When I first entered the Arkansas school system I learned how impacting the written word was, and although it involved disciplinary action and the shame of my parents, it was an empowering moment.
Now, 44 years later and a career of writing, I think back on that time and where all this may have begun.
We had just moved from northern Minnesota to Arkansas in April 1974 and in a momentary lapse of reasoning, my parents decided to enroll me in the nearby rural school for the final six weeks of eighth grade. That way, they said, I could make friends early on and be prepared for the full school year the following fall. I tried to tell them that I would have to go through it all again in September, the 'new kid no one wants to deal with' routine.
I couldn't understand the Southern dialect and I am sure they had trouble with my clipped, Minnesotan, ya betcha. I was pretty much shunned as a nerd, a classification I held onto for most of my high schooling there. But, they could understand the written word and I found some success early on. My English teacher, a Southern belle of her own, would read my writing assignments to the class, saying they were good examples; my words sounded odd in her twang, but at least I was getting some validation.
So, I wrote more. And this is where I got into trouble. I was still somewhat miffed at having to have moved from Minnesota down to this rural, Ma and Pa Kettle country and I vented in writing.
I wrote a satirical travel brochure for the high school. "Come hitch your horse up to the post and come on in," I penned. I mentioned something about the Southern IQ being lower than a snake's belly and how there was no electricity in the school buildings and the only facilities were outhouses. I probably noted how everyone seemed related to everyone and how the graduating class of 33 (36 if you counted the babies the classroom mammas-to-be were totin' around) would hold its ceremony in a barn. Stuff like that.
A student read it and laughed and passed it on to someone else. Somehow, it ended up in the English teacher's hands. She didn't read it out loud. Apparently she didn't think it was an example of decent writing. Instead, she took it to the principal's office.
The principal then called my parents and we had a conference. "It's just a joke," I tried to reason. He didn't see the humor in it and planned to suspend me. My parents pled, saying if I missed any school, there'd be a chance I'd not be able to progress to the next grade due to my move from Minnesota so late in the school year. He rescinded, thinking an extra year of me would not fare well for him. Instead, they placed me on some type of probation.
"You won't be writing anything like that here again," he admonished.
The punishment was understood, but I also gained an insight into the impact of writing. I had caused an emotion, albeit not the greatest one for a nerdy, shy kid to endure. But, still, it was a learning experience and isn't that was school is all about?
A year later, I was still writing. While playing keep-away with some kid's hat, I accidentally knocked over a concrete statue in the middle of a schoolyard fountain. An angel atop the thing teetered and then fell, splitting in pieces; its wings clipped, its halo missing. I would have snuck away, but the fact that about 200 other kids spent the lunch break in the yard and saw me be stupid with Cupid, I couldn't. Instead, I fessed up to the same principal who scolded me earlier. I'm sure after dealing with me again, he checked to see that his Rolaids supply was replenished.
I was ordered to clean up the mess and later I wrote a story about it all. I wrote it like a police report, complete with the dry police officers' verbiage and made up accounts from Witness 1 and Witness 2. I gave it to a friend who, unbeknownst to me, gave it to the school newspaper advisor who, unbeknownst to me, published it in the paper. Later, again unbeknownst to me, she entered it in an Arkansas high school newspaper contest. I won third place in the state in feature writing.
Two extracurricular writings at the school, two reactions. The die was set. I was going to write.
I followed that path into journalism and for 36 years now, I've made a living (somewhat) by writing what others do and tell me.
Journalism is not as fun as the real writing all writers want to do. There's little choice in what we write at papers. Yesterday, for example, I wrote a feature obituary on the former owner of the newspaper where I now work, a piece on the state department of education's decision to no longer mandate journalism be a required elective in high schools, a follow up on a Hepatitis A investigation at a local restaurant and a feature on two people wanting to create a museum to honor the area's musical heritage. Interesting, but not very creative.
That's why I like writing on this blog for the past several years. There's always something to delve into when playing the APBA games. Stats, certain players, memories created by the game. And, I know that when I write here, I won't be up for any suspensions
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