Spelling Bee

Elisabeth awaits the bee.

It's December 3; it's international spelling bee day for Elisabeth, who finished in the top 2 of her 5th grade class spelling bee. She and I will travel to Kwangju, about a 4-hour drive to the southwest coast of Korea.  We wake with difficulty at 4:30am – even before Nick, who is often to his office by 6.  Elisabeth and I had showered and packed our bags the night before, so we quietly dress, collect the Kindle, laptop, and camera battery from their respective chargers, and debate over final clothing selections.  She and I have had some trouble these last few days, and I am not at all sure I have the patience to spend 15 hours together.  After a quick goodbye kiss to Nick we dash to the elevator and trot down the dark road to school, our clicking heels marking our progress toward the brightly-lit rented bus.

Once aboard, I am immediately thrown by the cross between Greyhound and an Indian parlor.  The seats are a plush maroon with gold swirled throughout; quilted sateen pads cushion each headrest.  Heavily-tasseled golden valences swing above the large windows’ shimmery curtains, neatly pulled back into silver rings. Nets and fold-up cup holders are ready on the seatbacks for our smaller belongings; the overhead bins await our bags and jackets.  Despite the décor, tell-tale signs reveal that we’re in Korea.  The headrest cushions and no smoking sign include messages in Korean; rolls of toilet paper hang intermittently from the ceiling as a convenience to messy passengers. 

The bus at 5am.

The bus is dark and deadly quiet – one wouldn’t know there are 30 high school students contemplating their day at the Model United Nations.  Elisabeth and one other elementary schoolgirl are the only spelling bee students on the bus –the other ten from Handong International School apparently drove with their parents. Three HIS teachers (Canadian, American, and Korean-American) ride the bus with us and I’m somehow comforted by having native English speakers along. 

The bus stops at a tollway rest area every hour; I wonder if a bus drivers’ union mandates a 10-minute break per hour.  Some kids use the toilet (and, Korean-style, you need to procure your anticipated amount of toilet paper when you enter rather than assume its availability in the stalls); we buy a bottle of water from the vending machine for 600 won (about $0.55).  As the bus heats up at my feet, the windows condense, occluding the sunrise. Elisabeth and I drift in and out of sleep, alternated with reading, snacking, and practicing words like “bourgeois” and “epizootic.” As the sun rises, we smear the water off the window and notice blotches of snow in the shadows.  It’s colder here, but the mountains and terraced rice fields, empty now, still tell us we’re in Korea. As we enter the fourth hour of the drive, Elisabeth feels antsy, restless.  It might be motion sickness from reading; it might be nerves. I find a black plastic bag in my purse (intended for shell-collecting) and she uses it quite discreetly. 

She feels much better as we finally arrive at Kwangju Foreign School.  A tall Korean girl in KFS uniform largely covered by her long wavy hair directs the bus to park in the street.  She uses Korean gestures to point, bow, and say no, but they are not well-practiced; we whisper that she needs to work at the Lotte Department store to learn their oh-so-graceful parking garage choreography.   When we disembark, the girl speaks with a strong American accent – perhaps Californian.  I’m surprised at how happy this makes me.

A view from the front before the bee begins.

The school is a newer brick-and-glass frame, with white-painted cement block walls and plastic wood-grained flooring.  The spelling bee will be held in the basement, which has marvelous natural light from its sunken courtyard.  The 75 contenders from grades 5-8 will have their bee in a long room that I suspect is normally used for a cafeteria or perhaps a gymnastics room.  A banner at the front (Koreans do love their banners) announces the school name and event (SKAC Spelling Bee) with a near-fluorescent cartoon-ish bee.  

A serious student awaits the bee.

We are moved toward the rows of padded folding chairs around 9:30.  The participants sit together by school; a few teachers roam the room; a few Korean parents sit in the far back, where a few tables are piled high with student coats and backpacks.  We wait for the last school to show up; five schools are already here.   We then wait for the coordinators to meet.  Then we wait for mysterious events that might be related to the stacks of copied papers delivered to the judges’ table.   In the meantime, some kids wait quietly, studying their word lists.  Others quiz each other and spell words aloud in unison.  Yet others–Elisabeth included–seem blasé, just looking around or taking pictures with their over-sized handheld phones.  Many wear school uniforms; some are dressed casually in fleece sweatshirts and skinny jeans with thick winter boots.  All are nervous: feet and legs jiggle madly, some rub their faces compulsively, attention is fleeting, jokes are stilted. 

Putting on number badges.

Finally, at 10:10, the bee begins.  The event coordinator, an overweight white woman with an indeterminate American accent, moves through the requisite introductions and welcomes. The agenda, procedures and rules are all in English; I realize the children have been talking in English all this time.   Fifth grade students are called up first, where they draw numbers and select corresponding badges and seats across the front, facing the microphone, judges’ table, and audience.  Elisabeth is speller #2; her naturally red hair is particularly striking in a room with so much black hair and brown eyes.

Elisabeth spelling "sketch" - you can also see the runner-up
for the 5th grade on the right.

The reader finally begins: Dragnet.  Sketch.  Attitude. Humorist. Uppity.  All nine students pass their first round, the three judges nodding slightly after each spelling and the reader verbally confirming, “That is correct.”  Round two knocks out the first student on “presence” – or is it “presents?”  A teacher later challenges the failure to notify the student of the homonym, but the judges’ ruling of “incorrect” still stands.  Elisabeth approaches the microphone for “cheapskate” but speaks too quickly, confuses her letters, and the judges shake their heads.  She sits down, her face red and teeth clenched.  Then another student goes down and the fifth graders are down to six students.

Rounds 3, 4, and 5 proceed with legacy, premium, and bassoon.  Rounds 6 and 7 are the same, moving smoothly through enviable and stubble.  In round 8, the reader puts aside the published word lists from which the students have studied and announces that she will read from The Secret List.  The audience groans; the remaining fifth-graders sit up straighter, their eyes widen.  Holograph, demarcate, and accusatory take down three children; superfluous is correct, then deferential and sturgeon eliminate the last two.  But the tiny remaining girl, soft-spoken but bright-eyed above her cream turtleneck and red plaid jumper, must spell one additional word to confirm her as the winner.  When “viscous” pulls her down, the audience sighs and all of the last 6 are back in the game for another round.

Finally, it is down to the tiny Korean girl, her fluffy fur barrette pulling her long bangs to one side, and a sturdy boy from the same school, dressed in a white button-down and blue sweater.  They battle back and forth.  Sometimes both are correct and sometimes just one, who is then tripped up by the confirmation word.  Finally, the boy spells “barrel” and the girl loses by incorrectly inserting a “k” into “antics.”  She bravely returns to her seat, where her teacher hugs her through silent sobs.  

Elisabeth (5th grade) and Grace (6th grade)

Now, to an American nourished by the self-esteem movement, spelling bees are torturous places of shame and humiliation.  As the tension rose in the room, with attention riveted on each sound from a child's mouth, the mood shifted between hopefulness and heartbreak.  Every child but one must publicly fail, his or her wavering composure amplified by the microphone.  But what I observed was remarkable resilience.  Not by every child, and certainly not right away.  But by lunchtime, even the little ones who had misspelled “eel” or “from” played with friends and held their teachers’ hands and laughed over pizza.  Again and again, I saw children shake off their disappointment and say, “Just wait until next year!”  This kind of character can’t thrive on the sugar water of constant affirmation or the hovering of overzealous parents.  Surely, it can’t survive among the thick weeds of bullying and loneliness, either, but I wonder if, like the pain of vaccinations, a little public failure might be a good part of raising kids. I have a new awareness of and admiration for Elisabeth's resilience in the face of her disappointment, and I was so proud to hear her tell her brother "just wait 'til next year." That's my girl.