Date: Wed, 11 Nov 1998 10:54:07 -0500 (EST)
From: Dennis Edmonds <dedmonds@mail.jhs.jordan.k12.ut.us>
To: Multiple recipients of list CX-L <cx-l@debate.net>
Subject: "Why am I in debate?"
WHERE THE HELL IS BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA?
A number of people have been asking "Why debate?" on the
listserves. I have been involved in the activity now for 32 years, as a
high school competitor, college competitor, judge, and, for the past 27
years, as a coach. My answer to that question comes in the form of an
answer to another question--"Where the hell is Barstow, California?"
You see, I was forced to answer the first question--"Why debate?"--after
a series of experiences I had in Barstow. First, a disclaimer. I mean
no harm or animosity to the people of Barstow, but it has been the site
of some pretty strange events for me.
First of all, I believe that Barstow exists for only one reason--the
size of gas tanks on most cars. They just aren't big enough to go from
Las Vegas to Bakersfield without stopping. So someone put a gas station
and a McDonald's in the middle of nowhere, and the town of Barstow grew
up around them. My experiences with Barstow began while I was a student
at the University of Utah and a member of the debate team, then coached
by the venerable old George Adamson. He was a great coach, primarily
because he believed debate was all about education. But he was blind as
a bat!! He used to wear both contacts and glasses! The result was that
when we drove to the West Coast tournaments, I would always drive a good
part of the way, primarily in the interest of self preservation.
On one of our trips to the Coast, we stopped in Barstow to get gas.
After filling the car, we attempted to start it. but when I turned the
key, nothing happened. After much delay, we were informed that the
starter motor on the car had frozen. Since we didn't have the time to
get it fixed, we went to the bus station and took the Greyhound the rest
of the way to the tournament.
On another occasion, we filled the car with gas, the young man
working in the station (yes, they used to have attendants who actually
pumped the gas for you. They would even check your oil and clean the
windows!! Ah, those were the good old days...)
handed me the credit card bill, I signed it and returned it to him. He
said thank you and stood back as I started the motor to drive away.
Unfortunately, he had neglected to remove the gas nozzle from the car
and I promptly ripped it off the pump, spilling gas and causing all
sorts of damage to the rental car.
My next experience in Barstow came after I started coaching. On a
trip to the Coast, I stopped in Barstow to gas the van and encountered
the real world implications of debate arguments. It was during the Arab
oil embargo of the 70s. I got to sit in a 50 car line to get gas. The
station had lined orange cones out into the street and up the block so
that cars could que up to get gas. When I got closer to the pumps, I
decided to turn off the engine, wait until the cars in front of me
cleared, and then pull the van up to the pumps. Unfortunately, once the
cars in front of me were gone, I couldn't get the van to start. It
turned out to be just a poor connection at the battery cable. Once we
discovered that, cleaned it and got the car started, I pulled the van up
to the pumps. However, the time during which the station would pump gas
was limited to about 2 hours in the morning and 2 hours in the
afternoon. This time had now elapsed and the gas station at first
refused to sell me any gas. After explaining my plight and that I had
been in line all along when my van failed on me, I finally convinced
them to sell me gas and continued my journey.
My next experience in Barstow came a couple of years later. I drove
a group of students down to the Redlands summer debate camp. On the
trip to California to bring those students home, I was driving an older
model van, borrowed from the parents of one of my varsity debaters. I
reached the rest stop about 20 or 30 miles east of Barstow and just
couldn't go anymore. I decided to pull off in the rest stop, sleep a
few hours until sunrise, and then continue my trip. My daughter, then
about seven, had made the trip with me. We settled down for a little
rest, and were prepared to finish the journey when we awoke to the
rising sun about 4 hours later. I started the van and began to pull up
the freeway ramp. But the van stalled. So I started it again, and
after a few hundred feet, it stalled again. I repeated this process
several times, until it wouldn't keep running unless I was holding the
key in the start position. I knew a little about cars (without debate,
I think my life goal would have been to be a mechanic) so I opened the
engine cover, which was inside the passenger area on the old model
vans. I took the air cleaner off the top of the carburetor and checked
to see if gas was being delivered to the engine. As I suspected, it was
not. So I placed my hand over the top of the carburetor, which would
create suction and force gas up into the engine. When I attempted to
start the van, it backfired and shot flaming gas all over the interior
of the van, the seat next to me, and my shirt. I yelled to my daughter
to get out of the van. She had the presence of mind to open the door
and get out on the shoulder of the road. She probably also saved my
life. The day before she had been tearing up little bits of paper and
throwing them all over the van. I made her clean them up, and, in the
process of assisting her, I found a small fire extinguisher behind the
seat. As the flames burned, I grabbed the extinguisher and quickly put
out the fire. Little damage was done. I jumped out of the van, picked
up my hysterical daughter and held her in my arms. As I stood there on
the side of the freeway ramp trying to calm her (and myself) I asked
myself the question that some of you are now asking yourself:
Considering the sacrifice it takes, the work required, the demands on my
time, energy and money--Why am I involved in debate? It's a question I
have asked myself many times over the subsequent years. I ask it after
spending five or six hours on the phone raising judges for a tournament,
only to have two of them call Friday night and cancel. It's a question
I ask when I judge a round in which one of the teams is so arrogant that
they question the intelligence of everyone else associated with the
activity--most especially judges and coaches. It's a question I ask
when I lose a student who is making tremendous strides in personal
growth but who just can't deal with his inability to compete favorably.
It's a question I ask when I see the ethical lapses of students, judges
and even coaches which taint the activity. And, it's a question I ask
every time I have to apologize to my wife and kids for once again coming
home from the tournament two hours later than expected.
And it's a question I always answer in the same way. I answer it by
reviewing the names and the faces of those who have come through my
program and the tremendous progress they have made as debaters, as
students, but, most of all, as people. I recall the absolute terror in
the eyes of Brenda Hutchings, who just knew she would never be able to
do it the day before her first novice tournament, and who glowed with
newly found self confidence the next day upon reaching finals.
I recall the face of Tracy Forgie, who decided to abandon the path
her two best friends had been following and to become a student. I
remember her pride at improving her GPA from a 1.7 to a 3.7 in order to
be eligible for debate. I remember her willingness to work hard to
become a great speaker. And I remember my own joy as she was handed the
medal as State Champion in Extemp Speaking, her secondary event.
I recall the face of Andrea Jacobsen, who cried during her first
debate as a sophomore, because she knew she would never really
understand it all. I recall the change in her eyes as she won the State
Championship and qualified for both NFL and NCFL Nationals.
I recall the face of Chris Burt, senior class president, superb
student and National Qualifier in debate. I recall the tortured look in
his eyes as he fought to overcome the demons he battled after being
diagnosed with manic depression from a chemical imbalance in his brain
at the end of his senior year after qualifying for Nationals. I recall
the tortured look in his parents eyes as he was buried after killing
himself by drinking Drano when he listened to those demons. I recall
the gratitude I felt when his younger brother followed Chris into the
debate program at Bingham High and told everyone that he wanted to
accomplish the things Chris had accomplished.
And I recall the pride and the joy I felt as I watched my own
daughter--(the same one from the burning van)--develop from a young girl
who had no confidence in her own academic abilities, to one of the best
orators in the State. I recall the pride I felt when she won the
qualifying tournament and eventually received a medal at Catholic
Nationals.
Why am I in debate? Because I know that there is no more
educationally valuable program in the school system. It has the ability
to turn weak students into strong ones. It has the ability to turn
introverted shy students into confident self assured young people. It
has the ability to develop in its participants the academic skills to
dramatically improve high school and college success. And it has the
ability to develop in immature young students the life skills to become
outstanding adults and citizens. It requires huge commitments of
particpants--commitments of time, money and energy--but pays back
dividends which are immeasureable. That's why I value the activity.
That's why I'm in debate.
Dennis Edmonds
Jordan High Speech & Debate
Sandy, Utah
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