I just watched Jeffrey Blitz's documentary, Spellbound, about the 1999 National Spelling Bee, and was completely sucked in by it. I used to be in spelling bees myself, back in the day, so I identified with the kids in the film. The overconfidence, the nerves, the attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, the private tics and mannerisms that suddenly become obvious to the world, the sweet dorkiness of the other contestants (I certainly wasn't dorky), the backstabbing, the stalling for time, the glorious and infernal bell that signals your fall from greatness, and the nauseating re-entry into the dreary world of the proles once the whole thing is over—it's all part of what makes spelling bees so great.

Of course, I only made it as far as the state spelling bee, but that was plenty to clue me in to the backstage-Broadway nature of these things. Everyone's a diva, and everyone really needs this job. Preparation is not a piece of cake, either. You study voluminous word lists. You read the dictionary. You memorize word origins, and you dabble in French, Spanish, and German so you can (theoretically) better deduce the spellings of imported words. And still, you may be given some ancient Sumerian derivative and get knocked out in the second round. Sometimes you've never heard the word in your life, and you have to guess. (My district victory was clinched with "isolette." I still don't know what it means.) During the competition, you're torn between delusions of grandeur and plain old debilitating fear. It's like being severely bipolar for ninety straight minutes. Even those with the most serene expressions are terrified of disgracing their family by misspelling something obvious, like when the boy whose parents were from India had to ask the country of origin for d-a-r-j-e-e-l-i-n-g (he spelled it correctly, but only after a painful, protracted guess).

Another thing you learn as a bee participant is that the press cannot be trusted. The same local newspapers who lionize you on Monday will delight in your losses on Wednesday, lording your failures over you with cruel headlines like "Girl Will Remember Spelling of Allotment." No, really. My home-town paper hit me with that bit of yellow journalism, and boy, did it make me feel good about myself. As if that weren't enough, the same paper included a "quote" from my mom, which was ostensibly the result of an interview, but was merely overheard at choir practice. Ah, the ethical relativism of small-town America.

To be honest, I never had the discipline to be a truly great speller. My parents helped me study for an hour each night, and although this seemed like a lot at the time, it was nowhere near as much as the kids in the documentary. (One of them admitted to spending up to nine hours a day practicing. Holy overachiever, Batman!) So maybe if I'd applied myself more, I'd be wearing the winner's laurel right now.

I coulda been a contender.

I coulda had class.

Or maybe I'd have spelled b-i-c-y-c-l-e wrong and been ostracized forever by my kinfolk. You just never know. I think I can truthfully say, though, that if aliens came to earth right now and brought me a Waybac machine for my personal use, I'd probably have higher priorities than the whole spelling bee thing. (Is that really Vlad the Impaler, Mr. Peabody?)

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