AMERICAN BEE
The National Spelling Bee and the Culture of Word Nerds

The Lives of Five Top Spellers as They Compete for Glory and Fame

Excerpt: The Final Day of the 2005 National Spelling Bee, Washington, D.C.

It’s nine in the morning, and I’m standing on stage at the National Spelling Bee. At this hour the cavernous ballroom in the Grand Hyatt is almost empty, except for Jim Close, father of Kerry Close, who got here early to stake out the best seat. In one hour the great conflagration will begin, the final day of competition, with its massive media coverage, its anxious parents, and its more-than-anxious spellers. But at this hour the ballroom is calm, almost ghostly.

I stand where the spellers will stand, at the microphone, looking out into the hall. Focused on this stage is a set of six spotlights, suspended from the ceiling; they are so klieg-light bright they obscure the top half of my field of vision. With the lights in my eyes the hall appears to recede into inky dimness, and it seems I’m suspended, even floating, over a sea of seats. As my eyes adjust, I see a daunting sight: At the back of the hall, on a raised platform, is a row of sixteen video cameras, all pointed directly at me.

As my eyes further adjust, I notice something still more unsettling. Down in front of the stage is a wall, a kind of barricade, behind which will sit a cadre of judges and officials. In the middle, on a raised platform, are seats for a pronouncer and his assistant. On either side will sit all manner of timekeepers, record keepers, and word judges, all focused intently on whoever stands at this microphone. With that thought in mind, I’m relieved to be a reporter who can step off stage, rather than a speller who will be inspected and detected by this squad of watchers.

As I step offstage, a teenage staffer walks in with the Bee trophy, the 2-foot-tall gold loving cup that today’s winner will hoist high as countless cameras flash. He’s carrying it casually, like it’s just a thing, but as he places it on its onstage pedestal, it assumes magic powers. It gleams, and, most powerfully, it offers its winner a place in the record books. Those who compete today will remember who placed number two, but no one else will. Long after today’s $28,000 first prize is spent, the champion’s name will sit quietly in the record book, and will be referred to with the laurel wreath, Winner, 2005, Scripps National Spelling Bee.

That individual will be able to rightfully boast of having taken an expansive lingual journey; he or she must be conversant in Latin, Greek, French, and a host of other languages, must have a breathtaking vocabulary, and must possess upper-level conceptual skills. They must be willing to work long hours in single-minded dedication to a goal. They must believe in themselves enough to think they can win. And, most challenging of all, they must put all these abilities together in the pressure of the moment, under great stress, as thousands of viewers watch. Today’s contest is about maturity and presence of mind as well as spelling skills. The winner, in short, must be a true intellectual athlete.

All across the country, as the hour nears, people are switching on their televisions, turning to ESPN, and wondering: Who will become the champion today?

The annual gathering known as the National Spelling Bee is much more than a spelling contest. This weeklong get-together is actually a bee in the traditional sense, like the barn-building bees of yesteryear. It’s a gathering of neighbors, in this case from all over the country, with a full palette of socializing: a pizza party, a barbecue, tours of Washington, D.C., and days and nights of nearly continuous chatting.

And it’s a big group. This year’s Bee hosts 273 spellers. Most are accompanied by two parents, siblings, and sometimes a grandparent or uncle; some bring their coach. Filling out the gathering is a full complement of staffers and Bee officials along with their spouses and kids. Altogether, the group numbers about a thousand people.

When this gathering takes up residence at the Grand Hyatt, an 888-room affair four blocks from the White House, it essentially takes over the hotel. The Hyatt features a voluminous open-air atrium and numerous conversation nooks, and the Bee group occupies much of this space, forming a community whose members originate everywhere from Martha’s Vineyard, where the wealthy go to enjoy the Atlantic breeze, to Teec Nos Pos, a Navajo Indian reservation in Arizona.

Over the course of Bee Week, the group feels a range of emotions in tandem, almost like one collective organism. On Sunday it’s the lightness of registration and a pizza party; Monday is the neighborliness of a Memorial Day barbecue, with games and assorted festivities; Tuesday, as families tour Washington, D.C., presents a growing sense of anticipation; on Wednesday, as competition begins, lightness gives way to intensity; and Thursday, as the crowd leans forward in its seats, offers the nail-biting culmination of the Bee’s final rounds. After the group takes a collective breath, Friday provides the feel-good congratulations of an awards banquet, and on Saturday comes a long round of bleary-eyed and heartfelt good-byes. It’s a complete emotional life cycle.