I Was an Outspoken Teenager That Thrived to Win. Until Losing a Competition – Discovering the Real Me.

“I am a teenager growing up during a time with war, corruption, prejudice, racism, gender inequality. Yet few seems angry by these issues. People see minor progress towards equal society as solutions to societal problems completely and it just falls short.”

Back in March 2015, I believed I had cracked social injustice. Standing in the basement room at an Oxford art venue during a local round of the Articulation prize, I truly believe that I may have had presented the audience with adults and educators to the idea regarding gender equality. I felt proud with myself.

The Competition

This speaking award is an event for post-GCSE students, between 16 and 19, where participants get a brief period to present on a work of art they select. I was told about it from the leader of my college, whose office I had ended up in just weeks before the competition. During school, I was clever but chatty and often unfocused. Emotions hit me acutely and was frequently overwhelmed and tearful.

My approach was an all-or-nothing approach to my education: either be the best or don’t bother. In the office, we talked about my decision to drop history AS-level soon after beginning it because I didn’t think it would be possible completing it with an A. Life isn’t is death or glory,” he urged.

A Chance

Along with my longsuffering art instructor, the director of the college saw that Articulation was exactly the opportunity that I needed – after all I loved art AS-level, and was suitably outspoken within of the school’s rag-tag discussion group. He suggested I prepare something for a preliminary school-level round. From memory, I don’t think no one else participated.

Choosing Art

My presentation focused on the artist’s medicine cabinets, which I had seen during an exhibit at Tate Modern (a related print is still stuck on my wall near my workspace). I encountered his creations initially as a child visiting Ilfracombe, a coastal location my elder relative was raised, and where Hirst had a restaurant, the Quay, full of formaldehyde-imprisoned sea creatures, and wallpaper with tablet designs. I loved that the art seemed humorous and rebellious, and that he got away with calling whatever he wanted “art”. It amused me my grandmother hated it. Above all, I loved that, because the medicine cabinet installations were named song names from a punk record, I could say “Sex” (Pistols) repeatedly in my speech. I felt like the boldest teen mind of my generation.

The Outcome

At the regional heat, nine other other speakers, all of whom had better historical references, offered less unqualified, broad claims, and used the word “bollocks” rarely. I was awarded third place. As a teenager who put almost all of her self-worth to success, typically this have been a devastating outcome. Yet then, the fact that people seemed to enjoy, and had laughed exactly when I had wanted, felt enough.

Fresh Directions

When the organizers asked to give my talk again, this time as part of a conference in London, I submitted my application to read history of art at university. Before the competition, I had thought I was going to apply for English or German, but certainly not at Oxbridge, believing there I would never be “the best”. Yet the experience had emboldened me and made me believe that my opinions deserved expression, even when I didn’t speak specialized terms. I didn’t need perfection: I only had to add my perspective on things.

Finding Purpose

Discussing creativity – and finding ways to make people laugh while I do it – quickly became my guiding light. This contest experience completed itself when I was invited back this spring as the inaugural graduate judge for a competition round.

The event gave me confidence outside academics: not that I could achieve major feats, but that I didn’t have to. I no longer needed to covet perfection; I embraced personal expression. I transformed from nervous and fragile – passionate but quick to frustration – into a person trusting their own abilities. I didn’t need necessary. For the first time, authenticity meant more to me than flawlessness.

Gratitude

I remain thankful to the sixth-form head who took time to comprehend me when I was a stubborn, sensitive young adult, rather than simply dismissing me (and, looking back, I think an eye roll might have been entirely justified). Not everything was death or glory; I realized attempts matter even without the promise of “victory”.