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Immigrant. From the Latin immigrānt-em, meaning: one who or that which immigrates; a person who migrates into a country as a settler, as in: not to be confused with emigrant, from the Latin ēmigrānt-em, meaning: one who removes from his own land to settle (permanently) in another.
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Three years after losing the fifth-grade spelling bee, I redeemed myself in the eighth grade at Whittle Springs Middle School. Students from Section 8A and Section 8B who scored the highest on the weekly spelling tests in Language Arts were invited to participate. I had the highest score, having averaged 125 out of a possible 125—which meant I also correctly spelled the more difficult bonus words on every test.
Once again, I made it into the top three, and eventually, I was the final contestant. If I correctly spelled the next word, I’d be declared the winner. Mrs. Hanks pronounced immigrant/ emigrant, and I panicked. I knew there were two ways to spell it, and I wasn’t sure if an emigrant left from or an immigrant came to, and the same for which began with an e or which began with an i.
In other words, I had to know the difference between emigrating from the land of losers in order to immigrate into the winner’s circle.
So, I took a gamble. Immigrant, I said, i-m-m-i-g-r-a-n-t. Immigrant.
When the news came over the intercom that I’d won the spelling bee and would go on to represent Whittle Springs Middle School at the district competition, I was rewarded with pats on the back, shoulder rubs, catcalling against Section 8B, which was the point I soon realized. My peers had bested 8B by proxy, meaning: they didn’t really care so much that I’d won, but felt—especially the jocks—that my win was their victory, too. I let them have it.
*
The district bee was held at the Alumni Memorial Building on The University of Tennessee campus. Mama, Granddaddy, Uncle Joe, and his wife Dwen came to cheer me on.
On the stage of the Cox Auditorium, the chairs were filled with dozens and dozens of my competitors. Granddaddy—Mama’s and Uncle Joe’s father—placed a hand on my shoulder to calm me, sensing my nervousness. My own daddy couldn’t be there, and it was probably for the best. He was something of a rogue, a description of unknown origin, meaning: who knew what made him a rascal, a scoundrel, as in: it hadn’t been that long ago that Daddy made knuckle prints in the cement wall of our apartment in Lonsdale. He crushed his hand. And it was seeing my mother’s purple lip, a touch of pink where the underflesh bloomed through the bruise, that scared me, made me wonder how long the scars would last, if Mama would be able to continue her daily routines, saying nothing while she opened the mail, loaded the laundry, smoothed the wrinkles from my pants before she ironed them.
I wondered how my touch would feel to her after the bones of my daddy’s hand were seared into her face, if she would fear me too.