When I was a junior in high school, I joined my school’s Model United Nations team solely because my Global Politics teacher was leading it. In retrospect, I have to wonder if I was a little hasty in that decision — I had no experience, nor a genuine desire to wake up early every week to debate people I barely knew. Nevertheless, my desperation to pack my college applications with extracurriculars got the better of me, and I somehow ended up as co-president of the world’s tiniest Model UN club (I believe it had eight members, to be precise).
To be clear, I was not elected to this position. My friend and I were the oldest in the club, so we split the role by default. Because my high school had fewer than 600 students, it goes without saying that our startup Model UN team was smaller and slightly less professional than those at neighboring schools. Today, the club has grown and is running more efficiently, likely thanks to the newfound practice of electing leaders who know what’s going on.
I assumed my Model UN days would end once I got to college. With an acceptance letter secured and moving crates to unpack, parliamentary procedure was the last thing on my mind. However, life seemed to have other plans. By some twist of fate, one of my first college friends (a math major, mind you) asked me to attend a club meeting with him during the first week of our freshman spring semester. As an international affairs major, I was recruited to provide emotional support during his first meeting at the Northeastern International Relations Council (IRC).
After the first IRC meeting, my friend only attended a few more before he stopped showing up because of his schedule. I, on the other hand, attended nearly every meeting. Why, you might ask? It wasn’t because I was a natural at debating, that’s for sure. Every Wednesday for my first semester in the club, I avoided uttering a single word in meetings, silently praying that no one would force me to raise my placard. I was in uncharted territory; this club was bigger, the people were older and they all seemed so sure of themselves whenever they spoke.
Three semesters later, I can say with absolute certainty that it wasn’t just the content of their speeches that made them appear well-prepared. After spending my freshman spring as a passive member of the club, I returned in the fall and received advice that changed everything: “Fake it ‘til you make it. No one will question you if you speak loudly and confidently enough.” At first, I didn’t really understand what this meant. In Model UN, you can’t make everything up; despite the creativity that model debate encourages, the foreign policy contexts of each respective country can’t be disregarded (or, they shouldn’t be, at least).
When I was told to “fake it ‘til I made it,” it took me a minute to grasp that I wasn’t being told to actually make anything up. Rather, I was being told to cosplay as everyone else who seemed to know what they were doing. I had just as much background knowledge as other successful delegates, but the quality of my speeches never mattered when I was so clearly questioning myself as I spoke. By using knowledge as a building block and leading with confidence, other delegates could command the room in a way I never previously could. The more sure of themselves they appeared, the more I believed them, and applying this logic to my own speeches is what led me to fall in love with model debate.
I know this whole article may seem like a melodramatic love letter to Model UN, and maybe it is, but it’s also a testament to the power of perception. The minute I started presenting as self-assured, those around me began listening to what I was saying, and I gradually gained confidence as a speaker. Model debate has been one of the most meaningful parts of my collegiate experience so far, and it’s not just because of my love for foreign affairs. Debating has taught me that no one will have faith in me unless I do first, and learning to “fake it ‘til you make it” has proven to be a life skill that extends far beyond committee sessions.