So, in church on Sunday, the teacher threw out the all so familiar question: "Who wants to scribe for me today? Any volunteers?" There was silence for a good fifteen seconds before a boy- that we will call "Boston"- decided that he was up for the task. As he stood up, he tripped over the chair. Then, when he was passing the podium, he once again tripped over that. The whole scene was humiliating at best, and five minutes after being called upon, he finally reached the board, dry-erase marker in hand.
The first thing I thought to myself was: "Clumsy people usually aren't good at spelling. Or grammar. Or spelling or grammar."
I feel that I need to give a little background on myself: I love to spell. When I was in first grade, I read so many books that I was given a plaque for having read the most books in first grade out of any of the other kids- probably ever. I read 320 books. I still have the photograph of me with my knobby knees standing in the front of the classroom hugging my new most prized possession. I still have that plaque in some drawer at home. Then, in second grade, I signed up to participate in the spelling bee. I practiced every single day with my parents. Have you ever seen "Akeela and the Bee?" Yeah, I was Akeela, and I was perfectly self-absorbed, practiced, and ready.
However ready I might have felt that morning, never would have prepared me for how I felt approaching that podium during the actual spelling meet. I had forgotten the small factor of nerves. I was given the word: poison. I don't know what came over me, but instead of spelling it: p-o-i-s-o-n, I spelled that word: p-o-s-o-n. I spelled a word that I'm still to this day not even sure exists. Maybe it does somewhere, but that's not the point. I embarrassed myself and spelled it WRONG. I was determined to prove my worth.
So, when I was in the fourth grade, I was given another opportunity to do just that. I had practiced even harder, and even more consistently. I had my parents read me words for hours a day, and could think of nothing else than spelling. I made it through round after round with my parents proud and smiling in the audience- until there were four of us left. Four survivors from the original pool of about forty- I was in the top 10%. I heard my number called, and approached the microphone. The lights were so bright in my eyes, that I could no longer see my parents, or make out any kind of definite shape for that matter. I was calm and focused-- %#$&!! I heard the buzzer after I spelled the word "succession" wrong. I wasn't as calm as I thought I was, and rushed down off the stage crying.
This story DOES have a happy ending, just so you know. In the sixth grade, after I had conquered a little bit of my stage-fright, I made it to the final two and spelled "haughty" wrong on purpose so that I wouldn't have to further stress myself out by continuing competition. So, like the washed up speller I am, I just watch the national bee every year re-living my glory days.
Now, back to my original point: clumsy people can't spell. The scribe "Boston" was supposed to be writing all the types or genres of people that Jesus the Christ healed. The class was calling out answers like: the blind, the dumb, the lame (some snickers followed that one), and then finally the lepers. He paused on that last one. I wanted to scream: "YOU SPELL IT L-E-P-E-R-S," but I thought it best to wait and see if he could get it on his own. With much support and convincing, he spelled it out best he could. I almost passed out. I looked at the board and it said:
The blind
The dumb
The lame
The leopards
Jesus healed the leopards.
I might never go to class again.
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