The One That Got Away or How I Never Made it to the National Spelling Bee

The One That Got Away or How I Never Made it to the National Spelling Bee

 

     I grew up listening to show tunes.  “A Chorus Line” was and still is my favorite musical.  There’s this song called “At the Ballet” and these girls are lamenting how everything sucks in their life except when they are dancing.  One verse in particular seemed to be written about me.   When I was 8 or 9 I thought the lyricist must have been hanging out at our house and listening in on conversations between me and my mom.

     She sang, “Mother always said I’d be very attractive when I grew up-different she said with a special something and a very, very personal flair.  And though I was 8 or 9, I hated her.  Well different is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty.  Pretty is what it’s about.  I never met anyone who was different who couldn’t figure that out.  So beautiful I’d never live to see, but it was clear, if not to her, well then to me that everyone was beautiful at the ballet.” 

     I didn’t dance, but I felt “different” like the girl in the song.  And I felt like I had to compensate somehow for being an ugly duckling of sorts.  At least that’s how I saw myself back then.  I was the second shortest girl in my school.  I was chubby and pale and freckled and round-faced.  I had boring reddish brown stick straight hair.  I was convinced as I entered junior high that I would never date or get married, that no one would ever find me attractive. 

    The only thing I had going for me I believed at the time was that I was pretty smart.  We had a school spelling bee every spring at the parochial grade school I attended in Cincinnati, Ohio in the seventies.   I started competing in fourth grade and I either won first place or placed in the top three in my age group every year until I left for high school in the ninth grade.   

    The spelling bees became an even bigger deal in grades 7 and 8, because the winner of that bee got to go to the regional spelling bee and compete against students all over the Cincinnati area-usually about 50 contestants.  The winner of the regional bee would go to the state of Ohio spelling bee and the winner of that one would go to the National Spelling Bee. 

     In 8^th grade, my final year of grade school I made it to the regional spelling bee.   It was televised.  It was only public television, but I still felt like a rock star.  I was representing my school at a regional competition.   I was going to make it to the National Spelling Bee.  I just knew it would happen.  It would make up for everything-my acne, my thick thighs, and my stringy hair. 

    I have a theory about why I’ve always been a good speller.  It’s not due to anything I’ve done.  I can’t take any credit for it really.  When I hear people speak or see a word in print there is a sort of close captioning going on inside my brain.  As each word is spoken or read it’s as if someone is typing the words across the front of my brain.  I was surprised to learn that not everyone experiences this phenomenon.  In fact, I haven’t met anyone yet who knows what I’m talking about.  It’s how I’m wired, and it helps because once I see a word in print I have this image of it embedded in my brain. 

     I did study for the regional spelling bee.  It was more like training for a sporting event.  There was this book they gave us called “Words of the Champions” that contained something like 10,000 really hard spelling words.  I divided the book up and worked on sections every night in the days leading up to the bee.  They didn’t have to take the words in the bee from the book, but most of them came straight from “Words of the Champions.”

     The big day came in spring of 1978.  I got off school.  I didn’t have to wear my uniform.  Both of my parents took off work to support me.  We drove downtown to the Channel 48 studios where the regional spelling bee was held.  It lasted for about two hours.   In a spelling bee, once you misspell a word, you’re out.  It goes on until there are only two contestants left.   I made it all the way to the final two.  Then if one of us missed a word, the other would have to spell that missed word plus one additional word to be declared the winner and more importantly to earn the chance to go the state spelling bee and then maybe even go to the National Spelling Bee. 

     They gave me a word that wasn’t in “Words of the Champions.”  At the time it was a word I had never heard or read before.   I asked for a definition which didn’t help.   Then I stalled by asking the moderator to use the word in a sentence.  I still had no clue.  In desperation, I said, “Could you say it three times really fast?”  Seriously, I said that.  It’s in the PBS archives somewhere. 

“Matrix, matrix, matrix,” the lady said with a chuckle. 

     There was no template of this word embedded in my mind.  I was certain it had never been “typed” across my brain.   So I just spelled it the way I thought it sounded.

“M-a-y-t-r-i-c-k-s,” I said. 

     The buzzer went off,  and the rest is a blur.  I suppose the winner spelled matrix correctly and then one additional word and then we all left.   All I remember is trying to hold it together long enough to get to the back seat of my parents’ car so I wouldn’t have to choke down my sobs anymore. 

     My mom tried to cheer me up by suggesting lunch at Zino’s, one of our favorite pizza places, but that didn’t help.  I cried like someone had died.   I tried to explain to my mom that I had blown it.  This was my last chance.  I was going to high school in a few months and I’d never get the chance to be in the National Spelling Bee.  It was only for grade school students.  And I really believed deep in my little junior high heart that this was my only chance to excel at something, to do something special.

     My mom put it in perspective for me, “Will this matter five years from now?  Will this even matter a year from now?”  I told her I thought it might matter next year.  She urged me to trust her on this one.  She said I wouldn’t always feel this way, that it would pass, and that I would go on to do things even bigger and better than the National Spelling Bee.   So I took a leap of faith and pulled myself together and ordered a zinover, their version of a calzone, and a Coke.  We went home and sang along to the original cast recording of “The Fantasticks.”  I didn’t cry anymore that day.   

     In fact, I never cried again about losing the bee, and I got over my low self -esteem as I got older.  I got over feeling like I had to accomplish things or win to prove I was okay.  What hasn’t changed is that I still see words in a teletype across my 53 year old brain every day and I still know a lot of show tunes. I’m still short and round- faced, but it’s all good.  Mom was right.