprised with herself.
My heart leaps with joy. I have a good feeling about this one.
“This is what it feels like to command an audience,” I want to tell her. “To have your thoughts and feelings heard, because they matter. Because you matter. We spend so much of our lives as passively spectating, but here - this is your space to be heard."
But all in good time. She just experienced what she was capable of, and I let her have a moment to enjoy the strength and beauty of her own power.
Hopefully she stays all four years. Maybe even attend a few overnight tournaments in what will be her first night away from her parents. And hopefully in time, she will pass down the strength she found to another like her. The school year’s only just started, and I look forward to the wondrous journey of welcoming them into my life – and hopefully me into theirs.
I turn to her father, who is clapping besides me.
What?
We’re all in the supermarket now, clapping.
It’d been a dream. A cruel revisiting of feelings I’d been trying to bury for the past three years.
The girl wasn’t real, but the experience was a distillation of a million real moments I’d had before. My twenties had been dedicated to my career – coaching on campus until sundown, staying until the wee hours lesson planning; giving furiously to those who had grown up like me.
And for that I had been humiliated. Berated and told I was bad so often I began to believe it. Subjected to a battery of reprimands and workplace violations – but what was I going to do in a district where the union leaked grievances to the superintendent? I wasn’t the only teacher on campus who was mistreated – not by a long shot – but tenure protected the others. Tenure didn’t protect me.
The decision to not have me back was not well met. There were protests, which led to marches, which led to press coverage. Other issues rose to the surface – misuse of power, misuse of funds; first amendment violations that garnered the attention of the ACLU. My story became a catalyst, and all I could do was grieve silently from the sidelines, trying to process what I’d lost.
And for that, I was ruined.
I was tipped off that the district, tired of negative press, was looking for a story – any story – they could tell about me instead. Rumors begun to circulate – one admin brazenly told my department that I’d been caught in a relationship with a female student (not knowing that I’d always been out on campus). I ignored the phone calls and emails demanding to meet, until the district resorted to sending campus security to knock on my door.
I felt trapped, terrified of whatever story they’d managed to put together, and retained a lawyer to help me navigate the process. I exhausted what meager savings I’d made teaching on months of deliberation, only to learn that in the end, all they had were empty threats and wild conjectures. When the dust settled, I was left with nothing.
Love, I learned, is not strong enough to sustain you through so many things. It does not defend you from those who intend you harm, it is not powerful enough to secure your happiness; it is not strong enough to ensure your future. All I’d wanted to do was make life better in my corner of the world – and for that, my sense of purpose was replaced with self-loathing, and my exhilaration was turned to with shame.
I’ve done my best to move on to “better things” since then. To grow accustomed to a quieter lifestyle. To accept the loss, and find joy in new things. To not blame myself.
But to this day, I still hear voices, be they my own or someone else’s, telling me, “You should go back to teaching!” “You really loved it!” “Nevermind your struggle to move on!” “Throw away whatever progress you’ve made accepting what you lost!”
As if it had all been a dream.
