Name after name gets called, but none of them are mine. I sit quietly, sip my water, and try to remain calm. One by one, every other competitor gives their speech. We clap, they sit. There is a relentless rhythm of anticipation; the bundle of nerves inside me twists and tightens. I briefly wonder if they forgot me. Then, last to go, my name. I walk up to the podium, heart pounding and wide-eyed, and begin my speech on the electric cooperative principle, “Cooperation Among Cooperatives.”
The words themselves aren’t groundbreaking or particularly prizeworthy, but combined with an essay and written test, successful deliverance of this speech allows me to place in the top six of all regional competitors and earn an all expenses paid, week-long trip to Washington D.C. with 107 other rising seniors across all parts of Missouri. One month later, I step onto the bus knowing no one. I soon meet Ellie, who opens my eyes to the fact that most of the students on the trip did not live within a fifteen-minute drive of a Dairy Queen like I did. As it turns out, caramel cookie blizzard deprivation is a serious issue among rural Missouri students.
Once in D.C., I stand disoriented again, a fish out of water, eyes wide and physically taking in all I can. The monuments loom in front of me, but instead I am overwhelmed by trying to fit into the conversation beside me that seems to be in another language. My freshly-made friends Laina and Ellie discuss FFA, but all I know about it is that members get ten percent off at the suburban farm store where I work part time as a cashier. I latch onto my limited information which then becomes my lifeline of knowledge, and even better, a starting point for discussions with those whom I thought I wouldn’t be able to have a conversation.
It turns out I had a lot to learn from people with whom I had so little in common, particularly about rural life but also about my own assumptions. I hadn’t realized young teenage girls could be responsible for raising and showing award-winning farm animals, or that there were whole organizations dedicated to it, or that ice cream could be such a special, infrequent treat. While I may never experience the daily routine of calling a turkey, I can now better recognize and appreciate the valuable skills my friends have in their own communities. Learning isn’t a one-way street of me teaching others what I know; it’s a mutual exchange, a discovery of how much we have in common despite our glaring differences.
I don’t know exactly what I want to do or be, but I do know that I want to help people engage more meaningfully with the world around them. My new friends might not have the ability to try a caramel cookie blizzard from Dairy Queen whenever they want, but their tireless work ethic and tight-knit community continues to inspire me to re-examine my own worldview. These paradigm-shifting moments, particularly on this trip to D.C., taught me that true growth happens in moments of discomfort, when you listen more than you speak, and even when you are taught how to call a turkey. This trip is something I’ll never forget, but what will stay with me is less about the monuments I visited and more about the people with which I got to visit.
