This weekend I was invited to be a judge at a speech tournament at Tascosa High School. Here are my qualifications to judge a high school speech tournament: I answered the phone.
Actually, when I got the phone call, the student on the other end said they got my name somehow (probably from Homeland Security) and wondered if I would like to judge the semi-finals or finals. I told him I'd do the finals, since that sounded like the best time to crush and destroy young hopes and dreams. He said, "Yes, the finals would be good for that."
So I showed up for the my first round at 1:30. This was the impromptu presentation. In it, we (there were three of us judges in the room - more on that later) would give each student a list of quotations. From there, they'd take a couple of minutes to prepare their thoughts and then launch into their presentation, somehow tying the quote in to whatever profundity they would like to express.
Before the first student walked in, I checked with the other two judges about what exactly we were supposed to do (my instructions at the check-in desk were surprisingly non-existent), but they had no idea. My two judging comrades, who were awfully young, must have just graduated high school themselves. That's when I noticed their name badges, which pronounced loudly "Church of Latter Day Saints Missionary."
"So you're missionaries?" I said.
"That's right," said the leader of the two. "We're the one who ride bikes around town."
"I bet that's a chilly job!" Haha, a little ice breaker there. The high that day was in the low 40s.
"I'm from Utah," said the leader.
"I wouldn't have guessed," I said.
The leader missionary pointed at his missionary friend. "Can you believe that he just learned English four months ago?"
Boy, that one took me by surprise. "Come again?" I said.
"He just learned English four months ago."
"In Utah!" said the other missionary, a big Osmand-style smile on his face.
"So . . . um," I didn't know how to say this gently. "So you just learned English and you're judging a speech tournament?"
Missionary number two jerked his thumb toward himself and said proudly, "I know English!"
"All righty," I said.
"Our bishop told us they needed volunteer judges," said the first missionary, "so here we are!"
"We sleep on the floor!" exclaimed the second missionary.
"Not any more," said the first one. "We stay at the bishop's house."
"All righty," I said.
And then that awkward let-me-ask-you-about-church silence filled the room. I knew, I just knew, that they were going to hit me up and save me from my devilish ways. I waited for it, but they didn't say a word, which then made me feel insulted, as if I wasn't good enough to get some good, old-fashioned missionary help. So I tapped my pencil against the table while the three of us stewed uncomfortably for a few more seconds until our first contestant came in.
That's when the fun began.
(Part II of this arduous story comes tomorrow.)