Spelldown

Spelling bee… the words still set my stomach churning like a washing machine. Stuck in traffic this week, I heard the news that the national Spelling Contest had ended, anointing a new champion who took the title by correctly spelling the word “knaidel”–a kind of dumpling.

I could imagine the relief and joy of the winner, because once upon a time, I was a spelling champion. Nothing as grand as a national winner, but I was crowned spelling queen of of Will County, w hich covers a lot of territory in northern Illinois. Like many others who trod that path toward spelling glory, I had been over my share of bumps.

There were hours spent lined up against a chalkboard ( remember those?) firing squad style, hoping to hear your teacher pronounce a word that was at least familiar. When I emerged as the school champion at St. Patrick’s Grade School, I got to skip math class and practice with a coach in the principal’s office. Back at home, my mom would drill with me for hours, putting pencil check marks next to words I missed.

When I reached eighth grade, I was in the county finals. My winning word was “eucharist,” a clear sign that my win was divinely ordained. The first prize was an all expense paid trip to Washington DC for me and my mom. For a kid who had never even spent a night in a motel, it was a glamorous ride. We were accompanied by reporter from the contest’s sponsor, the Joliet Herald News, which chronicled my daily adventures. There were photos of me packing my suitcase on our dining room table surrounded by my family, and embarrassing headlines like ‘Ev Kisses our Champ,” an account of my meeting with the late Senate Minority leader Everett Dirksen. A black limousine squired us all over the nation’s capital, with the newspaper picking up the tab. But it wasn’t the Lincoln Memorial or George Washington’s home on the Potomac that I remember most.

The Washington Monument was still surrounded by the tents of Resurrection City; squatters bearing witness to the nation’s poverty and racism. My chauffeur would whisper about the riots that had wracked the city– and many American urban areas– after the murder of Martin Luther King in April. I saw John Kennedy’s Eternal Flame at Arlington and new grave of his brother Bobby who had been assassinated just two weeks before on the night of my eighth grade graduation.

It was 1968. And I was the spelling bee queen of Will County.