And so, it’s when considering that by the time the trophies behind me are passed out that ____ children will die at the hands of ____, that it is imperative that we ask today’s question: ____. The answer, of course, is ____. We can see this in 3 key ways: first ____, second ____, and finally ____. 

After several years of competing in extemp, I have lost track of how many times I’ve heard some iteration of this exact sentence. I’d honestly never thought about it that much — that was just how we did things –– until a few weeks ago when I dropped early on at a tournament and thus was able to spectate several late elimination rounds. 

While I was watching rounds, I was still sort of bitter about dropping and pretty much expected my reaction to the speeches I speculated to be some version, “Ugh, I wish I were competing right now. I can’t believe I screwed up so bad.” And, to be sure, there was some of that. That’s how these things go. But, as I walked out of the final round room, where dozens of us were packed in, myself among twenty or so people who sat on the floor after all the chairs had filled, there was one thing that I repeated to my mom, my teammates, and my friends: I hated that. We all sound the same. 

It was no fault of the speakers in the round — they’d all been impressive and polished — but several hours deep into spectating extemp I was struck and disturbed by the way all the speakers, myself included, used the exact same turns of phrase (considering, it’s imperative, and returning to today’s all important question) and only skimmed the surface of the question at hand, opting for the arbitrary three point structure that’s been drilled into us for years. I was beginning to see the activity as a bizarre exercise in formula. 

This is not the kind of existential crisis you want to be having at this point in the season. As I ramp up my preparations for NSDA, I’d love to just be focused on improving as a speaker, not trying to get to the bottom of why anyone does this activity at all, if we all do it the same. It’s an important crisis to have though. It matters that we understand why we do this at all, why we love it, what it is and what it isn’t. Only that way can we really get the most out of these four-odd years. I find myself, as of late, asking anyone who will listen: “What even is extemp?” You’d think I’d know the answer to that question at this point. 

Despite its awkward timing, I’m growing to appreciate this crisis of faith. It’s led to important discussions with fellow competitors. We’ve discussed how extemp was never about having the most complex, detailed analysis possible — if that was the goal we’d all just write books — nor was it about being the most innovative speaker. If that were the case, we wouldn’t all use some iteration of the same speeches all the time. I’ve been reminded that at its core, extemp, like all other speech and debate events, is a game. It is arbitrary and imperfect, but it is still valuable. It’s possible to learn about current events and entertain others even within the confines of your event (whether that’s extemp, congress, LD, or even PF). It’s possible to make the most of this activity without coming to believe that most of life can be condensed into a seven minute speech. Most of all, it’s possible for the event to change. We don’t have to keep molding ourselves to a form that has inherent limitations. 

Furthermore, finally noticing and calling attention to the limitations of my event (and others), is the first step towards trying new techniques to more effectively do whatever it is we’re trying to do–to get the most out of these fleeting four years. In the words of someone who once showed us that this activity is much more than we previously imagined, hoo-ah! 

There are some fundamental problems with how we approach extemp, but it doesn’t have to be that way. We can try to change things — whether by tossing aside canned jokes or answering questions outside of the three point structure — in order to usher in the next era of speech and debate. And, we can keep doing what we are already doing. Because, it really is just a game. Yes, it’s a game that molds us into better thinkers and activists, but that doesn’t erase the base level of triviality. 

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love extemp. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving extemp. It has made me a better speaker, writer, entertainer, and person. I’ll never forget the feeling of having to hold for laughs for the very first time while speaking in a crowded lecture hall during out rounds. I’ll treasure the knowledge I’ve come to hold on everything from Albertan separatists to the Romanian elections. And, of course, for at least the next year, I’ll keep chasing those moments of euphoria when the speech is just landing, you’re holding for laughs, and you get to float a bit in round, knowing that you’re playing the game right. 

That’s not all I’m going to keep pursuing, though. A friend of mine who also dropped at that fateful tournament put it best. “In two years, I’m only going to remember the fun I had with you and try not to laugh with you during the final round,” she said. 

Speech and debate is weird. No event is the end-all, be-all, because when it comes down to it, they’re all just games that feel like the center of the universe for a brief moment in time — until, eventually, they don’t anymore. I love this activity, but it’s true that in several years, I won’t remember a botched speech about Turkey or that time I said critical instead of imperative. I’ll remember the people who were there from start to finish: my teammates, friends, family, coaches. Thank you. Here’s to hoping for many more beautiful crises of faith.