Take the Shot
Author’s Note: I delivered this speech in Chapel, a biweekly gathering tradition at my school. Many topics mentioned/discussed are niche and the language is colloquial.
I’ve run for class rep four times, faculty-student senate twice, and co-president once. And like my basketbear skills (if you take Latin) or jump shot (if you don’t), I’ve managed to miss almost every shot. Mr. Bennett, my English teacher and coach, always says that “the outcome of the shot doesn’t matter, the important thing is that you took it.” At least I took the shot.
My love-hate relationship with the campaign process started in 2019 when I flew 7,403 miles away from my parents and everything I knew to Hightstown. For me, moving to New Jersey was like coming up for air – except that the mixture of oxygen and nitrogen was thicker than honey and drenched in asphalt and the smell of gasoline. The only person I had was my cousin Nathen, who barely greeted me in the hallways and was essentially useless. Although the excitement of being a freshman and wearing my own Peddie lanyard kept me going at first, by October, the weight of it all pummeled me underwater.
With the water at my neck, I started my four-year-long (though I didn’t know it yet) campaign to become a class representative. Perhaps I craved purpose or attention, but I knew I wanted to belong, to stand on stage in my blue and gold and wave the school flag, knowing that I’m meant to be here. So I ran for class rep. I petitioned table to table, got signatures from people I’d never met before, sent out snap infographics, and shouted “vote for me” down the hallways at random people in my grade. Even so, on one disheartening Friday afternoon, my name did not appear under the “Congratulations!” the subject line of the email. Immediately, I entered a chain of self-doubt: I wasn’t good enough, nobody liked me, I said too much, I was too pushy, I was boring, and I was never going to be a class rep. And that very afternoon on my way to tennis practice, Mr. Co-President-at-the-time decided to ruin my mood further. He said this to me, precisely, “I really thought you were going to win, Zoe. I really did.” Thanks, I did too.
The second and third times I ran, I was stranded 8,000 miles away from my classmates on the island of Taiwan, separated by the largest body of water on Earth, adopting a nocturnal schedule to attend school synchronously. I spent two years alone in the darkness, on a tiny island in the Pacific, cut off from all my friends. My only companions were my parents, my grandparents, my sister, and my dog. I would gaze at the smiling faces of my classmates taunting me through a screen, moping in my bedroom at night, hoping to feel a fraction of their spirit. I wanted to be back at school, live in the dorms, go to class in a classroom, practice with my team, win Head’s Day, and go to that Breland concert. I wished so desperately to be there, with my friends, but all I could do was stare at a screen and watch. And at the same time, I didn’t want to be forgotten, just lost in the COVID chaos. I was jere, in Taiwan, and all my friends were there. I couldn’t help but feel left out. But I knew I wasn’t alone on the other side of the planet, so I ran again, knowing that I could help others in my position.
Of course, I didn’t get class rep. I cried and cried and cried, wondering what I did that made people so averse to having me as their class rep. It was a punch to the gut, three times over. After a zoom conversation with Ms. Rodrigue, who told me that there are other ways to make a change on campus, I reevaluated my reasons behind running for class rep. I realized that I wanted to make people feel like they belonged at Peddie, I wanted to create a space where people felt safe, and I wanted to feel the way that I hadn’t. So, I got involved with DEI and started the AAPI affinity group with my friend Cat, all to create that sense of belonging I was truly seeking. I was one step closer to my goal, but a part of me still itched to be a class rep, because I knew I could do even more and I didn’t want to let down my freshman dreams of being a class rep.
As a junior, just last April, I took my final three shots. I ran for co-president first, and fully air-balled it. Cried me to sleep. Then I ran for class rep, knowing it was my last chance to be one, and maybe, at most hit the backboard. I cried even more. And then, I ran for faculty-student senate, taking my final shot at Peddie.
I went through the whole process all again, the third time in the month. I got fifty signatures, put up posters, talked to people around me, and wrote my candidate statement. And I submitted my candidacy, one last time. After 6 misses, the seventh finally went in.
In Latin, we play basketbear, a version of basketball with stuffed hedgehogs – if you make the shot, you don’t have to translate, if you miss, you do. I’ve translated a lot in that class. But on one particular day, Doc decided to test my inability to make a shot in a mini hoop positioned five feet away. I had to make one (because I play basketball and was atrocious at basketbear) before we could leave class. In front of my chanting classmates who placed bets on how many shots it would take for one to miraculously fall in, I affirmed their belief in my lack of talent. I took 29 shots, consecutively, before one finally went in. This made one Brad Derfner very, very sad because he bet that it would take me over 30 shots to make it but I was against the odds in more ways than one. Nevertheless, I made it.
Of course, sometimes I feel a pang of sadness because I won’t wave a flag on Blair day or start an Ala Viva or sit on some football PG’s shoulder holding the Potter-Kelly cup. And sometimes I get graciously humbled in front of my class over and over again. But I know I will regret not trying. And even so, I still get to make a difference in your Peddie experience and mine. After four years (one and a half of them being remote), I can scream the Ala Viva and know I’m meant to be here.
As Bennett said, these outcomes don’t matter. You took the shot.
So take that shot at that person you’ve been eyeing in the gym or the library, take that shot in Latin class (you’ll definitely be better than me) and for you non-seniors, take a shot at the class rep, maybe you’ll get it and maybe you won’t (in my case) but hey, at least you took the shot.
Summarized best by the Wayne Gretzky quote hanging at the back of every athletic office, “you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take.”
So just take the shot.
