We’re in a spell, more or less … Falda’s at fault.
As students, most of us were taught to spell, a measure of disciplined accuracy. You could write a mundane theme, “What I did last summer,” yet still get a B if there were no misspellings. We had spelling bees, public contests on stage, to embarrass the participants. The winner was always a geek, an only child. Finishing last, I mispeld, misspelled.
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Arvind began breakfast each morning memorizing the Oxford English dictionary. At age 3. His parents, 1st generation born in Mumbai (nee, Bombay), father an interventional radiologist (Stanford), mother, PhD quantum physics (MIT). Mom and Dad met in London, Mensa International Congress, at the royal academy, and snuck off to Veeraswamy for dinner of biryani and paneer. Love, and the aroma of curry, were in the air. Arvind was born nine months later.
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Wait, wait, I’ve gone off track, I digress. Technology (an internal cancer which has propelled the Genie out on his butt) has shortcircuited (not a real word) learning. We now have “spellcheck,” a shortcut to lousy writing. As undergrads, we were required to pass two difficult courses, only offered by a tyrant professor. Emminent
Dr. Edward Rowe stood 6-foot-6 between you and graduation. Ruthless. He would lecture from a soapstone lab top. Cruel. He demanded attention, perfection, countenance. Stern. If the class (only 12 of us) wavered slightly, he would stop abruptly.
“Class, take out a bluebook, write your name, and number the first page, 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. & 6.”
Scholarly terrorism, oral impromptu pop-quizzes, more than minor obstacles in pursuit of a coveted C, mortar board, sheepskin, and a certain after graduation $8 an hour in 1964 dollars.
“Spell the following in six minutes; then you are excused for today.”
That was followed by “hemorrhoid, diarrhea, hypercholesterolemia, phlegm, pharmacopoeia, onomatopoeia” Go.
I got 5 of the 6 correct, yet scored an F, The only A went to Jay Gibbs, who spelled:
1. then
2. you
3. are
4. excused
5. for
6. today
Clever is holding a full house, when suckers hold three of a kind, or a spade flush.
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The spellcheck feature is an irritation. Like most of you, I get email from friends, writers, pen pals from Auckland to Zaksuah. Soooo, I reviewed their messages while “errors” rose to the surface. Humanity at its nadir. This then, in just 72 hours, their list of “non-words,” alerted by yellow backgrounds:
— grandkids
— celeb
— selfie
— unticketed
— plugins
— youtube
— beachbody
— jazzercise
— IPad
— closeup
— WTF
Now, hold on to your knickers, the final three:
— emoji
— spellcheck
(imagine a silent drum roll)
— internet
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OK, my one spelling error on Dr. Rowe’s oral quiz. One of our classmates, Dave Fleming, had a nickname Flem. Hell, everyone called him Flem, even his mother. I thought it would be cute to spell Phlegm incorrectly, as Flem. I deserved the F.