“I want something provocative.”  My 7th grade English teacher was explaining what he deemed a very important step in writing a persuasive essay composition.  “The first sentence should catch my attention and force me to read on.  In this case, and for this paper, I would actually accept something like ‘America sucks.'”

Predictably enough, more than half the class would now start their paper with the provacative sentence “America sucks”, or some deriviative thereof.  I was not immune to that pull.  But, realizing that “America sucks” and “America stinks” and “America Blows” hardly counts as “provacative” in a sea of other essays that begin with that sentence, I upped the ante to:

“America is a fucking shithole.”

I wrote on from there.  I don’t remember what ill of America I was attacking or asking to fix, but I felt confident that it was a provacative first sentence.

As was standard procedure, we ended the class by passing it up the rows.  Someone saw what I had written, and by the next day everyone knew.  And everyone anticipated the teacher confronting me on this.

So, the next day, the teacher stood before us with the armful of essays.  “The power of suggestion.  It never fails.”  He shook his head.  “Yesterday I gave the suggestion that I would accept a first sentence like ‘America sucks.’  Here’s what you wrote:”

He went through the papers.  “America sucks.  America sucks.  America stinks.  America blows.  The world stinks.  I hate America.  America now has a 4 trillion dollar debt that it will never be able to repay. America sucks…”  He went on and on like that… and I did not make up the “America now has a 4 trillion dollar debt that it will never be able to repay.”

Lance smiled, and poked me, as if anticipating him referencing my sentence.  “Anyway, we’re just going to have to all come up with something original now.”  He passed back the papers, marked with recommendations and corrections and criticisms on what to turn in for draft number two.

Then he held up a paper, “Justin… can I have a word with you at my desk?”

The class gave a collective gasp, and looked toward me.  I gave a somewhat calculated and cool exaggerated nervous look where I stretch out my left cheek bone and move the two sets of teeth as far apart as possible for a second, as was my want, as is indicative of me playing for the camera.

I went over to his desk.  “Justin.  There’s a type of writing called ‘hate literature.’  It’s the easiest thing to write and takes absolutely no talent, and its only goal is to shock the audience.  It has no lasting value to society.”

I nodded.

“Ever hear of ‘shock radio”? It gets huge ratings, and…”

I nodded my head, and gave my only murmur of affirmation.  I had heard of a thing called hate radio.  Bad, bad stuff.

He finished up his speech.  “You understand me?”

I nodded.  “Good.  Go back to your seat and do this over again.”

I went back to my seat.  Lance asked me what happened, as if something dramatic could’ve happened.  “He told me to write it over again.” His face fell into semi-disappointment.

The paper had one red mark on it, an arrow pointing to the offending sentence saying “I Quit Reading.  Try Again.”  I crossed it out, wrote something else, and turned it in sans any other new mark the next day.

For the life of me I don’t know what this Learning Moment was supposed to teach me.  A focus on “Shock Radio” is bizarrely narrow and outside the purview of any possible career I might be pursuing, so why he would want to warn me about it I do not know.

But all “Learning Moments” are kind of like that.  Witness the ritual Kabuki Dance that marks the “National Conversation on Race” whenever a major celebrity, in this case — um — “Shock Jock” (the kind that I was I warned about in seventh grade, I guess) Don Imus — makes a well publicized bigoted statement.  You can line up the commentary and the incidents that will follow, and cross them off as they come to pass.  Wait!  Let me guess!  “Who voted for Jesse Jackson / Al Sharpton to be representatives of them/us?”  NEXT item on the list, please!!   The one fortunate (and that is an odd thing to say) about the Don Imus incident as opposed to the Michael Richards incident is that it covers ugly misogyny as well — which means that any white man yelling “Blacks use the term” doesn’t end up at the queasiness of an implicit “Why Won’t the Political Correct Police let me use the word ‘Nigger’?”  So, we float into the song “99 Problems and the Bitch Ain’t One”, and if society ever cared to contemplate it, um… Black Snake Moan?
I wish to stick Don Imus down the memory hole.  I don’t even know what to make of the ethnic slur.  It doesn’t quite add up to any bland little “Black men drive a car like this.  White men drive a car like this.”  Or Fuzzy Zellar’s offensive stereotypical comments on being paired with Tiger Woods about serving fried chicken and cauliflower, which at least has the benefit of demographics pointing to a lot of fried chicken resturants in heavily black neighborhoods.  (Also, stock up on grape soda.  I don’t know why, nor do I particularly care.)  But who looks at a college basketball runner up and sees a bunch of “nappy headed hos”.  Mind you, this follows comments about the championship Tennessee team on them being “cute” — I suppose a bunch of white all American “girls next door” versus (tattooed) women from “THOSE” neighborhoods, which makes it all the more cringe-worthy, and desirious of …

National Healing?

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