Spelling Bees

Today at work I got to be a reader for the local home school group's spelling bee. I learned again how true it is that being on the authority side of trauma is gleefully fun.

When I was in fourth grade, Mrs. Carter told me she wanted me to be in the spelling bee. I said no thank you. She said she would talk to my mom. When I got home, I received a lecture on the importance of doing things you don't want to do, because that's how it works in the Real World. What a horrible image of growing up. No wonder I still recoil at the idea of being an adult.

I probably cried to get out of it, but my mother and my second favorite teacher had hearts of stone. They went fake tears, of course. I was genuinely terrified of speaking and worse, performing, in front of the entire grade school. On a stage. Like an oral exam with everyone watching.

I studied words like mad. I did not want to fail publicly. I didn't even want to win; I just didn't want to fail.

The day came, and I got through six rounds. There were only twelve of us left, though I don't remember how many we numbered at the beginning. I walked up to the microphone and heard the word "buffalo." Easy enough. I was so nervous I blurted letters without thinking. "B-u-f-f-l-o."

I turned to sit down, assuming I'd spoken correctly. Nope. I was out. I couldn't believe I'd gotten out on "buffalo." Shame on the house of McGarrahs! All my fears were confirmed. Everyone would forever think of me as an idiot, and no one would ever want me to make signs for zoo animals.

This experience was so traumatizing that, in addition to remembering so many details about that day fifteen years ago, I completely learned my lesson. When the middle school geography bee cropped up in seventh grade, I made sure I missed enough answers on the qualifying test to insure I still looked smart but wouldn't pass me through to the public competition.

A lifetime of slacking and avoiding the spotlight was firmly established.