Maddie and I arrive at the Sheraton Boston via Pat’s van. We check in, hang up our suits, and camp out with snacks. We put on German techno. We go through fresh copies of every article on the living wage and highlight everything we need with the same color. With the same color. That is very important.
As the sun is rising, we roll into the lobby, both figuratively, in the badass word for “arriving,” and literally, because we are pulling tubs full of evidence on wheels. We register and find a spot to practice away from all the other teams.
We set up behind the affirmative desk, on a platform, under lights, in the largest conference room. We watch the other team set up with stony looks on our faces.
We shake hands with the judges.
Then the battle starts.
Maddie stands at the podium and offers the affirmative. Maddie presents a plan. She says why this plan will work. As I said, she’s damn good at it. The emotions she can pack into eight minutes stating nothing but facts in a particular order—it’s a beauty to behold. Think of every motivational speech at the halftime of every sports movie you’ve ever seen, but at the beginning of the movie, and with less tears, less yelling, and more logic.
The negative rebuts. They state their philosophy. They say why our plan won’t work. I listen to their points so closely I can hear their spit sloshing around.
Second affirmative: Here’s me. I gather all the holes in their argument, BUT. But. I have to frame them as if our plan anticipated all these holes to begin with. This is where pantsuits come in handy. Not for any utility reason, just to look down on in order to remind yourself that you are a streetwise BAMF who is never surprised by anything.
They point out the disadvantages of this brand-spanking-new plan.
Maddie comes back in, tries to talk about how stupid they are for arguing against our perfect plan (without losing sight of the original plan).
They pick further holes in our argument, and blow up their own balloon of an argument bigger. This is their last hurrah.
I am the final voice. I find the best facts on our side, the worst facts against them, and reaffirm with some poetry. It is my job to pop their balloon-argument once and for all, and to release our balloon-argument up to the sky. I am essentially Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society. No, I am Théoden, at the Battle of Helm’s Deep, and the round judges are the Riders of Rohan, holding out their questions like spears. I ride past them on a steed of rhetoric, and tap their spears with my sword of facts, leaving them no choice but to follow me.
Sorry, got a little carried away there.
Anyway, voilà, we convince the world that the minimum wage should be raised.
We do it again in a second round.
We do it again a third.
Then, if we can do it one more time, we will win the national championship.