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“I am a teenager living in a time with war, corruption, discrimination, racial bias, gender inequality. Yet few appear outraged by these issues. Many view the slight advances towards equal society as solutions to societal problems completely and it just isn’t enough.”

It’s March 2015, and I’ve done it I’ve solved social injustice. Standing in the basement room of Modern Art Oxford for my regional heat of the Articulation prize, I truly believe that I may have just introduced this room full with adults and educators to the concept regarding gender equality. I felt proud of my performance.

The Competition

This speaking award is an event for post-GCSE students, between 16 and 19, where participants get 10 minutes to present about an artwork 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. As a pupil, I was clever but chatty and often unfocused. I felt everything intensely often becoming overwhelmed and tearful.

My approach was a binary perspective on academics: excel completely or quit entirely. In the office, we talked about my decision to abandon history AS-level within weeks of starting because I didn’t think to achieve for me to finish with an A. Life isn’t about extremes,” he urged.

An Opportunity

Supported by my patient art teacher, the head of sixth form recognised that the competition proved the perfect chance I required – since I loved art AS-level, and was suitably outspoken within of the school’s rag-tag discussion group. He suggested I develop a talk for an initial in-school heat. From memory, it seems anyone else applied.

Choosing Art

I chose to speak about Damien Hirst’s pharmacy installations, viewed previously during an exhibit at Tate Modern (the poster of which remains posted on the wall near my workspace). I encountered Hirst’s work for the first time when young visiting Ilfracombe, the north Devon town where my grandmother had grown up, and where the artist had a restaurant, the Quay, featuring preserved sea creatures, and walls covered covered in pills. I loved that the art seemed humorous and rebellious, that he successfully calling whatever he wanted “art”. It amused me my grandmother hated it. But maybe most of all, I enjoyed that, since the artwork installations were named after tracks on their 1977 album, I could say “The word” (Band name) several times in my speech. I truly was the boldest young thinker among my peers.

The Outcome

During the local round, there were nine participants spoke, each presenting more refined historical references, made fewer unsupported, broad claims, and said “bollocks” less. I was awarded third place. For a teen who tied most self-esteem on achievement, typically this meant a crushing blow. Yet then, the fact that people seemed to enjoy, and chuckled exactly when I had wanted, proved sufficient.

A New Path

When Articulation invited me to give my talk again, now during an event at the British Museum, I submitted my application to study art history at university. Before the competition, I assumed I’d choose for English or German, but certainly not at Oxbridge, where I knew I would never be “top ranked”. Yet the experience boosted my courage and made me believe that my opinions were worth sharing, even when I didn’t speak the lingo. I didn’t need perfection: I just needed to put my spin on things.

Discovering Passion

Discussing creativity – and learning how to make people laugh during presentations – soon turned into my north star. This contest experience came full circle upon returning this spring to be the first graduate judge for a competition round.

The competition gave me confidence beyond my degree choice: not that I would accomplish major feats, but that I needn’t. I stopped requiring flawless results; I embraced personal expression. I went from being anxious and easily overcome – passionate but quick to frustration – to someone who believed in their capabilities. I didn’t need necessary. For the first time, authenticity meant importance over than flawlessness.

Appreciation

I’ll always be grateful to the sixth-form head who made the effort to comprehend me during my years as a stubborn, sensitive young adult, instead of rolling his eyes (and, looking back, I think an eye roll would have been understandable). Life isn’t is death or glory; I realized attempts matter even without the promise of “winning”.