A war drum beat inside of me.
The shaking was unbearable, but it immediately stopped, and I was transformed into a stiff redwood as I arrived at the microphone. The only movement came from the myriad of spinning words that acted like a bull-strong wind seeking to strip me of my leaves. For the past few months, these words would not leave me be. Sometimes, I cried a little inside from frustration as new words were added each day and each word clamored for attention, demanding special treatment. They each wanted me to remember whether things like their “s” sound was actually an “s” or a “c” in disguise or whether certain letters had identical twins. My father made sure I gave each word special attention; one neglected word, and he would make it a point to make sure that this never occurred again.
“No,” he would say.
I detested that word; it was all he had to say, and I knew what I had done. That word fed my stress like a spoiled child.
“Potpourri, p-o-t-p-p-o-u-r-r-i, potpourri,” I said, confident I spelled it correctly and that he was the one fooled by the word.
“No, again.”
But I must mention the “neglecting” was not always done by me; my father’s accent could sometimes turn already learned words into something brand new. “Xerophilous” became “Esterophilous”; my dad and X’s were not great friends. This was life for the months leading up to the ACSI Regional Spelling Bee.
The months passed faster than anticipated, and I found myself in Wonderland the night before the bee. Never before had I been to Pennsylvania, and I saw Amish people for the first time. Picture me as someone on an African safari who saw lions that didn’t lie flat on a page. Hotels had always been things I drove past, until that trip. I thought to myself that there couldn’t be a nicer hotel; I had found the world’s greatest hotel right there in Lancaster, PA. I refused to let anything ruin this other-worldly experience; I wanted to drown the words into the pool until they stopped moving. But, I knew I couldn’t. The room number matched the date of the Bee: “222” (Feb. 22), branding in my mind the reason I was here. My dad couldn’t make it to Lancaster so he called with the persistence of a telemarketer. Seeing other spellers offered some comfort because I could sense they were just as nervous as me, or I thought I could. I knew, however, that they had also been tormented by words.
The night before, I had a delectable, juicy bacon cheeseburger with crispy fries and a sundae bathed in hot fudge. The morning of, I could only stomach two bites of a muffin despite my sister and mother encouraging me to put something in my stomach, but nervousness already filled my stomach. I was dressed for my funeral; all I wanted was to rip off my black suit and jump back into the pool.
The spelling bee was as civil as that sort of competition would be, but looks did deceive. The spelling master, who resembled a business casual Mrs. Claus, began the bee by calling up the first of 40-plus victims, or, should I say, spellers. Almost every speller was engaged in some sort of mental battle either with the stubborn words or other spellers. We longed for the other speller’s misfortune and so did their parents, wishing their child to be left standing. I went as far as trying to telepathically insert incorrect letters into the mind of any speller who was at that microphone. It was ridiculous, but it helped to deal with the tenacious nervousness. Cheers of congratulations that masked pity arose when a speller would fall. However, the surviving spellers knew each casualty was a step closer to triumph; the tension grew. I knew the same “attacks” occurred when I was at the microphone. I couldn’t remember the exact words I spelled, but I remember the sweet feeling of relief when I would conquer a word. I was like a soldier relishing survival after each battle but perpetually afflicted with the uncertainty of what was to come.
I survived until late into the war, when I was snuffed out by a word that I do not recall. However, the injury was not life threatening; I placed fourth and qualified for the ACSI National Spelling Bee. I held my plaque the entire train ride home, relieved that I had survived, but also wary of the future that would involve more and more words. “Terrapin” was the winning word, but I do not remember it solely because it was the winning word. When we arrived at home, my sister, who attended the University of Maryland, surprised me with a “Terrapin Basketball” sweater that she bought before the bee.
Every time I take the train home from Middletown, I pass by the same Lancaster train station. It reminds me of my experience. It is not the night in Wonderland that sticks out in my mind. I have been to more hotels and I have witnessed life in Pennsylvania plenty. The experience of a competition in which only select students participate is what I realize I will tell my children about. If they find themselves in the same experience, I will tell them not to toss aside the words that they may find a nuisance, like I did after the National Bee. Learn to love them and learn their story. In the future, you will find them more of a blessing than a curse; you will not see them as a gale trying to strip you of your leaves and knock you down, but as a soothing rain that will help you grow.
Joseph Sasu Jr. is an information sciences and technology major heading into his third year at Penn State Harrisburg, where he is a member of the Capital Honors College.
