Fackeltanz

I remember my Nana as a sweet, kind grandmother. I was always one of her favorite grandchildren. I knew it; my sisters knew it. I was the grandchild who was invited down to live at the Jersey Shore for weeks at a time, a privilege rarely extended to my sisters.

She was so nice to me, I think it even bothered my father a little. He once commented, "She is all sweetness and light now, but when I was a boy, your grandmother was a tyrant. We lived in fear of her." He tells the story of when a teenager of coming home late one night, after curfew. Dad snuck into the house, tiptoed up the stairs, slowly creaked open his bedroom door, and, without turning on the light, closed it softly behind him, moving forward in the dark. And tripping over the furniture Nana had rearranged for just this eventuality. As he sprawled headlong over a newly placed chair, she turned on the light next to where she was sitting, launched herself up and at him, and beat him with fury, curses raining down upon his head.

I never saw this side of Nana. Until the spelling bee.

I had qualified for the spelling bee when I was 10 and in 4th grade. In fact, after winning the competition at Red Lion Elementary, I competed in the Montgomery County regionals on the evening of my 10th birthday. These memories came rushing back to me as I watched the National Spelling Bee competition on TV this past Thursday. Each contestant stepped up to the mike, was given a word, asked for its use in a sentence, language of origin, part of speech. Some of them clearly knew the words anyway, but the ritual helped calm them. Others, though, were just as clearly terrified by words they had never encountered in their studies.

Anamika Veeramani from North Royalton, Ohio, had that look of terror in her eyes when presented with the word, Fackeltanz, in the fifth round. "Fackeltands," she repeated. The judge corrected her, saying "Fackeltanz. Listen to the ending of the word. Fackeltanz." Anamika asked for the definition. "Fackeltanz is a type of court dance performed in Germany to celebrate royal marriages." Well, that was helpful. Who even knew Germany had royalty anymore?

The TV commentators said that if Anamika remembered her German spelling rules, this word would be a breeze. I looked an Anamika, and my heart melted. She was one of five people left in the competition out of 293 starters, and she knew her dream was ending. The agony was visible. "Fackeltanz," she repeated, "Fackeltanz. F-A-C-U-L-T-E-N-D-S." The dreaded bell rang, and Anamika's dreams were over. She walked back to her mother and father, who were, with all of the finalists' families, sitting on stage, and she collapsed into her father's arms in tears. After sobbing uncontrollably, she turned to her mother and collapsed into her arms.

I felt the painful flashback to my own spelling bee trainwreck almost forty years ago. I survived rounds one and two with chocolate and initiate. Then, in round three, I was presented the word "militia." I had never heard of the word. "Militia - would you please give me the definition?" "Militia is a part of the organized armed forces of a country liable to call only in emergency." I still had no clue. "Could you please use it in a sentence?" "George Washington's militia braved the cold of Trenton before attacking the British on Christmas night." Still, I had no idea what the word was. "Militia. M-A-" The bell rang. In this competition, they didn't waste time waiting for you to butcher the entire word. They stopped you after the wrong letter. My head swam. The room started spinning. I weaved off the stage, where a young, good looking young man put his arm around me. "What word did you miss?" he asked. "Militia." "Aww, that's a tough one. Good job, man, good job." To this day, his kindness to a chubby ten year old still moves me.

No such sympathetic hugs awaited me as I returned to my family in the audience. My parents faces were full of pride and sadness that my dream had ended, but one look at Nana told me that something had gone horribly wrong. I took my seat between Mom and Dad. Once I settled in, my head still spinning, Nana leaned over my father, her face screwed up in fury. "MILITIA," she hissed at me, the spit flying off her lips. "MILITIA," she whispered again, "M-I-L-I-T-I-A!" I looked at her, dumbfounded. "How could you miss that?" she wanted to know, her voice sounding like a snake's evil hiss. "M-I-L-I-T-I-A! Any idiot would know that." With that, she turned away, confident I had gotten the message.

The night got worse. After dropping Nana off at her house, we came home to find our house had been burgled. The thieves stole one of our televisions, and worse, ruined three door frames with the crow bar they had used to try to pry doors open. My family was in shock, scared that strangers had violated our home. My birthday cards, lined up on the mantel above the fireplace, had evidently escaped their attention, as they had left the money hanging over the backs of the cards. I went to bed, on my birthday night, feeling stupid and scared of burglars and miserable.

I hope Anamika's night was a little better than mine. I hope she didn't have her own Nana waiting for her, accusingly asking her how she could miss such an easy word. I hope her Nana didn't vest the hopes and pride of a family in this little 12 year old girl, and that Nana knew that life throws all of us our own militias and Fackeltanzes. What matters is how we bounce back from them. And while I have bounced back pretty well, I still know how to spell militia.

Old Friends

I am taking a class this quarter called "Massive Change." After a whirlwind tour of the past 5,000 years of economic history (provided by the professor), we have recently been treated to student presentations on topics. Last night, one of my colleagues presented on the aging world population. It was one of the most disturbing presentations I have seen.

Alan asked a number of hard questions on the nature of society's responsibility for its aging. The sheer numbers will overwhelm existing social service providers in the coming years. The financial aspects are daunting, as current social benefit programs cannot afford to support the coming waves of elders. The fastest growing demographic in the United States are people aged 85 and above. Many of these people are simply unable to care for themselves, and some of the oldest have children who are too old to care for them as well. He discussed the possible outcomes of increased support for euthanasia or ritual suicide. Most disturbing, the professor weighed in with the observation that there are no mechanisms to ensure that those without the ability to fight back or complain (e.g., the old and infirm) are not treated with cruelty by nursing home providers.

Alan offered no easy solutions. Beginning the dialogue is an important step, however, and I appreciated his taking this topic on. I had not thought about many of the issues he raised. Now that I am thinking about them, I am a little frightened and saddened. But wiser for knowing. I hope that with knowledge will come wisdom. Until, that is, I am too old to do anything about it.