barracuda v. the boys club

I had had a great year debating. I came in first or second place at every meet. My school had started out as the bad news bears of forensics, but we were coming back strong and we were now real competition. Miss Kelly put a lot of pressure on me, because debate wins actually brought in the most points for the entire team. Thanks partly to my debate success, our school was now placing third or fourth overall at every competition.

It was the last debate of the season. This was the most important competition of the year. We were no longer playing for bragging rights. The competition this day would decide who would go to the nationals in Chicago. No one from our school had ever gone to the nationals before. I was the only member of our team in contention. I wanted to win for my team, but I really wanted to win so that I could go to Chicago. I had been virtually no where in my life, and I was itching to see anything outside of Hoboken and Jersey City.

There were a total of four debates that day - three before lunch and one after. I wish I could say that the debates were especially noteworthy or nail biting, but they weren't. Even the topic of debate eludes me now. It had something to do with legalizing marijuana or drug control or some such nonsense. I can't even recall my first three competitors. I do remember the mounting excitement I had after each of those three debates. I knew I had won. My opponents knew that I had won. I became dizzy with the thought of going to Chicago. Was it really a "windy city"? What would I wear? Would I have to pay for the trip? If so, how?

During lunch, Miss Kelly and my teammates crowded around me and celebrated my inevitable victory. We screeched and squealed the way only teenaged girls can. I couldn't eat a bite. My adrenaline was vibrating through my veins and my blood was pulsing in my ears. My friend Kay promised me a celebratory meal at Burger King after I secured the trip to Chicago. It was going to be a good day.

The bell rang. I walked down the hall to my final debate for the year. I knew my opponent Dan, from Preparation H (St. Peter's Prep). I had previously debated and beat him three times. He was cocky and bland, not worthy of a nickname. Whenever I saw him, he greeted me with a chortle, as if he had actually defeated me. During every debate, he used some sort of a prop to illustrate a point or throw his opponent off kilter. Once, he tossed a coin throughout the entire debate. He punctuated his final assessment by flipping the coin up into the air, catching it, flipping it over onto his wrist and nodding knowingly. "Tails," he smirked. The judge and I actually looked at one another in confusion.

Walking into this final debate, I felt calm and confident. The judge, Mr. Harris, was an affably fat teacher from Hudson, a nearby boys' school in Jersey City. He had judged me several times before and had given me high marks. When I entered the room, he smiled warmly and said, "It's always a pleasure to judge your debates, Noreen. I look forward to hearing what you have for us today". I thanked him and felt my posture lengthen and straighten further. At three minutes after two, Dan opened the door to the classroom. He kept his back to us and finished a conversation he was having in the hallway. Mr. Harris bristled at this. Hudson and Preparation H were mortal enemies. Hudson was considered the white trash school for boys who couldn't get into Preparation H. The Prep boys not only thought they were smarter than the Hudson boys, they presumed their intelligence surpassed that of the Hudson teachers as well. The rivalry was intense and sometimes violent at sporting events. I knew Mr. Harris would consider Dan's behavior an affront and I felt electrical excitement buzzing all around me.

Dan sat next to me and settled himself in without acknowledging me or Mr. Harris. He busied himself unpacking his briefcase (yes a briefcase!) and arranging his notes on his desk. He took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses several times. Mr. Harris was not amused. After a moment glaring at Dan, Mr. Harris cleared his throat and said, "Are we ready now, Dan?" Dan stood, nodded at Mr. Harris and said "Quite". "Quite?" I thought only characters in Merchant Ivory movies ever responded to a question with a "quite" response. This was going to be "quite" the debate, and I was going to have "quite" the time in Chicago.

The debate was, for the most part, uneventful. Dan's tactic was to look at me with disdain during cross-examination. He actually guffawed at some of my questions, without answering them. His approach was to behave as though my questions were too contrite to acknowledge. I persisted, however. I countered that his silence equalled ignorance. Stealing glances at Mr. Harris, I knew that I was on my way to Chicago. He nodded approvingly whenever I made eye contact with him. He regarded Dan as gum on his shoe.

Dan's prop for this debate was a bottle of prescription pills. He kept one hand in his pocket and jiggled it throughout the debate. During his closing statement, he produced the bottle, shook it, and tossed it at me. I caught it and had to fight my street-girl urge to whirl it back at his head. I had no idea what point he was trying to punctuate with his theatrics. And from the look of disgust on Mr. Harris' face, neither did he.

The debate ended. Dan tipped his imaginary hat to Mr. Harris and actually bowed to me. I shook Mr. Harris' hand and thanked him. He held my hand between his two plump paws and said, "Well done. Very well done". His eyes twinkled. My heart jumped. I was going to Chicago! I nodded curtly at Dan and threw his prescription bottle in the trash on my way out.

My entire team was waiting for me at our table. We hugged and fell on the floor and screamed and chanted "SDA! SDA!" Everyone else stared at us. We didn't care. I was going to Chicago.

We sat as the winners of all the other categories were announced. We cheered loudly for our friends and teammates who placed in their categories. Debate was announced last. Only the first place winner would be going to Chicago. I had never felt as confident as I did in that moment.

A quiet, serious boy came in third place. I was glad. He was courteous and almost apologetic whenever he did well in a debate. My vision became fuzzy and I felt as though I would actually vibrate off my chair. Hands all around me squeezed my hands and shoulders. I felt faint. I remembered my fear of flying. For a brief moment, I wished that I would lose so that I could avoid a trip on a plane.

And then, I heard my name. But I didn't hear it. I couldn't. My name was called for second place. Miss Kelly and my teammates were equally confused. A steely silence descended upon our table. I had lost.

I somehow walked to the podium and accepted my second place trophy. My gaze was blank and my fingertips were numb. I spied the arrogant smirk of Dan adjusting his tie as he prepared to collect his first place prize. I clutched my trophy to keep from bashing his head in.

I sat stunned at my table. My teammates were crying. Miss Kelly assured me that I had tried my best.

"No," I said, "I didn't try my best. I did my best. I don't understand what happened. I know I should have won".

She looked at me pityingly and packed to leave.

I sat alone at the table while everyone else headed out to the van. I replayed the debate over and over again in my head, unable to wrap my head around the loss. A hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to find Mr. Harris smiling down on me.

"You did very well, Noreen. Very well indeed. You should be proud of how close you came. You deserved that win. You should be going to Chicago".

I couldn't understand what Mr. Harris was saying. My loss was ultimately his decision. "I'm sorry, but I’m confused.”

"Noreen, you're very talented. But I just don't think we're ready to have a girl represent us in the nationals. We need a competitor with real weight, someone who will be taken seriously.”

"I lost...because I'm a girl?"

I started crying, the kind of crying that burns your whole face and makes you start gulping for air. I wasn't crying because I was hurt or upset. I was crying because I wanted to kill someone. I felt small and insignificant and helpless. I had been the best. I had worked the hardest. I should have won. I had won.

I railed against Mr. Harris. "How dare you steal something from me that I earned! You have no right! I deserve Chicago!"

I collapsed into incomprehensible sobs. I wanted to say so much more, but my head was swimming. I didn't know what else to say.

Mr. Harris patted my hand, trying to console me. "You should be very very proud. You're the best we have." And then he walked away.

As we drove out of the parking lot, I choked out the story to Miss Kelly and my teammates. There was cursing and crying, fury and disbelief. Everyone had a similar story. Miss Kelly told of a job lost to a lesser qualified male teacher at Preparation H, where her father actually worked as an English teacher. (The only female teachers on staff at Prep taught typing and health). One girl told of being benched on her baseball team, although she was the strongest pitcher. Another's father had put money aside for her younger brother's college education, but not for hers. (Her father didn't see a need for a girl to go to college). My own father refused to watch my softball games, but never missed my brother's little league.

As we drove home in silence on the highway, Kay spotted the Preparation H van. We begged Miss Kelly to speed up and drive alongside them. Once we were directly next to them, Miss Kelly honked the horn furiously. Dan and the other boys stared, bemused. We rolled down the window, screamed obscenities and flipped them all the bird. Even Miss Kelly called them "goddamned motherfucking cocksuckers". We dumped all of our disgust and frustration and rage out onto that highway. Brother Frank, the Preparation H moderator, made the sign of the cross in our direction, changed lanes, and sped ahead. We collapsed into a heap of laughter, tears and cheers. With all of the windows open, we sang our alma mater, fingers still flying high out the open windows.

"Raise her banner, wear her emblem. Pledge to God and country too. Keep her spirit, keep her counsel. She will ever follow through. St. Dominic Academy we pledge our hearts in loyalty. Our alma mater here's to thee. We love our school devotedly. In all our efforts during life, in all our triumphs and in strife. By the patron of our school blessed be....St. Do My Dick Academy!"

We may not have behaved like ladies, but we began to know what it meant to be women.