I apologize for the delay in writing this letter. The truth is that I have been very consumed in solving this difficult task of writing a letter that fails to make you cry, for I no longer wish for you to cry from these words. My answer has finally culminated in this letter, which comes in the form of a story that I now offer to you:
There once was a boy that had just struck the age of 9. The boy was new to his school, having just escaped a group of troubling, yet interesting, pale-faced, rowdy children at a previous school—no doubt a story, but a story for another time—and was thus eager to make new, and more well-mannered, friends. The issue with this desire was that the boy was shy, terribly so. His words had no body to stand upon, not even when faced with himself in the mirror, and so he had to rely on something that, to children, can be much more attractive than simple words: talent. The issue with this was that the boy was also not talented, he was terribly boring. The one thing he did have was confidence. A very narrow confidence, that is, a confidence in his brain and its capabilities. But children do not care much for this. So, for many months, he laid dormant in his class like an ugly pillbug lying helpless on its back.
As the minty breath of winter was beginning to turn warm and smelly, it seemed the hand of luck interlocked its fingers with the boy. The school was to hold a spelling bee across all of the grades. The boy was exhilarated at the prospect of this. The singular blade of his mental toolbox that he kept sharpened was to be tested and examined for all to see. The battle would be pure, one of knowledge, and for this the boy was confident.
First, the boy's grade had to decide on a representative. The process would be simple: the teacher would list ten words, and whoever spelled the most words correctly would be elected the representative. A test of merit, to be sure. The boy breezed through this process, having spelled nine of the ten words correctly. As fortune would have it, one of the boy's classmates, a tall and vulture-like girl, had also spelled nine of the ten words correctly. In fairness, there would be a way to break this tie. The idea was simple. The boy and the girl were to be given the same word, and whichever pupil misspelled the word first would be no longer eligible for representation. The two went back and forth formidably, and just when the boy began to, for the first time, feel an ounce of respect for his competition, did the word become 'parallel'. This is simple, the boy thought. There are two l's in the middle of the word, just like they are parallel lines. This was the boy's logic. P-a-r-a-l-l-e-l, the boy spelt. P-a-r-a-l-e-l, the girl spelt. It was a brutal mistake, that of a single letter, but the boy was the clear winner. In that moment, he lost all of the respect he was beginning to build for the girl. He scoffed at her, and the girl ran out of the classroom in a fleet of tears. The boy, triumphant, would move on to represent his grade.
The day of the spelling bee arrived. It may seem like I am skipping ahead in the story, but this is because there is very little buildup in the time between. This is because the boy, confident in his performance, did very little to prepare. Spelling is simple. It's just words. This was the boy's logic. He elected to spend much of his time preoccupied with an online game about wizards. Naturally, seeing as to how this competition was more of a formality for victory in the eyes of the boy, he invited all of his family to watch him. Looking out at the crowd, he saw so many familiar faces that he recognized from observing everybody silently in the back of class. He smiled at this, his heart burning with excitement at all of the students who were bound to become his friend after this triumphant day. The curtains were drawn, the lights were casted down upon the contestants—from puny 1st graders all the way to goliath 6th graders—and the battle commenced.
The words flew by quite simply. Penguin. Library. Mountain. The boy sat in his chair, awaiting his call, spelling the words in his mind with a musicality that hummed and whirred with bravado. He looked around and his fellow competition seemed nervous in their chairs. Scared of the attention from the entire school, families, administrators, the pressure was breaking them down. But not for the boy. For the first time, he felt eyes upon him, and he smiled wickedly at the attention. Finally, it was his turn to go. He stood up, puffed his chest to the crowd, and strided to the microphone at centerstage for everyone to stare in awe. He looked out and saw his family staring and cheering at him. Oh! How his heart thrummed with delight. Sing to them, my heart! Sing to them and rejoice at a golden future that waits for us! Sing! The boy looked and locked eyes with the announcer, who announced the monster of his duel: 'Quarterback'. The boy smirked. Simple! Do they think me a fool? Quarterback? Why, it's two words in one! Quarter, and back! Quarterback! This is baby-food! He feigned thought, consideration, difficulty, as if he were looking for the letters to arrange themselves out of the dust in the auditorium air. Finally, he clasped his hands together, and spoke thus:
Quarterback. Q-u-a-t-e-r-b-a-c-k. Quarterback.
Ding! The bell went off, signaling a misspelled word. The boy's eyes widened in terror. He looked at his palms and they began to quiver. It felt like a cold sword had sliced its way up the boy's back. He could not move. The lights cast down upon his eyes and he was blinded. He looked out for his parents and they were shocked, faces aghast. He ran off the stage, straight into the lap of his mother where he began to weep. Weep loudly and pathetically for the auditorium to hear. His parents carried him out into the open air, and as the boy looked up and stared at the students sitting neatly in the auditorium, through drowning eyes he saw himself being carried farther and farther away from those children, who looked up at the stage in awe of the competition.
I hope I have achieved my goal in that by you reaching the end of this letter, your eyes are safe and dry. Unfortunately, perhaps it is ordained by the universe that someone must weep for these letters, for the boy is I, and I have not stopped weeping since that day.