In the Atlantic, Sameer Pandya writes about how the National Spelling Bee confirms racial prejudices about Indian Americans.

If you are an Indian American obsessed with American sports, occasions for ethnic fandom have been scant at best. After the two Vijays—the tennis player Amritraj and the golfer Singh—who do we really have?

And so it is only with a slight hint of irony that I watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee year after year with great pleasure and anticipation. With the crowning of the co-winners Sriram Hathwar and Ansun Sujoe late last month, it makes seven straight years that Indian Americans have won the national bee. From my place of lack, this is nearly as exciting as living in Chicago in the Jordan era, or being a New Yorker when Jeter, Posada, Pettitte, and Mo were young and winning rings.

When I watch the Spelling Bee, I’m on the lookout for kids with Asperger’s, not race. We all have our own lens, I suppose.

While my immediate family is a European mix, the larger extended family has roots outside Italy, Ireland, and Germany. My sister-in-law is African-American. My cousin-in-law is Puerto-Rican. My uncle is Indian. My cousins, who are more like my siblings, are Indian and Italian. My godson is Indian, Italian, and Puerto-Rican. We’re a hodge-podge of colors and backgrounds, but with a huge showing of Indian Americans.  So, Pandya’s argument that people watch the Spelling Bee to gawk at the Indian freaks is very disturbing.