Rotten To The Core: Confession Of A Bad Teacher

There has been a lot of flap lately about the approaching cataclysm that is the Common Core.  If you have not heard about this impending educational apocalypse, let me begin by saying hi, welcome to the Internet!  I’ll be your guide.

At its core (the common one,) the concept seems pretty sound and logical: every state is supposed to adhere to a set of standards, outlining the basic skills and knowledge that every American student should possess by the time he or she finishes high school. 

Since all the states already rely on standardized tests to track school progress (in keeping with our goal of Not Leaving Children Behind,) this seems to follow quite logically.  Every math, science and history class is given an outline of what topics to cover.  In most cases, these will no doubt be the stuff people are already covering in their classes.  I don’t imagine for example, that most math teachers are leaving out polynomials based on religious grounds, or that history teachers habitually skip the Civil War because it’s too gory, and if they are, I think we all agree they should stop that.

But when it comes to language arts, people get a little touchy.  As an English teacher myself, my hackles raise any time someone comes at me with suggestions of why Macbeth might not be worth students’ time, or why the Scarlet Letter is more important than the Crucible (as a side note; fuck Nathaniel Hawthorne.)

And yet, I’m not one of the voices screeching in protest.  I’m not telling people to keep their kids home from school as an act of demonstration against this injustice.  I have not taken to the streets, torch and red pen raised aloft in righteous fury, to call for the head of Anne Duncan on a silver EZ Grader.

Now, don’t get me wrong, the Common Core, while perhaps reasonable and appropriate in theory, will of course be an utter abomination in practice.  I have no doubt whatsoever that it will be an overly restrictive, needlessly cumbersome and ineffective nightmare of bureaucratic doublespeak and wooly-headed numbskullery.

Indeed, in all the complaints I have read online (many from my fervently pro-homeschooling fiends,) they have not even addressed the most heinous (to me) aspect of this misguided attempt at didactical accord.

You see, one of the principal ‘developments’ the Common Core adds to the language arts curriculum is that 80% of what students read is supposed to be informational texts.

Can you imagine?  We’re not talking about remedial reading or test prep courses here; they mean regular old English classes.  You know, the classes that originally taught Shakespeare, To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice & Men?  Those classes are now meant to spend the bulk of their time reading nonfiction.

Kind of makes you wonder what they will be reading in their other classes.  Isn’t that where they are supposed to be reading nonfiction?

And I’ve seen the proposed textbooks my school is supposed to use next year; they’re just plain awful.  They’ve taken out an appalling number of stories, and replaced them with essays and ‘human interest’ articles, presumably because they felt that there was no good reason for high school students to spend so much time reading ‘made-up stuff.’

As for the stories that they did leave in, many of those have been cut down to excerpts.  No need to read an entire novel, I mean who in this day and age needs to read all of Huckleberry Finn?  Surely the first chapter would be enough to get the general gist of the book?  And when reading Moby Dick, why not skip right to the part where (spoiler alert) Ahab dies, and skip all that needless buildup?  And once you've read "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times," how much more of A Tale of Two Cities do you really need?

If you’re going to get rid of that much of a story, you might as well burn the entire book, like they did in Bradbury's, “Fahrenheit 45.”

So yeah, it’s going to be terrible, and limiting, and designed to make our children soulless drones to prepare them for lives of mindless drudgery blah, blah blah.

But I ain’t scared.  I’m not worried about the big bad Common Core one little bit.   They can strip the lit out of our lit books, they can mandate half the week be spent administering diagnostic tests, or cut the Grapes of Wrath down until it’s the happy tale of one man getting out of jail, it won’t make one bit of difference to me.

Because I’m a bad teacher.

My record of educational intransigence and obstinacy is well established, generations of past students can substantiate my bona fides as pertains to professional pugnacity and any administrator at my school will gladly testify to my history of heterodoxy.

When it comes to adhering to the strictures of a rigid curriculum, I am the magister of mavericks, the demigod of demagogues, the bellwether of belligerence.  In short, in matters vegetable animal or mineral, I am the very model of a modern major malcontent.

I don’t follow orders well, is what I am getting at.

In my fifteen years of experience, I have always taught my classes in the manner I felt was best for my students.  That means not teaching the same way from year to year, not teaching the same way from class period to class period, not teaching the same way the teacher down the hall does it, and it most certainly means not teaching according to the Great Ineffable Plan set before me by the County, State or Federal Government.

Every year, I change my teaching based upon what I learn about my students themselves.  I do my best to teach what I feel to be the most vital and appropriate aspects of each curriculum, emphasizing those portions that experience has taught me should have the most impact on the lives of these students, and deemphasizing those more trivial aspects, which I tend to view as serving suggestions; no more than the picture on the front of the cereal box, and sometimes you just don’t have time in the morning to put strawberries in your Cheerios.

And I’m not alone.

While some outside the profession may see this attitude as woefully unprofessional and a shocking abuse of authority, those who actually work with children understand that there SIMPLY IS NO ONE APPROACH OR SOLUTION THAT CAN BE FAIRLY APPLIED TO ALL STUDENTS.

And so we teachers edit.  We append, we modify, we adjust and we re-kajigger (like making up words when necessary.)  Assignments get simplified, assignments get expanded, ancillary materials are added, others are elided as fits the needs and best practices of the students.

No two teachers in my department teach the same exact things, in the same exact way.  And that is because I am fortunate enough to work in a department of excellent teachers.  If you find out one of your child’s teachers is teaching from someone else’s lesson plans without modifying them to taste, you keep an eye on that teacher, they might be a robot (or at least an inexperienced teacher.)

There’s nothing wrong with strawberries on your Cheerios, but make sure no one is allergic before serving.

So that Common Core?  It won’t make good teachers into bad teachers.  We are still going to teach as we see fit.  80% nonfiction?  I’m an English major, my math skills aren’t that good.  Cut down the reading excerpts?  Bitch, I already own copies of all the books, this won’t be the first time I’ve had to shell out money for books or photocopies (fair use guidelines, y’all.)

No, I know that the majority of teachers will not be daunted by the Common Core.  We will make the core uncommon, and continue carrying out its stated mandate, as we have done all along.

To give each of our students the same exact kind of education:  The best that we can.

Take Notes: There Will Be A Test Tomorrow...

I try to stay sanguine (adj: cheerful and optimistic) about my high school students.  I constantly admonish (verb: to warn or advise strongly) myself to keep in mind their disparate (adj: separate and distinct) backgrounds and ability levels when considering their performance in my class, but invariably (adj: every time) my patience gives way, and I find myself distraught (adj: upset) over not only what they don’t know, but at how obstinately (adv: stubbornly) they cling to that ignorance.

This year, I am teaching eleventh and twelfth grade English courses.  This means dealing with seventeen and eighteen year olds, ostensibly (adv: presumably) getting ready to enter the adult world.  My goal is to facilitate (verb: make easier, help to accomplish a goal) this transition by making sure that they possess the requisite (adj: necessary) skills to succeed in college, so as to improve their chances of acquiring (verb: getting) a higher-paying job.

A pivotal (adj: important) aspect of that preparation is vocabulary.  In the academic world, an expansive (adj: wide and well-developed) vocabulary is the hallmark (noun: sign or indicator) of an effective education.  For purposes of reading comprehension, effective writing and especially for speaking cogently (adv: sounding intelligent and convincing) on subjects, a good vocabulary is imperative (adj: necessary.)

And so I inundate (verb: flood, overwhelm) my students with vocabulary, requiring them to learn ten new words each week, and quizzing them on their usage, while also introducing words in conversation, by way of my scintillating (adj: brilliant) wit.

But the inexplicable (adj: unexplainable) and exasperating (adj: frustrating) thing is that these kids resent my attempts to teach them these words.  They constantly show disdain (noun: contempt) for the lessons, and constantly ask why such lessons are necessary.  I repeatedly point out the didactic (adj: educational) purpose and value of expanding one’s vocabulary, but they doggedly (adv: persistently,) refuse to allow these new words into their own personal lexicon (noun: collection of words.)

It is as if the students are terrified at the thought of accumulating (verb: gathering) new words, perhaps fearing that their brains are not capacious (adj: roomy; spacious) enough to allow for any more words than they already know, and the addition of new words would force them to elide (verb: erase) words they have previously learned.

And so they become obdurate (adj: stubborn) and do their best to impede (verb: stop or prevent,) the learning process, adamant (adj: without compromising) in their belief that there can never be any tangible (adj: real, measurable) benefit to them in increasing their vocabulary, despite the plethora (noun: wide variety) of reasons to the contrary.

Over the years, I have become increasingly despondent (adj: sad and hopeless) over the thought of these kids’ futures.  With their paucity (noun: severe lack) of knowledge, especially regarding vocabulary and language skills, I find it dubious (adj: doubtful) that they will be able to excel in higher education, and I am concerned that this lack may curtail (verb: limit or cut short) many opportunities later in life.  Unsurprisingly, I have become somewhat bitter from the incessant (adj: unending) pejorative (adj: nasty, negative) comments and their constant apathy (noun: just plain not giving a shit,) and fear that it might be affecting me. 

As a direct result of the constant contact with my pupils (noun: little bastards,) my own language has become more coarse (adj: full of damn swearing) and vulgar (adj: even more full of damn swearing,) and have even picked up their habit of casual blasphemy (noun: God damned swearing.)

Likewise I’ve become more cynical (adj: basically me) and my speech has become impregnated (adj: not what you think) with sarcasm (noun: that stuff that comes out of my mouth, genius.)  I find this trend somewhat unsettling (adj: entirely predictable to anyone who’s spent time with teenagers) and, I worry, irreversible (adj: I don’t drink.)

But I persevere (verb: I need the money) at my chosen vocation (noun: seriously, like the only thing I can do, I’ve looked at my options,) and do my best to maintain my cheerful and optimistic demeanor (noun: grin and bear it till Friday, and don’t punch any of the little pricks.)

However, I want to do what is right and honorable (no modern definition found,) and so I continue teaching vocabulary, in the hopes that this endeavor (noun: hopeless, quixotic crusade of futility) will provide me a sense of personal gratification (noun: nope.)

Because a future where our words die out is too execrable (adj: shitty) to imagine, and somebody has to act as sentinel (noun: sucker who gets ground under the wheel of repetition) for our language, so that the situation does not become untenable (adj: all fucked up.)

And so I shall remain vigilant (adj: I don’t really have much choice, especially with Common Core on the way,) and man the ramparts (noun: my classroom, in which I no longer get to spend my freaking planning period,) to guard against the onslaught (noun: 125 new little bundles of attitude each year) of academic lassitude (noun: they just don’t give a crap anymore,) so that our proud nation does not fall into intellectual penury (look it up your own damn self, I’m off duty.)

From Square One She'll Be Watching All Sixty-Four

I have this daughter.

I may have mentioned her in the past, usually to point out how awesome and smart she is.  Her mother and I do our best to help her become the best person she can possibly be.  That means giving her exposure to all kinds of new experiences, letting her try her hand at a variety of activities, and encouraging her in those things she finds interesting.

Nah, I'm just funnin' ya, we're doing our best to turn her into a total nerd like us.

Grace is forced to watch Star Trek, watches us play D&D on the weekends, and is carefully shielded from all things sports.  She gets books and miniatures for her birthday, and there are Star Wars ornaments on her Christmas tree.  The indoctrination is in full swing.

Of course, one has to apply a steady hand with such brainwashing.  Push too far, and you could end up with a cheerleader, or one of those student government types who shops at Tommy American Air Postal...whatever.  Or she could be the wrong kind of geek, like one of those pathetic CCG junkies.   Blecch.

So we've done our best to pace ourselves, never trying to push her too hard in any one direction.  The iron fist of nerd culture must be wrapped in the velvet glove of subtlety (although I've always felt that analogy is a little suspect, I mean, when the Hell is a velvet glove subtle?)

Anyway, we try to allow her to find her own way, and only occasionally erecting blockades in her path to help, ahem, direct her.

So when it was time for her to pick clubs for aftercare, we left the decision up to her.  On the day she was to sign up, one of her little friends from aftercare ran up to her and said "You should sign up for Chess Club!  I'm in that on Mondays, and we could be in it together!"

My daughter, affect completely flat, responded: "okay."

And like that, she was in Chess Club.  I hadn't even known that there was a Chess Club for the Kindergarten classes.  But it all fit, I mean she loves playing board games with us, and chess teaches the fundamentals of sportsmanship, taking turns and following rules.

When she found out that I sponsor the Chess Club at my school, she was even more excited.  Here was something else that Daddy and daughter could share!

Except... I suck at chess.  I mean really, truly suck at playing the game.  I never play the game, and my "Chess Club" is actually a front for our actual activities; playing much better games like Carcassone, Munchkin, Pandemic and Battletech.

So, whereas every geek father dreams of the day his child is good enough to beat him at a game, I knew I wouldn't have very long to wait.

I just didn't think it would be after one lesson.

We had a teacher work day today, and now that my little girl is in Kindergarten, that means she is off school on those days.  Her brother went to preschool as normal, but she got to come in to school with Mommy and Daddy, about which she was very excited.

So she was in my room while I was entering grades, and Mommy was enduring a meeting.  The girl child had been reading Charlotte's Web for a while, and finally got tired of reading.  The wifi was acting wonky, so she couldn't play games on my laptop, so she started exploring my classroom.

She found a chess set, and immediately wanted me to play a game with her.  I explained that I had to get all my grades entered, and talked about all the students that wanted me to post the grades on Edline to see if they had been saved by the last minute work that I was nice enough to let them do at the last minute, and that I had been warning them about all nine weeks which they had ignored repeatedly and which...

Fuck 'em.  "Set up the board, sweetie."

So as I pulled up a chair, she started to ask me which pieces went where.  I told her, because of course I remember the piece order.  But then it was time to place the King and Queen, and I realized that there is probably some rule about which one goes on the left or right.  But for the life of me...

"The Queen always stands on her own color Daddy."

Well shit.  I need to remember that.

So we started a game.  It did not last for too long, as I finally just said "let's start over."  She was down to like four pieces, and was already doomed.

I don't think you do a child any favors by pulling your punches or letting them win.  To her credit, she handled losing pieces well (which happened a lot,) and repeated her mantra that as long as she was having fun, the game was still worth playing.

So after declaring the first massacre a practice game, we set up another board and started again.  She was a little better, and was trying to think ahead.  I pointed out a few cases where I had set up a trap for her, and also those times where Daddy's terrible skills had set a trap for himself.  I encouraged her to watch for those, and take advantage of Daddy when he made such mistakes.

Once again, the outcome was foregone, and we decided to quit and go to lunch.

After lunch, I assented to one more game.  This time, I gave her more hints about when I was trapping her, or when she was about to leave a piece open.  For this game, I was going to show her an actual checkmate, and I was lining her up to have her king bracketed by my rooks.  It was a little too Darth Vader, really: "All too easy..."

But then it happened.  It probably should have happened like eight moves prior, but neither of us saw it.  She was stuck, and nearly every one of her pieces was blocked; anywhere they moved was a deathtrap.  She was irked that she could not move anyone, so I pointed out that her bishop could still slide off to the side of the board.  It wouldn't help, but at least he wouldn't get captured.

Except it would help.  It would threaten my King.  It would force my King to move...no, not there....how about...no.  Huh.  My little girl had me in checkmate.

If you can't spot it, the bishop in question is to the left.  My king has exactly three spaces he can move to, and they are all covered by the bishop, or one of the two pawns.  That's what checkmate looks like, kiddies.

I had to explain this several times.  She kept trying to get me to move, like she was taking pity on me or something.  She had never played a game where you were supposed to leave your opponent with nowhere to run.  It felt anticlimactic to her, even when I did the cool melodramatic "knock over your own King" move.

She had won, and all she could say was: "Oh.  Can we play that again?"

On the one hand, I'm so proud of her.  She beat her old man at Chess at age five!  But then again, I left my left flank wide open, and she didn't even spot it and go for the carotid.

We got a lot of work ahead of us on this kid, but she'll figure it out.  I have no doubt both her skill and her bloodthirst will improve with practice, and in no time at all, she will be leaving opponents on the Chessboard, black and blue.

That's when I teach her Battletech, and destroy her utterly.  A daddy still has to have his pride, right?

Keep Christ(obal) In Columbus Day!

Okay, it's Columbus day, and every year, a lot of people feel it is clever to point out that Columbus (and other European explorers like him,) "stole" this country from the Native North and South Americans.  And they seem to feel that posting these things in a tone of righteous indignation makes them edgy and poignant.

But it's time to let it go, people.  If you would stop and look at all the other shit that happened that long ago, it might make you wonder why we still fixate on it so.  It happened, it sucked, but it was sort of what people did back then.  Acting like we in America are somehow barbaric because of this secret shame in our background is asinine.

EVERYONE has this shit in their history.  Conquest is largely an outdated concept today (we have U.N.s and stuff for that,) but it was simply how things got done back then.  If your empire needed to grow, you needed more resources.  If the people next door had 'em, and you could take 'em, you got 'em.

Everyone in Europe was doing it to each other, but they were too evenly matched for there to be much success.  Do you feel Columbus' conquest was an unfair fight because the natives didn't have guns?  Maybe you don't understand how war works.  I'm not trying to draw a comparison between the two conflicts, but how many people felt the US invasion of Afghanistan was a bad thing because we had better weapons?  That's kind of our thing, you know?

When colonial powers roll up into your territory with vastly superior weaponry and technology, you're getting conquered, end of story.  You think the American Indians got a raw deal?  Go talk to some Indian Indians.  They had a massive, successful culture that was a hell of a lot more advanced than anything the Aztecs put together.  But guns?  They missed that lesson, and that's why they speak English when you call tech support.

And yet, the same internet dwellers who post snarky shit about Columbus, and consider his actions a hate crime, will think nothing of dressing up in Victorian cosplay and reenact the era when plenty of native cultures fell beneath the old 'reeking tube and iron shard.'

So how about you cut the famed explorer some slack, shut up about what a thief Columbus was, and instead get back to bitching that you still have to work today, and yet you can't go to the damn bank because those pricks get the day off.

"Introvert" Is The New "OCD"

Growing up, I knew what the words 'introverted' and 'extroverted' meant, but I never thought about them too much, because they simply weren't that important.  They were footnotes to a person's personality, like "sports fan," or "avid reader."  They help describe you, they don't define you.

You see, words like those are not meant to be cattle brands, burned into the flesh of the afflicted, permanently labelling them like the mark of Cain, thus forever isolating them from the normal people.

But they're also not meant to be worn as badges, used to proclaim your special uniqueness.  They shouldn't separate you from the rest of the humanity like a leper, but they also shouldn't indemnify you from criticism of your actions and choices.  They are tendencies.  Terms like 'introvert' do not demarcate you as a separate species, requiring special treatment (and special privileges,) above and beyond regular people.

But that's exactly what you've seen, haven't you?  On Facebook or...whatever other social networks there are out there, I only ever joined one (I must be an introvert that way,) people are proclaiming their introversion from the rooftops, crowing loudly about how everyone else needs to let them be the quiet shut-ins they were born to be.

We get lists and instructions on how to spot an introvert, how to handle introverts, how to respect their boundaries, what you are not to criticize them for or even mention, and how to keep them stress-free and happy.  It seems like the only place to go from here is to sell Introvert Chow (all rights reserved,) perhaps sold alongside 'low social pressure' plates and serving ware, so that these delicate creatures don't suffer any 'functioning human being' cross contamination.

Look, I get that people feel differently about lots of situations, especially social ones.  My wife has real difficulties in social situations.  Her idea of Hell is a cocktail party, and I am not in any way exaggerating; she would rather face physical injury rather than be taken to a party, and she is only a mild case.  There are people with genuine troubles like social anxiety disorders or agoraphobia.  These people may seek treatment from medical professionals who will analyze them, diagnose their problems, and prescribe therapy and or medication in order to allow them to live a more fulfilling life by allowing them to participate in human interaction as they desire.

But 'introvert?'  That's never been a medical condition.  No one has ever needed to be institutionalized for 'acute introversion.'  The Army doesn't grant a medical discharge because a soldier 'really doesn't enjoy crowds,' and the only medication for feeling awkward at parties is the same one people have prescribed for centuries: booze (not recommended for everyone.  Side effects may include blurry vision, vomiting, and disastrous life choices.  consult your designated driver before taking Booze.)

It's almost the opposite of what happened to terms like ADD and OCD.  Both of these are recognized conditions that interfere with people's lives (although I realize that there are plenty who believe ADD is over-diagnosed or outright nonexistent, but it does not matter for this point.)

But people use them like they are general terms for personality traits.  If someone gets distracted by something interesting (which is what is supposed to happen; that's what defines interesting,) they will laugh and talk about their ADD, as if they'd spent their formative years sent to doctors and doped to the gills on Adderol.  Or if someone gets really involved with something (or feels the need to clean or organize something,) they will apologize for their OCD tendencies, even though they've never felt helplessly compelled to walk through the halls of your high school and touch every single locker featuring a number 8.

We ALL get distracted, and we all obsess a little bit.  Just like we all experience feelings of depression or paranoia, but we are not actually depressed or paranoid (or bi-polar, which suffers egregious overuse, and is applied to anyone who possesses more than one mood.)

And the same thing is happening to 'introvert,' but in that case, the term was always the kind of thing that we all felt once in a while, but some people felt that way more often, it was simply who they were as a person.  Or a beautiful snowflake.

People are calling themselves introverts because they don't usually like to go to parties.  But what if you just have shitty friends?  How about those who say they are introverted because sometimes they would rather spend a quiet night in.  Well who doesn't?  If you can't handle a quiet night at home now and again, you may have a social condition on a much different part of the spectrum.  My favorites are the people who cite as proof of their introversion the fact that the like to read.  Really?  Maybe you need to toss a basic Psych textbook onto the old book pile.  Or a thesaurus...

Being an introvert isn't an affliction.  It doesn't make you a mutant, and it doesn't make you any less able to cope with the outside world than any other personality quirk.  And it doesn't entitle you to any special treatment .

You know all those super helpful internet guides on how to treat introverts?  Go back and look at them again.  Now ask yourself which one of those is NOT appropriate to do for all of your friends and acquaintances.  Doing the suggested actions doesn't make you an introvert whisperer, it just makes you not an asshole.

I bet your other friends, both extroverts and whatever the other option is (Neutroverts? Verts? Rational Human Beings?) would also appreciate being shown the same compassion and consideration.  And what's more, being non-introverts, they will be able to properly thank you for this consideration.

So come on introverts, both real and bandwagon variety!  Come on out and join the big wide world!

Or don't.  Your choice.

Lexigenesis And Metavernacularation

“The Conclave will now hear Rapper Drake’s defense.”

The voice boomed in the hall, reverberating flatly off the black marble walls and floor, causing the flames on the candles gutter in the skull-motif candelabra.  All along the walls, robed figures stood, observing the solemn proceedings. 

At the end of the hall was a high dais, upon which stood the Grandmaster and the most senior members.  In front of this dais was a smaller podium, currently occupied by Drake, his aspirant’s robes a much lighter hue than those of the senior members around him.

“Honored elders,” the young man began, the trepidation evident in his voice, “I meant no offence with my actions.  I never intended this phrase to reach the popularity it has-“

A harsh voice from the dais cut him off.  “Don’t try that line with us, young man!  You knew exactly what you were doing when you started this ‘yolo’ business.  You acted with intent to create a new word and release it into general use.  You broke one of the cardinal rules of this order and jeopardized the Compact!”

Murmurs spread throughout the hall, rising in volume until the Grandmaster slammed his staff of office upon the marble floor.  Silence fell quickly, and he turned to face the elder who had spoken.

“Elder McDaniels, let us hold these proceedings with dignity, civility and compsure, as has always been our way.”  The other bowed respectfully, though he glared at Drake from beneath the thick spectacles he wore.

The Grandmaster turned back to face the accused.  “You know our laws.  Can you offer any excuse, any precedent that might serve to mitigate your offense?”

Drake licked his lips before proceeding, having clearly rehearsed his statement.  “I cite the case of Naughty By Nature, from 1991.” 

There were more murmurs about the room, and the Grandmaster gave a sad and disappointed frown.  He looked towards Elder McDaniels, who gave a grin of triumph as the Grandmaster gave him the nod that he should proceed.

“The case you are referring to, the so-called ‘O.P.P. exception,’ does not apply here.  That was an initialism, and falls well within the rules of the order.  Your infraction is an acronym, and as such is in direct violation of the lexigenesis accords of the Compact!” Elder McDaniels thrust his finger emphatically at the now terrified young man.  “In doing so, you threaten the fundamental agreement that has afforded  the members of this board the gifts we now enjoy.  I move for censure!”

This time, the hubbub in the room was deafening, with members shouting over each other, and it took several minutes of banging his staff upon the floor before the Grandmaster could again regain control over the group.

“That is enough!” he was finally able to say when the din had quieted.  “This is a serious matter, and must be handled carefully.  Although his guilt is incontrovertible under the law, whether or not Aspirant Drake has actually endangered the Compact must be determined before any punitive measures can be taken.  This of course will require communion with the Source.  That will take time.  As of now, I am tabling this discussion until after the Source has given its opinion.”

Another round of grumbling was heard, and Elder McDaniels leaned in towards the Grandmaster, lowering his voice.  “Flash, we’ve got to take care of this quickly.  Think of what this precedent could lead to.”

“We are in conclave, old friend.  And while we are, you will address me by my title.”

McDaniels lowered his gaze at the rebuke.  “Yes, Grandmaster.”

The other sighed.  “But you are correct.  Nonetheless, let us move with prudence over celerity.”  The Grandmaster straightened up and faced the assembly.  “For now, have Aspirant Drake taken hence.  He shall face the decision of this Conclave another day, but until then, these proceedings are closed to him.  We have more important matters this night.”

The young man was escorted away, and the chamber’s massive, soundproofed doors secured shut behind him with a resonant boom.

“And now, fellow scribes of the street, we commence the ritual that is at the heart of our organization.  Tonight we honor the Compact, so that for us, language will serve as palette and brush, and we shall paint our masterpieces upon the airwaves, and our lyrical gifts of rhythm and rhyme shall flower, delivering us the immortality of fame.”

As he spoke, more robed figures brought forth a large, ancient tome.  Its cover threadbare and faded, the fabric worn through in places, revealing distressed wood beneath.

“The Compact grants us these gifts, but in return, there must always be sacrifices.”  The book was placed upon a stone plinth before the Grandmaster.  “Language is a living entity.  It grows and expands, words die and are born, grammar rules change.  And this change breeds strength.  Thus we use our fame, afforded us by virtue of the skill we gain from the Compact, to expand the language.”

He flipped open the cover of the book, revealing its title as an 1841 edition of Noah Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language.  Placing his hand upon the frontispiece, he continued.

“Each year, we guide the development of the English Language by taking a word and giving it new life, new purpose.  It is the solemn duty of every member here to use this new word, to give it free tongue, that it may spread to every ear, enter every mind, and dwell in every heart.  This year, we shall have a new word to use, to disseminate and to make part of the Living Language.”

From behind him, Elder Wright began unfurling a scroll bearing the previous words ‘sacrificed’ upon this altar.  Drawing forth a quill, he moved its tip down the long line of metavernacularized words to find the next blank spot, beneath ‘creep,’ ‘swag’ and ‘ratchet.’

The Grandmaster then began riffling through the pages of the sacred book, his eyes firmly closed, until a voice inside him told him to stop.  The whole assembly watched, breath held in anticipation.

Next, he raised his finger high into the air, and muttering a silent prayer to himself, brought it down upon the page, his eyes still shut tight.

No one moved.

Finally, the Grandmaster opened his eyes and looked where his own finger pointed.  He glanced to either side, to confirm that the other two elders had seen and acknowledged the choice of the word.  Only then did he nod to Elder Wright, that he may inscribe the word upon the scroll.

“The word,” The Grandmaster began, “the word that we shall use this year.  The word that shall have new meaning, and shall be reborn into the Living Language this year…that words is…” the entire room leaned forward unconsciously.

“Scuff.”

For several seconds, there was silence, followed by an awed susurrus of excited whispers.  At a single raise of his hands, the Grandmaster stilled the crowd.  He drew forth a small envelope from his pocket and consulted it as he spoke.

“By prior agreement amongst the elders, the definition of this new word shall be..’to speak of an individual, especially a male, in a disrespectful or disparaging manner, implicitly as regards their musical, athletic or sexual prowess.’”

He replaced the envelope in his pocket and announced the end of the Conclave’s proceedings.

“You all have the new term for the year, so now we must go forth and spread this term as best we can.  Use it in your music, in interviews and public appearances, and with your friends and family.  It falls upon us to make this work.”

“Now go in peace, and may the Living Language nourish and keep you all.  May it cradle you to its bosom, and serve you as we serve it.”

He ended with the antiphonal response that had been the call sign of the Order since its very inception, uttering it in a quiet voice, as it was echoed back from hundreds of mouths, reverberating throughout the marble hall.

“Word.”