Glancing around, one would think that they were attending some form of business meeting or a seminar on how to properly suck up to their boss in order to get that raise or promotion. Boys all clad in business suits clearly picked out by their fathers and girls in pencil skirts and dark colored blouses. Perhaps these kids were all attending a funeral, mourning the loss of the Saturday they would rather spend watching cartoons in the comfort of flannel pajama pants. Little would one of these outsiders suspect that these business-styled dungarees acted much more like armor than their appearance would suggest.
Like in a Roman coliseum, there are many different labyrinths in which to partake in and traverse. The crests of their clans branded in the shapes of their school mascots. A wolf fights with teeth and claws against a titan, a falcon sinks its talons into the winds and rains of a thunderstorm.
One event hosts rounds of battle over various moral standings. It requires its volunteers to be quick-minded, their tongues sharp and coated in poison. Cobras ready to strike without a moment’s hesitation. The riptide that pulls its victim under before the swimmer even knows it’s there.
Lincoln Douglas requires the knowledge held by philosophers of history. Locke preaches the good of humanity. The mother who knows that boys will be boys. The life guard watching the dark shape glide ever closer to the children in the ocean. Hobbes condemns mankind to forever commit to their own hubris and wicked ways. The greed fought in Robin Hood. The dystopia promised by Big Brother. These are tools, the warrior’s means to an end.
Other events require memorization skills akin to those possessed by the actors who portray Shakespeare itself. Interpreters is the title held by this class of warrior. They use words that strike like the hammers of a blacksmith. Stories become tied together to possess the fluid motion of ballet dancers. They are sorcerers whose magic is found through voice. Jesters who command laughter to the room. The warriors who fight without ever touching one another.
These combatants, these scholars, these children are locked in combat with one another. Soldiers who promised their homes victory. Ants that fight for the biggest crumb. Pinned in battles to the death. In which case, death means you don't go home with a shiny trophy or a card stock piece of paper with a number and name on it.
We now follow the path of those who rule by philosophy. Scholars who sharpen their tools with the grindstone named Rousseau in Plato’s cave.
Rounds are posted like brackets in a boxing tournament, red versus blue, Rocky versus Apollo. The sound of bugles signals the start of a race, the well-dressed group panics and scrambles like a group of beheaded chickens. After the dust settles they look to see who battles and where opponents will shed blood.
Challengers make their way toward the designated arenas. Their colors are painted on after they read the postings. The piece of parchment printed not five minutes ago, is followed dutifully as if it were one of the Ten Commandments. Time and place are assigned as well as the colors each combatant will wear and the weapons they will wield.
The affirmative always holds the sharper weapons, words that cut, ideas that cleave and statistics that puncture. The negative is always blocking, with concepts that deflect, claims that ricochet, and proof that is anchored.
Upon entering the fray, both are looked upon by one overseer. This arbiter plays the roles of judge, jury and executioner. The fate of the duelists rests in their, more often than not, ignorant hands. How can one expect a housewife, who watches nothing but reality television, to determine who spoke more convincingly about Affirmative Action? Who are the conscripted warriors to say?
Ages pass in the span of only thirty-six minutes. Divided up into chunks of time allotted specifically for the maiming and tearing of one another’s foundations. Chipping at armor and the cracks in their tools. The battle cries and claims of omission are silenced as the judge declares that the round has ended.
The warriors brush the dust and blood from their armor as they stand. Ignoring the burning accusations and the stinging words of mere seconds ago as they shake hands. The flames fueled by heated arguments cool in the silence. The round is over, onto the next.
These children declare themselves the champions of their events and battle to prove as such. They are clad in ideas and beliefs and brandish them for all to witness. They are the preachers of peace by means of war. They are pitted against one another in a battle of concepts and bring with them the tools of discipline and script to win. They sacrifice more than just sleeping in and Saturday morning cartoons to claim these victories.