Fryeburg Academy celebrated the finalists of the Annual Speech Prize event on Tuesday, March 18. The event promotes essential skills in communication, critical thinking, and leadership. 

Outstanding students were selected based on their impressive performances during the semifinal rounds earlier this month on March 13. The finalists presented their speeches to peers, family, and community members at the Leura Hill Performing Arts Center.

The FA Band performed during intermission to enhance the evening’s festivities, followed by light refreshments.

Each speech was judged based on criteria including content, structure, delivery, fluency, and poise. First place went to Zoe Daigle ’25; second place to Barbara Zhalezniak ’27; and third place to William McDonnell ’26.

Honorable Mentions went to Sarah Priestman ’25, Elise Dunn ’26 and Camila Luna ’27.

The Winner

A Series of Conversations

By Zoë Daigle

My dad once told me that we are reflections of our blood. Meaning that all that has been, is, and I am just the culmination of the actions taken by my parents and their parents and theirs. I said that would be a cool speech topic, and here we are. And, I guess I’m proving his point just by talking about it at this moment, but I really do feel that I am just a stroke in the picture of my family tree. Today, I’d like to talk specifically about my father: a series of conversations between my him and I, of which I am the result.

My dad used to work a lot when I was younger, staying late or even staying over on occasion at the hospital, so sometimes I recall him as this overarching presence throughout my childhood. Like a spirit, my older siblings would conjure up as leverage to stop Rutger, our youngest brother, from misbehaving: “If you don’t clean up your mess, I’ll call dad,” and then they’d count down from ten and he’d frantically start cleaning and it worked every time. The point is, my dad became this all-knowing, omniscient figure, and I’m still pretty sure he has all the answers.

So, I’m about eight or nine years old and this concept of death is really starting to freak me out. What comes next? Where do we go? I’m terrified, but fortunately my dad should be able to explain it away. For whatever reason, I’ve decided that the best time to get the answers I’m so craving is in the middle of a ride up a mountain via a ski lift.

The air is frigid and the mountain lights are outshining the stars above. Because my dad and I are snowboarders, we take a lift together. It’s silent.

“Dad, I’m scared to die.”

He says, “You have a helmet on, just stay out of the moguls,” so I explain that I meant it in a more general sense and I was not, in fact, experiencing feelings of impending doom over the quad at Shawnee Peak.

“Well, everyone will die, but you have so much time before then. The elderly people that I treat are often ready to go by then anyways—”

“But I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not dying now. You’re skiing.”

And so, we skied. And death wasn’t chasing me that night. And life comes down to the very moment I am inhabiting. What am I doing right now? What are the odds of me dropping dead while delivering this speech? Never zero, but close to it. Fighting the inevitable becomes a false battle. There is no winning, so be here now.

It’s only a few years later, or a million moments, when I’m laying in my old room. The curtains are half drawn and the lights are left out. The day is dying and the sun is low, but the last reflections of light over the snow-covered ground have painted the room blue. My TV is on, but nothing is playing. I’ve not done anything for weeks but sink into my mattress and absorb its comfort. I am grossly lethargic and inexplicably depressed. I can’t explain it or help myself or find a cause. Or maybe I don’t care to— sometimes things just happen, I decided. My dad walks into my room and I still don’t respond or react, just stare.    

“What are you doing, Zoë?”

I say, “Nothing.”

“You are wasting your time,” he tells me. This is a vivid memory. His expression is sad but knowing. There is understanding and contempt. There is fear and there is alertness. “Is this fundamentally who you are, or can you change?”

This question is fatal. I’ve been moved and rocked by it — I don’t know. I don’t think this is who I am… but what have I done to stop it? I don’t get the chance to answer his question because he’s already left, but the question is an answer within itself: No, this is not who I am because this is not who I want to be. I know I can change. I did.

The summer I turned 14, my family was attending a wedding. My early teenage years were rough in terms of self-confidence — internalized hatred was this plague that I could not ward off. So, the thought of doing anything at all in front of 120 people made me physically ill. My dad, on the other hand, loves to dance. He’d hit the floor for hours at a time and beckon others to join him in the process. At some point in the night, as it’s just beginning to thin out, he sits next to me and asks me to dance. Of course, I am reluctant. I ask how he can go out there and throw inhibitions to the wind.

And he says, “I want to be that guy. That guy who is still dancing when everyone else has sat down or left the party.”

And with that he takes my hand and we dance for the remainder of the night. For Dancing Queen and Mr. Brightside and all the wedding songs in between, he really is That Guy, and I am opportune enough to be his daughter. And there is a great lesson to be reaped from all of this: you can choose to enjoy and wring out all the excitement and energy and love and knowledge from the dirty cloth of life. Every drop is invaluable. If my nerdy, middle-aged father can dance the night away at some friend-of-a-friend’s wedding, then so can I. And, so can you.

Some people can dive into a challenge and handle it head on. Some people can leave the woes of life and death at the bottom of a mountain. Some people can dance, not like no one is watching, but until no one is watching. My dad can do it all and then treat a patient the next day with ultimate reservation and duty.

My dad once told me that we are reflections of our blood. I hope to spend my life proving that.

Shout out to my wonderful mother… Sorry!

Thank you.