Fbla Training Description

After months of research and preparation, the moment I have anticipated for so long is finally here: the Georgia FBLA State Leadership Conference. Upon arriving at the conference, I head straight to room 211, rehearsing my presentation to the beat of my heels clicking against the tile floor. I am at the conference for one reason and one reason only: to become a state champion. Competing in the category titled Public Service Announcement, I have slaved over the production of a thirty second video for the past three months, perfecting every millisecond of it. With months of handwork and sleepless nights at stake, I refuse to go home without a first place win. If you’re not first you’re last.

At approximately 6:45 P.M., I step into room 211 with a smile on my face. Dressed to kill in khaki dress pants, a white button up, and a black blazer, I adjust my high, sleek ponytail and proceed to the front of the

room. After setting up the projector, I shake the hands of the two judges before me and take a deep breath. For the next five minutes, I present an elaborate speech regarding the production of the video I had poured my heart and soul into. With the rhythm of my heels still clicking in my head, I discuss every step of my production process—never missing a beat. After playing my video and answering a few questions, I exit room 211 with my head held high. The only thought in my mind is how the gold trophy will feel in my bare hands. Rule #1: Never be #2.
After an anxious forty-eight hours, the awards ceremony finally arrives.

When the announcer calls for my competition, I walk up the stairs to the right of the stage, anxious to hear what place I have received. The nine other competitors and I stand shoulder to shoulder in a horizontal line with FBLA officers to the left and right of us. The only view in front of me is the blinding lights beaming into my eyes, emphasizing every drop of sweat rolling down my forehead. A few yards away, directly behind the curtain, the announcer begins to read what every one of us standing upon the stage have anticipated for so long: the results. As the announcer descends down his list—"10th place is...9th place is...8th place is..."—the line of optimistic contenders narrows in width. Every time a name is called, a heartbroken competitor steps out of line, accepts his or her award, and exits the stage. As the line continues to narrow, I am not surprised to still be among the remaining few; I am confident. There is no such thing as second place; either you’re first or you’re

nothing.
Realizing I am seconds away from the moment I have eagerly awaited for, I smile a nervous smile and glare once again into the blinding lights as my breathing and heartbeat suddenly increase. Two of us are standing now; I glance at my fellow competitor and give a friendly good-luck nod as I sympathetically think to myself "poor guy.” My brash confidence is suddenly shattered as the announcer calls my name: “2nd place…from Bremen High School issssss Lexxiii Wyliieeee!” A silver trophy is thrust into my arms, and I am rushed off the stage—to allow the state champion his proper recognition of course. The silver feels icy in my hands as if it too became tired of being labeled second, turning cold as a result. As everyone congratulates me, I glance down at my trophy and read “You’re going to nationals!” etched in the plate, but the only words I see are failure, loser, never good enough. Never good enough is in bold. The only person who remembers the guy who finished second is the guy who finished second.
This heartbreaking tale is one of many instances in which I fell short of first place. For as long as I can remember, I have never been first—always second. Although I have been good at a number of things, I have never been great at anything. As a result of being mediocre at a number of things—playing five sports, playing three instruments, and remaining near the top of my class—I have become the definition of well-rounded. While being well-rounded is commendable, praise is often found in specialization: “That’s our quarterback…She’s an amazing singer….That girl’s the smart one.” If these labels derive from such specialization, what label am I left with? “Oh, that’s just Lexi Wylie…I think she plays basketball and soccer and she’s pretty smart but that’s about it.” Rather than being stuck with such a label, I yearn to be known for something. I want to be introduced as “the runner” or “the smart one” but instead I “play basketball” and am “pretty smart.” No matter how hard I try to escape mediocrity, the curse of being ordinary always comes back to haunt me. For once, I’d like to abandon such complacency. Rather than presenting a mile long resume filled with amateur skills, I want to discover my calling and master it and perfect it. Second place is the first loser.
With a life full of second-place wins, I yearn for a black or white, hot or cold, all or nothing lifestyle. However, is it realistic to accept nothing simply because I do not achieve it all? Ironically, a cliché, ordinary quote answers this question for me: life is not about winning. Through my experiences as “not good enough,” I have come to a shocking realization, one that defies every atom of my stubborn being: life is about losing. Life is about losing over and over and over until the losses push me past my breaking point. Life is about disappointment, rejections, setbacks, and heartaches. What determines whether I am worthy of the gold or the silver is how I respond to these curve balls life throws my way—not what color trophy I receive. Just because I am a loser by definition, I am anything but a failure because I choose to never give up regardless of how many silver trophies I bring home. Despite this realization, I still refuse to be lukewarm, halfhearted, or ordinary. Even if I am doomed to a life of second places, I will continue to hold my head high knowing I put my all into everything I attempt. However, regardless of how many times I bring home the silver, I will relentlessly continue to pursue the gold. Second place always gives you two options. You can go back to the drawing board and make yourself better, or you can quit. It’s your call.