Rough Spell

I am an excellent speller. I say this not as a particular point of pride, as good spelling is primarily a function of one's visual memory, meaning that being a good speller is like having an acute sense of hearing or being able to sniff wines and distinguish them from one another, neither of which, incidentally, are also true of me. But spelling: yes. I have an almost robotic ability to detect spelling mistakes in everything from menus and subtitles to actual manuscript copy, which has served me well in a professional capacity but--as my mother is prone to saying--"That and a dime will buy me a coke." I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I remember learning I had spelled a word incorrectly over the course of my life. The most galling occurred twenty-eight years ago this fall.

When I was in fifth grade, my entire school was given a spelling test, a long one, with over a hundred words. The student who spelled the most words correctly in each class was invited to participate in a school-wide spelling bee, to be held in front of the entire school and the participants' parents. The winner of the spelling bee would get not individual prizes but glory and treasure for his or her class, in the form of a pizza and ice cream sundae party to be attended by the principal, new books and dictionaries, and some privilege I can't remember but seemed monumental at the time: first to the cafeteria at lunch or something like that.

As per usual, I knew all of the words on the test. I spelled them all correctly. My teacher made a smiley face at the top of my test and wrote, "Can't wait for our pizza!" On the day of the spelling bee, however, I was nervous. I was going through a self-conscious phase, and I was not thrilled by the prospect of sitting on a stage in front of the whole school. My parents were coming. Fifth graders don't like seeing their parents in public. But there was nothing I could do. The writing, as it were, was on the wall.

When the gymnasium full of kids had finally been silenced, we were a row of fidgety middle schoolers facing the crowd. We had been instructed to write our word each round on a strip of paper given to us for the purpose, then hold it up facing out, so the other kids, teachers and parents could see it. The first few rounds went smoothly. A few kids were eliminated, then a few more. And then it was my turn again. The words had been easy; I had forgotten about the crowd; I was feeling much more confident now. I looked out and made eye contact with each of my parents. I smiled.

When the MC read my word, I smiled. I started writing immediately, so quickly, in fact, that I was asked if I'd like to have my word repeated. No, I shook my head. P-O-S-I-T-I-O-N, I wrote, then turned my strip out, held it up above the desk as we'd been instructed. The room fell quiet, and my classmates, who had been cheering for me each round, looked crestfallen. I met fifty-five pairs of disappointed eyes. But I knew there was a mistake. Anybody could spell "position." It shouldn't have been in the bee.

Next thing I knew, as my face grew hotter and my stomach tighter, the word P-H-Y-S-I-C-I-A-N was being spelled by the MC, and I somehow made it off the stage. Later, back in our classroom, nobody mentioned the spelling bee. "Tough break," the teacher murmured, patting me on the shoulder. But her heart wasn't in it. I could tell.

I was never in another spelling bee. But I am always very careful when I spell the word "physician."