Listen, I don't mean to brag, but I've lost a LOT of spelling bees. I'm pretty good with words. Not "Oscar Wilde at a game night featuring Catchphrase" good, but pretty good. I started reading fairly early (likely the cause of my heathen political and religious views later in life) and generally consider myself to be a reasonably well-read person. So between 1st and 8th grade, I participated in almost every spelling bee that De La Salle could throw my way and was consistently thwarted by curve-balls like these:
The word: Debris.
What I heard: DA-BRLIGHSIN.
"Jessica, spell 'debris.'"
"I don't know what that is."
"Would you like me to use it in a sentence?"
"OK."
"We picked up debris on the sidewalk."
"That told me nothing."
Normally I was an alternate who never had to actually go on stage to spell arbitrary words to a fleet of children who, while not the brightest, were smart enough to know that spelling bees are a waste of time. In 7th grade, however, I was front and center, competing against my best friend (the irritatingly more intelligent than I) Stephanie Crawford.
"Stephanie, the word is IN-TER-GER."
"Please use it in a sentence."
"The number 65 is an IN-TER-GER."
As would be discussed for years to come, everyone in our class knew what an integer was. We also knew that you don't just throw an extra R in there to spice things up. But there sat Mr. More, our Renaissance Fair (and cross-dressing) enthusiast history teacher, with his long white ponytail and permanent sneer, repeating IN-TER-GER as though we were the idiots. Stephanie opened her mouth.
"I-N-T-E...R-G-E-R. Integer."
"I'm sorry, that's incorrect."
INJUSTICE! TREACHERY! FOUL PLAY! He mispronounced it on purpose! Simply to foil a 7th grade girl in a spelling bee. I was more panicked than ever; not only would he certainly do worse to me, I was far less intellectually capable and much more sensitive to embarrassment than my friend (despite my rap years).
"Jessica, spell 'vaccinations.'"
Are you fucking kidding me? I thought. What's your game, More? No way are you pitching something simple like 'vaccinations' after The Interger Affair of 2001. My heart was racing; I was elated at having such a simple word and could feel success tugging me foward, hear the roar of the crowds, see the neutral, head-nodding approval of my parents!
"Vaccinations," I began quickly. "F-A-C--"
My god. I have been foiled by my own hubris, I thought, horrified. I knew I was done. But I'd be DAMNED if I didn't demonstrate that I knew exactly how the hell to spell 'vaccinations.'
"F-A-C--Oh, JESUS CHRIST. It's V-A-C-C-I-N-A-T-I-O-N-S. And I know I spelled it WRONG the first time. God." With that, I unceremoniously stormed off the stage; I might as well have screamed, "SEXUAL CHOCOLATE" and dropped the mic. But something happened as I made my descent into the crowd: applause. Resounding applause and approving laughter. I received slaps on the back and handshakes, we passed around cigars and champagne, chanting, "OH JESUS CHRIST" repeatedly. I'm pretty sure I even saw the panel of teachers smile when I threw my arms up in incredulous defeat.
To this day, I can't go to the doctor without maniacally spelling "vaccinations" in my head, just to make sure I remember how. And at times when I'm feeling particularly lost, depressed, or insecure, I take a deep breath and think At least we can be certain that there is only one R in "integer."
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