Forget-Me-Nots

By: Emma Henderson

I don’t know what ever motivated me to do KUNA. Maybe it was friends, maybe it was an early fixation on college applications, or maybe it was just me trying to find something to do. I don’t know what made me do it, but I did, and well, it was definitely more than I bargained for.

The workload was fine, but that after-school club filled me with so much anxiety that I wonder sometimes if it was worth it. I guess it was, because now it gives me something to write about.

It was January of 2019. I was just starting the second half of my eighth grade year. I had heard about KUNA from a few of my friends, and had been debating as to whether or not I should do it. I eventually made the choice to go through with it, because what else was I supposed to do all the time? Homework? I wasn’t running track then, I had quit lacrosse, and the soccer season hadn’t officially started yet. Out of everything else, KUNA seemed like the best option.

The first week went smoothly. I was in a group with all of my friends, and we had been assigned to do Armenia. We split the group in half, so that some of us would be gathering information and designing our booth while the others worked on the pièce de résistance: the bill.

Because I was new to KUNA and had a crippling fear of public speaking, I assigned myself to the booth, but also worked as an honorary member of the bill committee. I was kind of a link between the two groups. I had access to both Google Docs and attended all of the meetings to keep everything in order.

Everything was going smoothly. Or at least, it seemed to be. Little did we know that behind the curtains, there was a nightmare creature waiting to pounce on us: the sponsors’ announcement.

By that point, we were already a few weeks into our work. We weren’t as far along as the other groups; but my group was taking our time with the fine details to make sure everything was perfect, rather than getting through it as fast as possible.

On that fateful day, we walked into the room, and the atmosphere just felt different. None of us had heard the announcement yet - or had a clue that there was even going to be an announcement. We all filed into the tiny STEAM classroom, throwing our bags and instrument cases on the floor behind us and pulling out devices to work on our pieces, because what else were we supposed to do?

Once everyone was seated, the sponsors called for our attention. I remember this wave of dread rolling over my body, just from the way that they said it.

One of the sponsors cleared his throat, and said, “We just received word earlier from the higher-ups that we signed up for too many countries…accidentally.”

He let his words simmer for a moment before he delivered the final punch: “That means one of the groups will have to be eliminated.”

My heart stuttered. All of our work, all of our dedication. It could’ve been for nothing. “We wanted to give you a chance to show us how far along you are before we decide. Please prepare a brief speech on your group’s status,” he finished.

Tears prickled in the corners of my eyes. I’m a naturally emotional person, and so I told myself I was being dramatic as I tried to wipe my eyes. But with one quick sweep of the faces of the people in my group, I knew my disappointment wasn’t misplaced.

As hushed voices began to fill the room, much more somber than they usually were, my group met around a table to convene and discuss whatever plan we could try to pull together in 5 minutes. We pulled up the Google Doc, only a page or two long. No matter how much I scrolled back and forth, no more words appeared.

As we looked through all of the information we had gathered, all of the sentences picked over with a fine-tooth comb and filled with hand-selected words, we realized that there was no way that it would be enough to save us. Not yet.

We nominated a spokesperson and watched in near-silence as the other groups made their cases. There was a tiny part of me that hoped that by some miracle, our research would’ve been more valuable than theirs. But as we listened to presentation after perfect presentation, I realized that any hopes I had were futile.

After what seemed like another full school day in itself, my group and I made the walk of shame up to the front of the room. Though only a couple of members were speaking, we decided that we would all go up together.

I bit the inside of my lip and tried to take deep breaths because there was no way I was going to let the girls from Barbados and Bangladesh see me crying over an after-school activity. No matter what I did, though, the redness of my face and the dried tear tracks were impossible to hide. You could feel it in the air, in the very way that words fell from our speaker’s mouth, how much we cared about this.

The speech was given in a haze. We presented what meager information we had; and though we had put love and time and dedication into it, it was nothing compared to what the other groups had done. When we finished, we walked back to our table, heads hung, ready to accept whatever fate was bestowed upon us after the last group undoubtedly outshone us.

I was silent as the other group walked up, fiddling with the strap of my purse and going into the fifth stage of grief. I eyed the bag of fake flowers we brought in, planning to cut and arrange them to go on our sign for the festival. In our research, we came to the conclusion that the Armenian national flower was a forget-me-not (spoiler: it wasn’t, but that didn’t matter; they still matched the flag).

As the final group - El Salvador - began their presentation, I forced myself to turn my eyes to the front of the room and tune in out of respect. As I said, the acceptance was beginning to set in; but as El Salvador’s spokesperson gave their report, my brain kicked it away because suddenly, it seemed as though I wouldn’t need to reach that point.

El Salvador was barely as far into the process as we were, maybe even further behind. Their bill was weaker, and their information less thorough (even though our information about the flower was wrong). Maybe, just maybe, we stood a chance.

As they wrapped up their presentation, the sponsor replaced them. “It’s time to vote on who goes. Write down two groups that you think fell behind the others.” He passed out little scraps of paper, and when I got mine, I quickly scribbled down El Salvador and Armenia. We were going to be getting votes anyways, so I figured I might as well own up to our shortcomings.

He collected the papers, and he and the other sponsors counted up the votes. The moments in between his words seemed to drag out into a small infinity. Finally, he went back up, and announced that it was down to El Salvador and Armenia, just as we figured. Because Barbados and Bangladesh’s names stayed off the ballot, he left it up to them to choose.

I was sure we were done for, considering Barbados was friends with El Salvador, but when he gave them the chance to speak, they said that our bill was done better. 1 vote down, 1 more to go.

Bangladesh stood up, and simply announced that they thought we were further along with our work, but that we still had quite a bit to do. I blinked, waiting for the final blow; but it never came.

The dust had settled, and the sponsor announced to El Salvador that they would have to merge into a different group. As most of them joined Barbados, I’m pretty sure I cried again; but this time, they lacked the sadness that defined the earlier bout.

It looked like everything would go well, at least for the foreseeable future. We got back into the swing of things, working on the bill and developing the booth even outside of arranged meetings. We got to put the flowers on the sign; and though it wasn’t the prettiest and was technically incorrect, just the sight of them made me happy.

Soon enough, the deadline for the bill grew closer, and we began presenting to the rest of the chapter. Going into the presentations, we could feel the pressure on us. Because we survived the eliminations, we knew that our bill had to be flawless if we wanted to justify our place.

And it was. We thought so, and the sponsors thought so.  In the end, that should’ve been all that mattered until we reached the actual committees at the conference, right?

Right?

In the bill presentation at the conference, there is always a Q and A section before the voting begins. This is meant to make sure the entire bill is clarified and that the countries get their points across completely. Because it was so vital to a group’s success at the conference, we started doing simulations of that in class.

After the first one, whatever confidence I had in our success was shattered. Not because our bill wasn’t good enough, but because the questions the others asked us were well beyond our research and the needs of our bill. The questions from the group also made us reiterate points that we had already made. I was sure that we covered everything; and when our group conversed afterwards, they agreed. Slowly, the realization began to dawn on us.

After the eliminations, lasting bitterness and tension still lingered in the groups. Because we made it through despite being days, even weeks behind, they wanted to see us fail.

Out of spite, we spent countless hours planning out the weirdest, most specific questions about our bill and our intentions, and even more spent making sure the details of the bill were highlighted enough to where we wouldn’t need to repeat them over and over and over again.

Faster than we expected, the conference rolled around in late March. I packed my bags, put the finishing touches on our section of the booth, made sure we all had the pieces of our attire for the festival, and set off to the Crowne Plaza.

The festival and the parade of countries went smoothly. I remembered our information, we showcased our bill, and everyone there was lovely. The festival wasn’t the part that I was worried about, though. The next day, we would be going to conferences. That would be when we would present the bill.

I woke up sick the next morning. We stayed up for hours listening to “In the Hall of the Mountain King” by Edvard Grieg, watching Beat Bobby Flay, and eating gummy worms; and I could feel it catching up to me. Nonetheless, I dragged myself out of bed and got ready to go to my committee meeting.

For the next hour, I listened to people ramble on about their bills as we sat in the freezing cold ballroom. After they finished, we would ask questions, vote, rinse, and repeat. I don’t know how many we ended up listening to; they all seemed to blur together. Eventually, though, we finished. I checked my phone for the first time since entering the room and then my timetable.

Our committee ended early, but the others were probably still going on, which meant that I had the chance to go catch the rest of our group reading our bill. The part of my group in my committee and I went over to the spot where our sponsors were standing and asked if we would be allowed to go watch them. I had gotten the number of the room they would be in earlier that morning, so we knew exactly where to go. After a couple of minutes of thought, our request was finally approved, and we were allowed to go.

I speed-walked down the hallway, watching the numbers of the doors go by until I saw the one the others were in. Quietly, I opened the door, and stepped into the room.

We arrived there just in time. Our group was up at the front of the room, just having started reading the bill. We watched in silence for a moment before they finally saw us. At that moment, I felt a little bit of the tension in the room fade away.

They read through the bill, and then it was time for the Q and A section. As questions trickled in, I saw that we had an answer for every single one, thanks to the seemingly pointless questions we endured just days before. 

As the question limit was reached, the person in charge dismissed the other countries to discuss whether or not they would vote to pass the bill. I held my breath, making eye contact with the members of our group, waiting in anticipation at the front of the room.

Slowly, the other countries began to raise their signs, signifying their votes. I held my breath as they counted, and time seemed to stand still. Finally, the people at the front of the room hit the gavel against the desk and declared that our bill had passed.

Our group returned to their seats quietly; but that night, we spent the entire party celebrating our success.

I guess the moral of the story is that even when it seems like the entire world is against you, you just have to keep persevering. It’ll all work out in the end.