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As a a teenager living in an age marked by conflict, dishonesty, discrimination, racial bias, gender inequality. But no one appear outraged about it. Many view minor progress in social equality as solutions to societal problems entirely and it just isn’t enough.”

It’s March 2015, and I’ve done it I had cracked social injustice. Standing in the basement room of Modern Art Oxford during a local round of the Articulation prize, I was convinced that perhaps I just introduced the audience with adults and educators to the concept of feminism. I’m very pleased of my performance.

The Contest

The Articulation prize is an event for post-GCSE students, between 16 and 19, where participants get 10 minutes to present about an artwork of their choice. I was told regarding this by my head of sixth form, and his room I had ended up in just weeks before the competition. During school, I was clever though talkative and easily distracted. Emotions hit me acutely and was frequently overwhelmed and tearful.

My approach was a binary perspective on academics: excel completely or don’t bother. In the office, we discussed my choice to drop history AS-level soon after beginning it thinking it impossible it would be possible for me to finish with an A. “Not everything about extremes,” he implored.

A Chance

Along with my longsuffering art teacher, the director of sixth form saw that the competition proved the perfect chance that I needed – after all I enjoyed art studies, and was suitably gobby as part the institution’s informal discussion group. He suggested I prepare something for a preliminary in-school heat. Recalling now, it seems anyone else applied.

Choosing Art

I chose to speak about the artist’s medicine cabinets, which I had seen at his 2012 retrospective at Tate Modern (a related print remains posted on the wall behind my desk). I’d seen his creations initially as a child visiting Ilfracombe, the north Devon town my elder relative had grown up, and where Hirst operated an eatery, its name, featuring preserved sea creatures, and walls covered with tablet designs. I appreciated the art seemed humorous and rebellious, that he successfully labeling anything as artistic. I loved that my grandmother hated it. But maybe most of all, I loved that, because the medicine cabinet installations were named after tracks on their 1977 album, I could say “Sex” (Band name) several times in my speech. I felt like the most radical young thinker of my generation.

The Outcome

At the regional heat, nine other participants spoke, each presenting more refined historical references, made fewer unqualified, broad claims, and used the word “nonsense” rarely. I was awarded third place. As a teenager who tied most of her self-worth on achievement, typically this meant a crushing blow. Yet then, that people appreciated my talk, and chuckled precisely where I intended, proved sufficient.

Fresh Directions

By the time the organizers asked to present once more, this time as part of an event at the British Museum, I submitted my paperwork to read art history at Oxford. Prior to this, I had thought I was going to apply literature or languages, but certainly not at Oxbridge, believing there I couldn’t become “the best”. Yet the experience had emboldened me and made me believe that my opinions were worth sharing, even when I didn’t speak specialized terms. I didn’t need to be the best: I just needed to add my perspective on things.

Discovering Passion

Talking about art – and finding ways to entertain audiences while I do it – quickly became my guiding light. This contest experience completed itself when I was invited back this spring to be the first graduate judge of an Articulation heat.

The event built my self-assurance outside academics: not that I could achieve major feats, but that I needn’t. I stopped requiring to covet perfection; I embraced my own voice. I transformed from nervous and fragile – passionate but quick to anger – into a person trusting their own abilities. Perfection wasn’t to be perfect. For the first time, being genuine outweighed more to me than flawlessness.

Gratitude

I remain thankful to the sixth-form head who made the effort to comprehend me when I was an obstinate and emotional teenager, rather than simply dismissing me (in retrospect, some irritation would have been understandable). Not everything is death or glory; I realized it is often worth trying without requiring the promise of “victory”.