Photo by Eric Brady | The Roanoke Times

Amy Sailer, one of 46 seniors at Salem High School qualified to be valedictorians, gives her speech during a competition for the senior speaker. The seven competitors were judged by faculty members at the school.

Her voice is clear as she stands at the front of Mr. Ingerson's classroom. She speaks from behind a wooden lectern scrawled with a graffiti of doodles, using hand motions as she compares her years at Salem High School to a day at the zoo.

The athletes are lions among gossiping geese and wise owl bookworms, and "only the fittest survive," Nitya Reddy explains to a room full of judges.

Her high school days are coming to a close. Graduation is approaching, and with a grade point average above 4.0, Nitya has secured a spot as a valedictorian.

There's just one more big test -- getting chosen to speak at graduation, which takes place today at the Salem Civic Center.

Years ago, the high school did away with its traditional class rankings. Instead, any senior with a 4.0 GPA or above is considered a valedictorian. Forty-six of roughly 270 graduates qualified this year, so when it comes to deciding who speaks at the ceremony, seniors must audition.

It's a tradition shaped and solidified over the years, guided by the school's forensics coach, Mark Ingerson. It's not a typical approach, but the process, Ingerson believes, results in better speeches.

"They all know everyone else is really good," he said. "They raise the bar among each other."

Before, graduation involved begging the valedictorian to finish the speech at the last minute. Before, speeches carried the same cliches. Before, the valedictorian made A's, but it was a crapshoot as to whether they were an ace speaker.

This way, the speaker really wants that place of honor.

As the years pass, Ingerson said, members of the class of 2008 may forget the speechmaker's name. They might not recall the topic. What they will remember is that at graduation, they heard a good speaker.

A strict process

Nitya retreats to the hall at the end of her speech, where her fellow competitors gather. She stands against the wall -- looking and feeling defeated -- with eyes closed and arms crossed.

"I'm not going to get it," she concludes. "It was completely perfect ... and I lost my place."

"They didn't even notice," senior Leanna Minix, who is also trying out, tells Nitya.

"I'm so mad because it was a really good part," Nitya continues.

Seven seniors auditioned last month with speeches comparing high school to architecture or a box of crayons. There's a piece about a Salem teacher who recently died; a speech that defines character; a motivational talk about survival.

Sometimes, Ingerson said, the final decision is easy. This was not one of those years.

This year's auditioners are published writers and top scholars and budding actors. Two are state champions in forensics. All faced the same challenge -- squeezing an introduction, three points and a conclusion into 400 words and a few minutes.

Salem is not the only school where valedictorians audition -- Glenvar, Hidden Valley and Cave Spring high schools all do the same. But over the years, Salem has developed a ritual.

It starts with Principal John Hall personally handing each candidate a packet of information and deadlines. Then, students must file an intent form with the guidance office. They draft a speech and are required to meet with Ingerson at least three times to tweak the talk and prepare to perform in front of judges.

It's an inflexible, "self-weeding" process where even parents get copies of deadlines. The unbending rules were formed one year when a student admittedly turned his intent form in late. When Ingerson refused the senior's application, he was the target of parental complaints and accused of not liking the student.

Now, he never makes phone calls, never begs or chases down senioritis-struck students.

The rules are simple -- if you don't do the work, you don't participate.

A decision is made

The hall outside Ingerson's room is where the nervous seniors cluster. It's where they pump each other up before auditioning and ask how their speeches went afterward.

It's where Leanna serves as the mother hen, handing Rachel Gresham a bottle of water after her speech about architecture, her intended major.

"How'd you do?" she asks Rachel.

"All right," Rachel says between gulps. "It's not the best it's ever been."

Rachel places her hand on Leanna's arm.

"Whoa," Leanna responds. Rachel's hands are cold and sweating and shaking.

They stay together in the hall. Except for Matt Constanin, who wanders away from the group after giving his speech using Aron Ralston -- the Utah hiker who amputated his hand and part of his forearm in 2003 -- as an example of survival.

"Matt," Leanna calls. "How'd you do?"

He spins around.

"It went well."

He drifts into an empty classroom, his hands and rolled-up speech clasped behind his back, pacing the room.

Compared with the past, this is a large group. Often, Ingerson said, the very top scholars don't participate, maybe because they lack confidence in their writing or have a fear of public speaking. The graduation crowd, after all, includes a few thousand people at the civic center.

But for these seven, who audition with loud voices, big facial expressions and Hamlet-esque "to be or not to be" gestures, nerves are hidden from the judges -- an array of teachers, the school's security officer and a worker from the guidance office. It's a varied collection who, Ingerson says frankly, meet the qualification of being free to judge during second period.

When the last of the bunch, Matt Lipscomb, finishes his speech about principles he learned from a geometry teacher who died, the group still nests in the hall and lingers. The judges will deliberate, but winners won't be notified until day's end.

Noticing the students are going nowhere, Ingerson pokes his head into the hall and asks the group to scatter.

"Guys, thank you so much," he tells them. "It was very impressive."

Behind closed doors, Ingerson points from judge to judge, asking for their first and second-ranked speakers.

"Excuse me," retired Salem High teacher Joyce Noell says during her turn. "I was wiping away a tear."

Ingerson's marker taps the white board as he records scores and ranks, writing numbers below a Salem Spartans clock ticking away minutes until next period.

The tone sounds and students start gathering outside the door as judges calculate who will be graduation speakers.

They agree on the results -- based on a mixture of presentation, sincerity and what they think the crowd wants.

Matt Lipscomb is first with a speech honoring his teacher. Matt Constantin, who spoke of survival, earns the second speaking spot. Letters for the two -- and an alternate -- will be waiting after school in the main office.

With their verdict made, Ingerson collects the judges' score sheets for shredding.

Touched by what she's seen -- and having knowledge of hardships many of these speakers have overcome -- Noell, the retired teacher, leaves Ingerson with a thought.

"I'll remember this."

Ceremony

Salem High's graduation takes place today at 2 p.m. at the Salem Civic Center.