The Power of Two Seconds

One of the most difficult moments I’ve experienced took place on a December day in 2007. As I sat at an intersection, I saw a nineteen year old girl named Kat sprint across a busy street. She had a near miss from a car racing down the 50 mile per hour road, and was laughing as she made it to the median. She and her friend stood next to my car. I was the first car in the left turn lane. Without warning, she unexpectedly decided to cross the rest of the street. She was immediately struck by a fast moving car. A couple of disorienting moments later, I stood over her lifeless body.

Over the past several years I have become more comfortable telling this story. For nearly a decade, I almost never shared this story in its entirety. I’d occasionally mention that it happened, or even share some details, but was reluctant to go deep into what happened. The story was too intense, too incredibly personal and straight up painful to tell.

In November of 2021, I found myself in an unexpected situation. I was tasked with providing three separate acting scripts for fourteen high school students. Most were experienced actors who would be put into three separate ensemble groups where they’d perform a piece no longer than fifteen minutes. Over the span of a week, I read dozens of scripts and ingested lots of stories told by others. With the help of a friend, I found a script that I knew would work for a certain four. They were on board, and ten actors remained.

A creative and gifted student committed to writing a piece for half of the remaining students I affectionately called the tremendous ten. I told myself the rest would be downhill. I mean, I only needed to find a script for five people. How hard could that possibly be?  

To this point, no other casting decisions were publicly communicated to this group. Through conversations and deductive reasoning, I became confident where four of the tenacious ten would land. I began to send scripts to the entire group of ten, hoping one would stick. The scripts I thought had potential were promptly rejected. The responses consistently came from a certain fiery four who read the room well enough to know in which group they would land.  

I was hoping to resolve this challenge on a specific Friday night, so I got after it. I sat in a conference room and fought the discouragement as printed scripts quickly piled up. The late hours swiftly approached which forced me to agree that I would not win this night. 

The next day I reluctantly committed to continuing the search for something five actors might embrace with enthusiasm. Weary and worn, I found myself in an empty school library. I resolved to push through the impending breakdown and persist in the pursuit of the magic script.

An hour into this journey, I looked around for a towel so I could literally throw it in. I was done. This was a task I was not meant for. I admitted my defeat and sat in the stillness of the room. I forcefully breathed out, beginning to embrace my failure. 

I looked around and stared at the old wooden tables, and I wondered how long they’d been in this library. My gaze shifted to the books and I thought about the stories they told. My head whipped around when I suddenly heard these obnoxious sounds coming from the ventilation unit. I had never noticed these sounds before, but now they had my attention, at least for a moment. There was something about that noise that snapped me out of my defeated posture. I recognized I was sitting in the midst of so many stories. After a few seconds, I slowly tilted my head back and lifted my eyes, thinking about this when I said out loud, I should just write a freaking script. I immediately pursed my lips, squinted my eyes and turned my head to the left and said, I know exactly what story to tell. 

Over the next several hours, I wrote a script based on the events of December 27, 2007. The words flowed out with an unexpected ease. I created parts with individual actors in mind, but tried to keep my focus on telling the story well. Wiping my eyes with my tear stained sleeve, I wrote the final sentence and breathed out with relief. My brief satisfaction was ruined with a thought I had not considered. What would happen if the talented thespians were not interested in telling this story? 

I began to consider another possible outcome. What if they felt like they had to tell this story just because I shared it? Neither of those were desirable results. I asked myself, what if they didn’t know it was my story?

I researched the process of formatting scripts. I downloaded the right fonts, found the correct spacing and added a fake author all to mask the script’s origin. Filled with these and other deceptions, I was ready to send it out. On Saturday, November 20 at 3:55PM I took the risk of sharing the script, Two Seconds by “Ronald Travers.” 

The response was cautiously positive. I treaded carefully through the upcoming days, anxiously fearing the tide would turn in the wrong direction. The troubled ten were beginning to “choose their sides” so to speak. The actor who was writing her own script had a few who were going to fit well within her vision. 

In the upcoming days, four of the actors agreed to be part of this Two Seconds ensemble. Four is good, but there was a fifth who was vital to the success of this ensemble. He was the person I envisioned to perform from the viewpoint I had, and he needed to say yes. It had to be his decision, and I was hopeful. When I got the text saying he was in, I shouted YES! I scared the people in Starbucks, but at least they had a story to tell. 

Just over a week after sending out the script, I acknowledged it was my story. They embraced the story but also leaned into the license they had to change how the story was told. They owned the script while staying true to the story. Things started to develop and move forward, and I treaded carefully as they engaged further into developing this piece.

In early January, I watched the fatigued five labor through a rehearsal. I knew they were doing everything they could, but something wasn’t clicking, and they knew it. In what would prove to be a pivotal moment, one suggested they change some of their dialogue. I asked which parts and she grinned and said “all of it!” It was annoyingly satisfying for me as all five began to own their characters. A switch had flipped for these ambitious actors.  

Less than a week later, I watched this fierce five run through the script with their newest adjustments. Somehow within their dramatic interpretation, I found myself transported back to December of 2007. That moment was happening again, but this time with recognizable faces. It took everything within me to keep myself together. My eyes welled up as they raced to the powerful ending. When they finished they all turned to each other to discuss, but one looked over at me and noticed my tear filled eyes. She merely smirked and said , “So it was good?” Yeah. It was good. 

From this moment on, I knew that while the story may be mine, it will forever be shared with these faithful five. 

Over the seventy nine days since they received the script, they pushed through the disagreements, the distractions, and the demands of their time. Each of these fab five are high performing students who spend at least twelve hours weekly rehearsing for the upcoming school musical. I’m fairly certain they have lives beyond that, but who can really say. 

Five high school students took this story and created something beautiful. They poured their passion and creativity into telling a story of the impact two seconds can make on human life. The circumstances that led this specific group to perform this particular piece simply cannot be random. Nobody could have drew up a plan to make this happen. It all seems so much bigger than that. 

Last month they performed the final version of “Two Seconds” at the Iowa High School Speech Association Large Group District Contest. Standing in front of a classroom packed with nearly fifty people, they captivated the room in a way nobody could have expected. After the final line, the room was silent before deafening applause. I stood in the back of the room beaming at them excelling while doing something they love. There was a single judge in this format, and he was stunned by what he had just witnessed. He indicated he neglected to write down comments because he was so engaged. They received the highest possible rating, which meant they would perform two weeks later at the State Contest.

At State Contest, I once again found myself in a classroom. My stomach was churning all morning, nervous for them. The room filled up, and they were only moments from beginning. I closed my eyes, tilted back my head and breathed out a prayer when I heard the first words of the piece, “I’ll never forget that day…”

There were some nuances they added over the previous two weeks that I was appreciating and enjoying. Everything was going so well. I was cheering for them silently and continuing to breathe out prayers to counter every anxious thought. 

The group was racing toward the climax when the actor who approaches the incident from my perspective spoke a line I’d heard countless times before. He said, “We..we locked eyes for a moment.” In that moment, he and the main character look at each other and pause. They do this every time, so it’s not new at all. Somehow, this one felt different.

In a flash, I pictured that moment as it played out in my life fourteen years ago. It was as if I could see Kat’s eyes through the glaring stare of a sixteen year old Iowa girl who was merely two years old when this incident took place. My head pivoted to the left. I looked at my middle daughter playing the role of the driver. I saw the anguish on her face. I shifted my focus toward the middle of the scene and saw the young man who was playing the role of Kat’s friend. He was standing over where Kat would have been. The actor portraying my perspective was next to him. The actor playing the police officer came over and knelt down. My eyes filled up with tears and I once again pictured the scene. I remembered how disorienting it was. I recalled the look on the face of her friend. I was reminded of her lifeless face on the pavement. 

The piece concluded, having been executed with flawless perfection. The room was filled with watery eyes and tears being wiped away. I was overcome with emotion. I sat still for a moment. Without warning, I was hit with an unexpected realization. I wasn’t feeling the sorrow of the loss from 2007. I found myself filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for what I had just witnessed. I embraced the actors briefly in the doorway of the room moments before they were engulfed by a mob of their loved ones. 

I stepped back into the doorway of an adjacent room. I breathed out and just wept. Somehow it was no longer about the accident or about what was lost on that tragic December day. My reaction was tied to the feisty five and a realization of what they had accomplished. They took a story and brought it to life. They developed their characters to enhance the telling of this horrible incident. With my limited ability to help, their performance was beyond what any of us could have imagined seventy-nine days ago.

I walked down the hall and found the group again. I hugged each of them and thanked them for what they had done. With each embrace I felt my throat tighten and the emotion rise.

Somehow this group ended up in this time and place. Our stories intersected and allowed us to be part of something beyond ourselves. 

When their scores were posted we learned they garnered three “one” ratings, which opened another door.  With this rating comes the opportunity to receive the elusive and coveted nomination for all-state honors.

Tonight I joined a group of students in that same library where it all started. I refreshed my browser and turned my computer toward them. They read the words, “Two Seconds” among those who are officially honored as All-State Performers. There were shouts, embraces, celebrations and tears before they ran off to share the news with others. 

I stand in awe when I think of the journey that began at an old wooden table on that November Saturday. I smile when I think of the joy on the faces of the fantastic five. In a couple weeks we will travel together to Ames, Iowa, where they will once again perform “Two Seconds.” They will perform before the best of what Iowa has to offer. Whatever word you choose to describe them, from this point on these favored five should be called all-state performers.