Debate Camp

By Campbell Brown

BEFORE.

The air is thick in Texas 

and I feel like I’m choking. I keep forgetting to take my meds. 

I really hate bowling, the fanfare, all the swagger and the boys. Taena hands me a Fanta 

under the flashing fluorescent lights as I try not to cry too loudly 

as I crave 

migraine pills, masks, an end to this pandemic. 

DISCO! INK SPOTS! HEATWAVE! 

We yell, we throw papers; mostly, we sit in lecture. It’s the unending, dragging summer

of 2020-something.

Work. Check in. Work. Philosophy.  

I am told about the end of the world. I am told about the Eurocene. 

I meet an indie boy with a single silver earring who tells me that I know nothing. I spit out 

fish bones and overpriced pen parts. 

I spit out the breed of rolled eyes you can only get from 

bombshell teenage girls

burning in the atmosphere of male academia. I spit fire in the cafeteria card games

  but cough out clouds of smoke. Lectures are loud,

SILENCE IS LOUDER,  when asked questions in debate class 

I spit out 

all the justification I can get my hands on.

Tire at the games of poker we play on dorm floors. Henry teaches me: I don't understand

the rules. I know

NOISE! MIGRAINE! HEARTACHE!

The smarter kids watch me lay my chips down: full house.

Henry tells me I’ve won. I sit the rest of the night out.

We prepare for the heat death of the universe. Don’t worry, it’s only applicable

to Lincoln-Douglas Debate; We go on cloying snack runs with a coach who hates

us, trek back to bus stations in the heavy Houston heat.

Two weeks and

the tears bathe me in purple light before I hit the dorm. 

So Taena takes the elevator down, sneaks out;

We eat donuts on the bare mattress on the last day. 

I think they're the best thing I’ve ever tasted. 

I think— I know,

I am too ready to come home.

SPEECH CAMP WITH BLUE RASPBERRY SWEDISH FISH

AFTER.

Slavoj Zizek talks about Kinder eggs

  and our slow oncoming death via capitalism. 

The light flickers under the sign from the Sheraton Hotel sitting

across the street from my dorm. We debate Lacan and the trolley problem, 

crack jokes loudly in lecture, 

ask questions to the serious kids about Baudrillard’s theories on blue raspberry Swedish fish. 

My head thrown back laughing when they sniff and say sure.

Ontological theory lectures be damned— We’ll believe what we want to tonight.

The air is hot, but heat rises, shimmering less with the probability of wildfire smoke, more

with promises of change.

  Guess what, Taena texts, guess what no actually. 

  Is it the Indie Boy? I guess. It’s been a year– and still, I take every cheap shot I

can 

FIRE OFF! at the expense of that kid who I never liked,

anyways. I say, 

He thinks he’s a feminist because he has an earring. He talks over us in critical gender seminars.

Taena calls me on the phone. We do not talk about last summer in Texas, or how I

cried in the Houston airport bar. We do not talk about the things she said to me

in October, how he called me with his sunken, perpetually-over-it Indie Boy eyes

all irritation and quiet sigh, stray-cat tradeoff like a parking lot exchange. I can’t deal

with this right now. You talk to her. I did, and promise I will.

We do not talk about how our world is ending between college visits and trips to

Target,

our lives forever changed by two summers, 

how nebulas explode between milliseconds, 

or how the Big Bang probably happened in one.

We do laugh and laugh.

She says you're not gonna believe this I say what she says no really. Last Summer’s Indie

Boy is doing poorly, she tells me. Everybody finally knows what he’s like.

I joke about the Eurocene, open eyes, and debate bros;

the end of the world, how I call things like I see them.

I joke about pushing condescension categorical, personified patronization, 

how I 

BITE to prove all of my bark,

I joke about pushing Indie Boys in front of a train. SO OVER!

I misuse the word categorically with enthusiasm, and often.

We get some better snacks on our off-campus camp runs.

A new friend is back in Texas now

and I know she’ll be a better version of all of us. The one novice I always hoped 

wouldn’t usurp me,

she is tearing through everything I used to care about— Beautiful and lightning-quick. I guess there’s never any rest for the righteous.

I can't yet say I don't hate her for it. 

I can't say it’s not what I love her for. 

I know things flourish under time and not pressure, 

so I tell friends to kick back while they can.

I understand what Taena felt 

while our softened hearts and hardened mattresses

dissolved into city skylines above Phoenix balconies and broken windows.

My coaches tell me I’m difficult, too stubborn, not vulnerable.

I’ve learn to feel fantastic 

about these things.  I give my friends a resolved look and a smile. You want donuts from the vending

machine?

I pretend I’ve been

UNAPOLOGETIC

FROM THE GET-GO!

Taena’s headed to college campus soon

 for bigger and better things.

The next night, the light is still flickering across the 

street. 

Strangers passing can see our illuminated silhouettes 

stark from the window, together on our beds 

with clasped hands and 

resolution.

We can recognize patterns in the stitching of our wounds: but

Time marches still, and 

onwards.

Campbell (she/her) is a writer of all sorts of things* from Phoenix, Arizona. *Mostly free verse or spoken word poems, prose, or songs (also, 1 A.M journaling sessions or last-minute AP Lang essays). She has won multiple awards in spoken word poetry/speech and debate competitions. She loves loud music, political activism, whale sharks, and getting really excited for Halloween in August. You can contact her by email at campbellebrown@icloud.com.