The Cheese Stands Alone

There was a foam cheese hat in our classroom. Yellow, puffy, ridiculous — shaped like a wedge of Swiss, but smoother, more theatrical. At that age, I didn’t know it was something Green Bay Packers fans wore. It lived on the top shelf of the supply cabinet in Mrs. Rathkamp’s fourth-grade room. It only came down on spelling contest days.

If you won, you got to wear the cheese hat. I think we sang “The Cheese Stands Alone” — but it was over twenty years ago now, and it’s possible my mind is playing tricks on me.

Spelling wasn’t supposed to be glamorous, but somehow, in that room, it was. Mrs. Rathkamp had a way of making the ordinary gleam. She spoke with purposeful energy — the kind of teacher who kept things moving but always knew when to pause for something silly or good. Her spelling contests were ritual. The desks pushed back slightly to make space. The clipboard in her hand. The tension in the air.

One by one, we stood as she called out words. Sometimes they were hard. Embarrass. Rhinoceros. Envelope. Sometimes they were sneaky — homophones or words with silent letters meant to trip us up. We spelled with our whole hearts, voices trembling or ringing, depending on the week. I loved it. I loved the stillness before speaking, the certainty (or near-certainty) when the word sat just right in my brain. I loved the camaraderie, the pride, the rhythm of correct.

And oh, how I loved that hat.

The winner — the last one standing — got to wear the cheese. They’d place it carefully on their head, adjusting it like a crown, and Mrs. Rathkamp would take a photo with her Polaroid. A real, sticky-backed snapshot that developed before our eyes. She’d wave it gently in the air and then press it up on the wall, where a whole gallery of spelling royalty smiled back at us in a crooked little line. Faces framed by foam. Triumph in every grin.

I know I won once — maybe twice. I don’t remember the word — isn’t that funny? All that buildup and I’ve forgotten the winning word. But I remember the way the cheese felt — oddly light for something that looked so monumental — and the click of the camera, the way it flashed in my face like I was on stage. I remember standing there with my cheeks burning, my heart pounding, trying not to look too proud.

Now, all these years later, I am an impeccable speller. The kind of adult who notices typos in menus and subtitles. My husband asks me how to spell things at least once a day, and I always know — quickly, surely, as if the word's been waiting for me. Sometimes, when I answer, I say it slowly like I’m back in that classroom, letting each letter fall from my mouth like a step on a stair.

He teases me for it, but I don’t mind. I just smile and remember the cheese. The girl who stood at her desk, knees knocking, and spelled her way into the Polaroid hall of fame. Who wore her Swiss crown with quiet joy. Who learned that words, when lined up just right, could give you a kind of power.

And in the gallery of childhood glories, that yellow hat still shines the brightest.

—L.B.

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