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Counterpoint The day came
at the very end of the school year, the first weekend in June,
a week before the seniors graduated and a night after the last
debate team meeting of the year was adjourned. It was the final
match of the debate season, even though most debaters wondered
why it was still called a season if it ran from September to June
and this wasn’t one of the Earth’s Poles. So impressed
with Tria’s jabs and quiet confidence, the team elected
the girl with the horn up to bat. It was nerve-racking to say
the least, especially as tradition dictates the final meet of
the year be improvised. No topic given ahead of time, just kids
with blank index cards and overly stuffed minds. They were
playing old rivals—the rivals you’d be the first to
team up with if a mutual enemy ever appeared—but one of
the most notoriously aggressive teams in the district. It was
a private school, on the outskirts of town, renowned for one player
and one player alone, and also for that one player: Keith Sharp.
He had round glasses and square lips and a mouth that moved like
an accordion as he spoke his argument polka, a stick-thin German
squeezebox of a man. The school’s
victorious reign of terror was ending, as Sharp was graduating
after what seemed like a decade. That did mean the high school
auditorium hosting the meet was filled to the bursting point,
with both schools colliding in full at Tria’s home court,
and the local news crew was languidly blocking the lane down the
side of the gym behind the right end of the folding chairs. Slow
news day. The two teams
were divided by a podium on the mid-rise wooden stage assembled
that morning in the middle of the gym, each team having a table
with three chairs on each side of the podium. A microphone alone
graced the podium, yet it seemed every eye in the auditorium was
fixed on it. That is, until the teams came out. First stepped
up the enemies. A blonde girl with post-pubescent braces slid
her way up the stairs like a snake who just sprouted legs until
she assembled herself upright at the first seat in the three-seat
table on the left. A short, fat, nondescript boy waddled in second
and crashed down in the next chair. Finally, to a smattering of
applause and a holler or two, Keith Sharp entered, his gait so
defined and his posture so great that he was seven feet tall at
the least. He took a seat third. The home team
entered next, to a similar, lesser smattering of applause as the
camera crew in the corner stopped rolling. First, the girl Tria
didn’t recognize but who told the funny joke on Tria’s
first day came to the first seat. Tria came out next. The team
was anchored by Jeremy. Few paid attention to Jeremy’s entrance,
though, as Tria could feel the audience’s gaze slowly meandering
from Sharp to her, but not enough that they wanted anyone to notice.
The camera crew had also seemed to begin rolling again, shooting
the home team. Sharp looked ahead, silently, pointedly. “Good
morning to everyone, especially those of you who may be visiting
our school for the first time,” announced the middle judge
at the table in front of the bleachers, the assistant principal
of Tria’s school, leaning gently into a microphone at the
end of the table. Two professorial types were seated on each side
of the assistant principal. “And I won’t bore you
all with any further announcements since you’re all here
to see a debate. Trust me that we pulled out all the stops in
choosing this topic. My colleagues and I thought long and hard,
considering the hottest topics this year in education, and it
took us to the last school board meeting at this very school.
Every student up there today has likely heard about this topic
and thought long and hard about it. Is full inclusion the ideal
way to deal with a disabled student, or one who is challenged
mentally or physically?” The sides
were determined. Tria’s team would be taking the negative
side, arguing that the best way to educate a disabled child would
be in special classes and programs, separated, isolated from the
other students. Round one
was rough. Tria had trouble focusing as Jeremy kept stealing glances
of her—sometimes awkwardly, sometimes not, always flustering—and
the funny girl was not nearly as effective as she had been in
practice. The braces-wearing girl on the opposing team opened
with a series of statistics that she apparently pulled out of
her ass: 14 percent more students with disabilities graduate from
integrated programs, 96 percent of disabled students feel more
confident when integrated, and the vast majority of non-disabled
students felt they grew as people, having the opportunity to work
closely with those who are different. She even closed with the
legendary Helen Keller defense. If children with disabilities
are so different, how did Helen Keller achieve what she did? Tria
was stuck either hating on the most beloved blind deaf mute in
history or ignoring it completely. The stout
boy on the away team did no more favors, thankfully. Besides repeating
everything his teammate had already said, he even fumbled over
an argument about social skills, practically saying disabled students
need to be teased to ultimately feel better about themselves.
No wonder Sharp was the only thing making them true competitors. Tria was ready,
and a force to be reckoned with, as not a single audience eye
turned from her during her response. She not only pointed out
that disabled students become frustrated in situations that are
not designed for them and that, the worst part of all, it all
leads to greater disruptions and distractions in the classroom
for all involved. Helen Keller had a tutor to work with her one-on-one. As she returned
to her seat, Jeremy locked horns—no, eyes—with Tria.
It was the longest moment of Tria’s life, and was finally
broken by Sharp taking the stage, ready to fight back. “What
makes someone different? How would we possibly be able to define
a disability enough to truly separate those who need extra help
and those who don’t? According to my esteemed competitors,
a student who is—a distraction, is it?—constitutes
enough of a disability to be separated from his or her peers,”
announced Sharp. “I, for one, feel that is ab-horn, aborhon…abhorrent,
excuse me.” There was
an uncomfortable shift in the audience as Sharp glanced subtly
at Tria and back to the audience. He continued, shaking, nervously,
possibly too much, faking it maybe, “Keeping anyone who
may be different away from his or her peers would create a dichotomy,
a class system of those who are better and those who are horned,
scorned. Scorned.” Tria felt
herself shrinking smaller and smaller. For the first time in her
life, she reached up with her left hand and touched the flat tip
at the very end of her horn and left it there, a finger umbrella
to block the stares. As Sharp continued, the malapropisms kept
coming, and ‘horn’ was almost as frequently used as
‘the’, and the audience only continued sweating and
shifting and losing all focus from the debate. Tria looked down
at her desk, but could still see the eyes, the camera, the piercing
spotlight now shining on her. Finally, there
was a pause. Maybe he had stopped. Maybe that was it for Sharp.
That wasn’t too bad. It was the worst feeling Tria could
remember feeling, but it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t
that bad. She looked
up. Eyes. Eyes. Camera flash. Eyes. Sharp still at the podium. Sharp pounded
his fist into the podium. “And this girl—this lovely
girl right here with a horn—has now become just as disabled
as the students whose liberties she would rather have raped away
at the slight possibility of causing a minor disturbance to the
normal kids. She has distracted all of you. She is the disturbance.” Tria looked
back down, imagining her horn growing and growing and growing
until it created a safe-haven teepee around her, which she would
not have to leave until the fire burned all the trees. Yet the
voices came through. “No
one can ignore people who are different. They ask not to be ignored.
There’s no reason they need to be separated when we know
they’re there,” declared Sharp. “This is clearly
a smart girl, this one with a horn, so why should she be separated?
Does the horn affect her learning? I suppose she could just be
dumb…” And a loud
smack, reverb, a thud, and screams from the crowd. Tria lifted
her head and stared at the microphone, where Jeremy stood over
the fallen Sharp, clenching the fist with which he obviously just
punched his competitor. Sharp leaned up, holding a bloody nose,
as the judges tore over their tables toward the stage. Jeremy
looked over his shoulder at Tria. She was crying, but not sad. Tria stood
up, running to Jeremy as Sharp stood up and took a swing at Jeremy
himself. He connected with Jeremy’s cheek and the two locked
arms, grabbing and pulling at each other. Tria could see Sharp’s
hand come around to Jeremy’s ear, tearing his earring right
out with a chunk of his lobe, jagged drops of blood splattering
at the podium. The two collapsed to the ground, wrestling. Standing over
the two, Tria looked down, at Jeremy, at Sharp, and then up at
the audience. She felt alone, and hurt, despite being neither.
She was in one piece more than after her incident with Mr. Spyre
and was more connected than when Madeline betrayed her. This time
it was different. She looked
back down and the boys stopped fighting. Jeremy and Sharp lied
on the stage, staring up at Tria, breathing heavily and bleeding
lightly. “Both
of you can go fuck yourselves,” she whispered, but loud
enough for the microphone to pick it up. The room fell silent.
The judges stopped. Her hand grew
into a fist, and then blossomed out, and then fell back in. She
thought about punching them all—Jeremy, Sharp, the judges,
mostly Jeremy—but she couldn’t, but she didn’t,
and she stood up straight, walked slowly out of the gym, past
the lenses, and into the hallway, and outside.
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