CityWide Spelling Bee
The Pen & Pencil
1522 Latimer St.
Philadelphia
May 5, 2026
The first thing to understand is that The Pen & Pencil Club (henceforth known as the P&P) prefers no documentation. Everything is “off the record,” you understand? It’s almost like a fight club. Alright, I’m playing. But if the understated entrance of this Center City journalist-oriented members-only club is meant to communicate anything, it’s that this is a place meant to preserve one of the core tenets of Philadelphia culture. Anyone is welcome, although it might not be for everybody.
At first, it felt like my nerves about the bee, hosted by Philadelphia DIY publication CityWide, might be assuaged by a modest turnout. CityWide, much like Midbrow, is meant to discuss culture for its own sake, and it’s largely run and contributed to by people I know personally or are socially separate from me by only a few degrees. CityWide is a quarterly zine made with an exceptional love and care for its readers, meant to be, in their own words, “an antidote to the doomscroll, machine-powered, isolationist spirit of our time, a catalyst for community activism and artistic connection.”
With the room mostly empty and the bar still being stocked, the P&P felt like a bar intentionally preserving the spirit of the 20th century, a place for respite from the increasingly overstimulating outside world. Dimly lit by Schmidt’s lamps with damn near everything in the bar being wood or a comforting shade of brown, P&P felt like a Philadelphia version of Cheers. But I was nervous. The idea of spelling a word incorrectly in front of a room of people whom I do not know, or worse yet do, is exponentially more frightening than, say, performing at a music festival almost naked.
I also intentionally did not prepare very much. Mostly because I wanted to see the power of my raw spelling talent at this time in my life, but also because I did not want to. This was all supposed to be for fun, anyway. I knew to keep in mind the tools at my disposal. Remember to ask for definitions, usage in context, language of origin, part of speech, and for an alternate pronunciation if necessary. Be aware of prefixes and suffixes. Additionally, I had run a couple drills with a friend a couple nights prior, and repeatedly watched the spelling bee episode of Frasier where Freddy is wrongfully accused of cheating. That would do.
As the room filled, hosts/organizers Amelia and Larissa went over the rules for those who had arrived on time, giving each contestant time after to either socialize or mentally prepare. I spent this time letting my anxiety run on 10, sitting in silence while contemplating my life’s choices. More and more people I knew entered the bar while my feelings of, “I fucked up by entering into this,” continued to skyrocket. Somehow, I had convinced myself it’d be mostly strangers here.
I knew I wasn’t going to last long in this competition, but the idea of failing so publicly was daunting. The entire bar was now full to the point of standing room only. It was time to number each competitor and begin. Contestants were organized alphabetically, and I was Speller #18. The first round began. While I suppose this is simply the nature of the bee itself, these word difficulties felt very incongruous. In the first round, words like ‘colossal’ were spelled alongside words like ‘seraphic.’
Then, my name was called. I squeezed to the front of the room, Amelia asked me how I’m doing. I told the truth. “I’m kinda nervous,” I said. My word was ‘pontiff.’ I didn’t know this word because I’m not a religious scholar. I didn’t ask for a definition or remember any of my other tools because suddenly, the sound of my blood circulating was the only thing I could hear. And it was loud as shit. My only thought was of the word ‘pontificate,’ which felt totally unrelated. I started through the word, P-O-N-T-I-F, pausing in a moment of doubt whether or not I was done. A silence hung in the air like a storm cloud, and in the anticipation of my being done, I saw in Amelia and Larissa’s faces that I was forgetting something. “F,” I added at what was absolutely the last possible second. “That is correct,” Amelia says, before the room erupted into applause.
I was lightheaded. I was nearly the first person eliminated. Everyone around me thought that I paused for dramatic effect, patting me on the back for my sense of humor. Really, I saved my own ass by tapping into the collective emotion of the room. I had even forgotten Frasier’s advice about spelling stance: “Bend at the knees, spell with ease.” I was numb as I reach my barstool. The worst part of this was that I couldn't drink to ease my anxiety. My faculties had to remain focused; I’d only permitted myself one High Life. The remaining contestants took their turns, some other poor soul was the first eliminated. I couldn't help but feel as though it should’ve been me. Round two began. I was trying to remember my tools: Don’t presume to know the word, if you are even the least bit unsure, ask for a definition or a language of origin. Once my name was called, I returned to the front of the room. “Please be a word I know,” I thought, and it was.
That fact wouldn’t save me. Emphysema was my word. My prayer couldn’t have been answered more aptly. This word and I have a relationship that goes back to my initial asthma diagnosis at four. You would think that someone who is known for his allergies and inhaler usage could spell it. Maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to. Maybe I didn’t want to compete anymore because the anxiety was too incapacitating, and it kept this shit from being fun. Maybe I really wanted some whiskey so I could calm the fuck down.
“E-M-P-H-Y-Z-E-M-A”
“I’m sorry, but that is incorrect.”
Thank God. The irony was palpable, but I was still grateful to be free. Now I could drink. I walked back to my barstool with cheers of understanding and support from my fellow contestants and the audience, the pressure billowing out of me. I passed a table where I got my name written on a participation certificate, a kind-hearted consolation and parting gift. Next to it was a copy of CityWide’s newest issue, which I also took.
At this point, I was again reminding myself that this is for fun. Was I having fun? Yes. Would the word ‘emphysema’ and its inexplicable ‘s’ where a 'z' should clearly be confuse, aggravate and haunt me, for the next few years? Also probably yes. A double whiskey ginger, please, I ordered. I allowed myself to pay less attention to the bee until its final round. A number of friends and acquaintances did quite well, one even getting to the very end.
The winner, William Gravitz (aka "The Human Dictionary," I’m told) took victory in round eight; the winning word was ‘Zymurgy.’ I never had a chance. Gravitz’ earnest victory speech was a pleasing ending to the competition, winning the hearts of the entire room, my own included. At one point, he said something along the lines of not expecting to win because “usually something terrible happens to me before the end,” in response to which I quietly start a “something good” chant that quickly became raucous. It felt like the best speller did win, and overall, I was proud of my contributions. I would absolutely return to the bee if I heard about another, and maybe I’ll even study next time.
