2023 Bee Week musings, pt 1

More need to figure myself out.

As of yesterday, Bee Week 2023 began. Each year, I have less and less involvement with it. The last time I actually went to the bee was 2019. The bee in 2020 was cancelled outright, and 2021 was a near non-event, with only those directly involved with the bee able to attend. Last year was the last year I had any sort of hat in the ring; my erstwhile student Vikram Raju, who I last coached in 2020, was skilled, seasoned, and brilliant enough to become runner-up in the nation. I can now claim to have helped coach students who have earned 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 7th places, among a bevy of lower placers in the nation. Even if my involvement with some of those has been small.

This year is the first year since 2011 that I have absolutely no ties to the bee itself whatsoever. No students competing. But it still has a strong and undeniable tug on me. Just for the fun of it, let's tally up the years I have been involved in one way or another with the bee:

1984–1989: speller (6)

1990: reporter (1)

1995–1997: staffer (2.5)

2011–2020: coach (10)

2015–2021: bee official/pronouncer/word panelist (7)

So...it comes down to just over 20 years of my life that I've been involved with the bee. And a shit ton of experience.

My big fuck-up

It all could have been much better. In 1995, as a staffer, I experienced my first witnessed and diagnosed seizure. As such, I was divided between working at the bee and running around town to get tests run, including an MRI and an EEG. Both came back virtually negative; the EEG showed "mildly epileptiform spikes," barely worthy of a diagnosis. I still performed my duties as well as I could, though there were some indications that perhaps I was not as diligent as I could have been.

In 1996, I fucked up royally, though at the time, I didn't realize it. It took a year of downtime and writing the executive director about returning for me to receive that dreaded email that started, "Scott, I came within one millimeter of not asking you to return to the bee this year." I remember my guts turning to mush in one second upon reading that. I read the grievances, and was dumbstruck. Then I read them again, trying to comprehend them with as much unemotional distance as I could muster, and in shock, I realized that nearly every one of those grievances rang true. It was awful, owning up to my mistakes. And they were big ones. I had to reconcile myself to the fact that my behavior nearly got me fired from the job, the culture I loved. So, severely chastened, I responded, ready to atone and mend my ways.

It was not to be. Within 24 hours of returning to DC for the bee, I received notice that my aunt and uncle had died in a horrific plane crash. This was all the excuse the director needed to send me packing—but for good this time. And when I left, I said goodbye to everyone, hugs and all. I mean everyone. Except the director, who waved goodbye to me offhandedly as she strode through the room I was leaving. She didn't even glance my way. It was frigid. Everyone saw it, and I saw the shock on a number of people's faces as I left.

This disappointment has stuck with me for decades. It shattered my anticipated life's course like a sledgehammer. And it will stand as the single biggest regret of my lifetime.

My near-saving grace

What did, apparently, preserve my status on the bee staff was my compassion toward spellers in difficult positions in 1996. Obviously, comforting spellers who were eliminated was the basic duty. But beyond that, I had to handle dealing with one speller who insisted she could not be onstage next to another speller who was psyching her out. Her mother approached me after the bee and was so grateful for my support. That speller returned the next year and won.

Maybe the biggest success in 1996 was comforting a speller who was favored to win, but who was eliminated far too soon...like, the second round. She cried on my shoulder as we left the stage and strolled to the comfort room. I did my best to help her, but what can you do? It was an hour later that her mother also approached me and cried on my shoulder as well. She had been strong in the presence of her daughter, but she let down her wall once her daughter left and fell into anguish.

It's not like I take comfort in others' sorrows. I just wanted and needed—and was charged with—being there for spellers who were eliminated. And partly because of this, I had been tasked with running the comfort room in 1997 – at least until I left for my aunt and uncle's funeral. (That responsibility was a bit of a punishment, too: this meant that I would not be able to watch the bee at all, since the comfort room was nowhere near the stage.)

Coming around

Interestingly, the speller who was eliminated far too soon in 1996 came back in bee culture in a big way. Hired years later by Scripps, she worked her way smilingly and diligently up the ladder. This year marks her first year as the actual executive director of the bee. I am thrilled to see her achieve such success, and to take charge in the position that she has wanted to hold for decades. We are on good, albeit distant terms, and I just wrote her, wishing her well as this year's bee events begin.

At the same time, I see officials for the bee and feel the sting of having missed out of a great opportunity. I could have stood and worked with them. I can do no more than wish them well from a distance, knowing, of course, that my well wishes are unnecessary.

Oh well. More to come, I'm afraid. I'd like to hash out my feelings this week en masse if possible.