The Emperor of Euphony

Last Friday, Sophia participated in her school spelling bee. The top two spellers in each third, fourth and fifth grade class were invited to participate in the competition that crowns the top speller from each school, presumably to be anointed as the Head Honcho of Homonyms, the Emperor of Euphony, the Overlord of Orthography.

The champion goes on to district, then state, then all the way to Washington, D.C., for the Scripps National Spelling Bee. You know the one, where a bunch of awkward, anxious elementary schoolers fidget and obsess and recite calming mantras before the immense pressure to spell synecdoche and pusillanimous and spondylitis. And then we get to watch them cry when they say "i" instead of "e" or commit some other egregious spelling mishap in front of thousands, maybe more.

Sophia Beeing cool

I went in late to work so I could witness my 8-year-old's certain victory in the contest pitting her against the rest of the mere mortals with mussed up hair, ketchup-stained shirts and untied shoelaces that attend her school. "This is in the bag," I said to myself. I am, after all, a speller of considerable noteworthiness. And we practiced. Hard. Like, 10 minutes a day over breakfast, with the Sugarhill Gang channel blasting on Pandora, and in between sick dance moves across the kitchen floor. (Me, not her.)

Sophia breezes through the first two rounds with patio and sitcom. She's on a roll, strutting to the mike like a gangsta with sagging pants and spitting letters (in the correct order, suckaz!) like Eminem in a rap battle. Quite a few of the 24 competitors go out in the first two rounds, and I truly feel bad for them. I mean, those words were, like, so easy to spell. Maybe they should have studied more.

After the first round, Mr. Lynch, the fifth grade teacher and emcee looks at Sophia, resplendent in her purple leggings and fluorescent yellow sweater that screams, Look at me, losers, I'm all that and a bag of chizz-aps! He wipes his brow and says, "Man, I am getting nervous!" He looks at Sophia and says, "Kensley, you nervous?" And my kid, arm resting on the table next to her like Don Corleone after a successful hit, smiles and says, "Nope."

She is John Elway on The Drive. Pre-fire hydrant Tiger Woods on the 18th tee on Sunday at Augusta.

No pressure

Third round, less than half the kids remaining. You could cut the tension with a plastic butter knife from the school lunch room.

Your word is "Knead." This word is a homonym, it is a verb, and its definition is to work or mix something using the hands.

We practiced this one, I remember, over eggs and toast, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock in the background. My palms and feet are sweaty. I hear my heart beating inside my ears. You got this, kid. K. K. Remember the K.

"N-E-I-D."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Nooooo!!!!! Damn that friggin K!!!

That is incorrect.

I breathe for the first time in a few seconds. Sophia lopes back to her seat, removes the number from around her neck and sits calmly through the rest of the affair. I watch for signs of disappointment, maybe some nerves, shame, embarrassment, trembling, tears, fear of reprisal, severe depression.... But there's nothing. That's because she's a cold-blooded competitor, the Black Mamba of the miniature circuit, ready to learn from failure and train harder—HARDER!!!—to become the greatest speller of all time. You can bet I'll be taking a page from the Tiger Mom and Tiger Woods' dad and setting some serious guidelines for the next few years. No playtime, no sports, no vacations. Just spelling all day and night. Winning is all that matters now.

Later Sophia tells me she was proud to have made it into the competition at all. I tell her second place is the first loser. (No, I didn't...but I could have.)

As a bit of consolation, our neighbor, Lily, and one of Sophia's best friends, won it on "meager." At least the trophy lives on our street.

We'll be making bread everyday for the next week as a punishment.

Ewe Goh Gurl!!!