(Right now, I’m focusing on my memoirist work that I’ll
call, simply, “Pictures of Tommy” -- all about my psychotic brother and his
legacy. If so inclined, please share, and tell me what you think. . . )
SPELLING BEE
Being in a Diocese of Brooklyn Catholic school spelling bee
was a big deal. This is a huge
parish, with millions of people and hundreds of thousands of kids enrolled in
the schools. This annual spelling bee was held for grade eight students. Tommy, of course, was one of the
finalists from our school, good ol’ Saint Anastasia’s; being skipped a grade,
he was also one of the youngest contestants in the diocese.
He made it, in fact, to the finals in downtown Brooklyn
somewhere, in a huge old-fashioned auditorium, with plush seats that pushed
down, like in a movie theater. I
was along that day, and the memory of the tension that spelling bee contest day
twists my stomach as I type.
Every time they’d ask a kid to spell something, I’d spell it
in my head, too. I got most of
them right (maybe that’s why I love playing “Jeopardy!” to this day, the
triumph of the correct answer), and was very proud of my older brother for
doing so well and not cracking under the pressure.
After what seemed like years, a lunch break was called. After lunch, it came down to three
finalists. Unbearable tension in
the air in this massive hall, a dark, dank auditorium that looked like it held
a thousand, at least.
It was Tommy’s turn. “Spell ‘balalaika,’ a Russian stringed
instrument.”
Tommy went, “B-A-L-E--“ and continued, “-L-A-I-K-A.”
Wrong. He was
out. Should have stayed with the
a’s. . . so much for my brother’s moment in the sun for our school. It was back to being the old “Egghead
Agnelli” again.
Of course, I learned how to spell “balalaika” -- how could I
ever forget! It’s no secret why we
were good at spelling in our house: dad would give us 25 cents (equal nowadays
to a fw bucks, easy) for correctly spelling stuff like “Worcestershire” sauce. I remember
going to the refrigerator door, taking out the Lea & Perrins bottle, and
memorizing it.
I remember the secure feeling of my hand, clutching the
quarter. . . And I wondered how Tommy felt, missing that word in the spelling
bee. Did it make him sad? Did it make him mad?
He didn’t seem to have any reaction but a mild shrug. He never spoke about it. That seemed weird to me but then, boys
were different, anyways, how they reacted to things. But with Tommy, really: no
affect.
(graduation photo of Tom, 8th grade -- I'm on the left, and Carrie's on the right -- she's such a cutie!)
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