I know what they think of me--the other debaters, the judges, everyone. They see Jordan Chen: National Qualifier, four-time regional champion, the one who always wins. What they don't see is the hours of research, the midnight practice sessions, the anxiety that grips me before every round.
Today's semifinal is against Alicia Rodriguez, and I can tell she's prepared something different. She's not looking at her notes like usual. She's calm, almost serene, which unsettles me more than her typical nervous energy ever did.
When she begins her opening argument, I understand why. She's not just debating; she's telling a story. Her evidence weaves together seamlessly, building toward a conclusion I didn't anticipate. The judges are leaning forward, captivated.
My rebuttal feels mechanical by comparison. I hit all my points, challenge her sources, employ the techniques that have won me every tournament. But even as I speak, I sense something has shifted. I'm following a formula; she's creating art.
After the round, everyone congratulates me. "Classic Jordan," they say. "You really dominated." I smile and accept their praise, but inside I know the truth. Alicia showed me something today--that being the best isn't always about winning. It's about finding your authentic voice, even when the safer path might be more successful.
The judges announce me as the winner, and I feel strangely empty. I won the debate, but Alicia won something more important: my respect, and perhaps, my understanding of what I've been missing.