Some Folks Just Ain't Got It

There's a concept I got from a roleplaying game years ago, one of many things I've learned from playing such games over the years, and it has always stuck with me.

The game was Vampire: The Masquerade, and when you create your character you get to select your characters abilities, which is divided into knowledges, talents and skills.  This stuck me as very logical, and was something I had never really thought about before.

Knowledges are things you can learn from reading a book; purely academic skills like history, mathematics, or the sciences.

Skills represent things that you need to practice to become better at, things that require training the mind and body, combining learned technique and muscle memory.  Things like carpentry, firearms accuracy, skiing, and other such activities.

Talents represent things that are, at least in part, based on innate aptitude, rather than training.  This includes pretty much all of the various forms of artistic expression (painting, poetry, prose, singing, acting, and dancing,) as well as more intuitive activities such as psychoanalysis, gambling, or public speaking.

Now to be sure, all of these activities require practice to be as good as you can be.  If you do not hone your art, you will never be able to live up to your potential, and someone who engages in such activities  will benefit from both constant practice, as well as study and training, just like knowledges and skills.

But what separates a talent from a skill is that training and practice alone won't make you actually good at it.  And this is the controversial aspect of this idea, and one that I've gotten into more than one heated argument over in the past (I'm usually not the one getting heated, but that's because I'm an asshole.)

There are many who contend that ANY person can learn ANY ability with enough training and practice.  Those people are clearly very optimistic, and they make me sad.

I happen to be of the opposing viewpoint.  I feel that there are some things that you are either born good at, or you are not.  You can take all the training and practice in the world, but if you are not wired for that ability, that's it, you will never be great at it.

Take singing.  You can go to voice coaches and practice every day, and you will certainly improve your voice over time.  But that won't make you a great singer, on par with the great voices of our time.  Debbie Gibson trained her voice to sing in her own, limited range.  But that was it.  She never made it as a true singer, she was a limited pop star.  Before her we had Cher.  She was a superstar in her own right, but she was always limited to her range, and never had a voice that would resonate through the ages (remember, she is the reason Autotune was invented.)

And then you have acting.  It's easy to pick on Keanu Reeves here, but can anyone honestly say he's improved his craft over the years?  He can still do Ted, but that's it.  You can't just pull some random waitress off the street and teach her the secret method that makes her an amazing actress.

Perhaps the most telling example is songwriting.  You can know all the notes, and learn all the symbols they use to translate them into sound, but nothing can teach you how to write great music.  Any shlub can practice an instrument and learn to play like a virtuoso, but actually writing the music?  That shit is sorcery.

But if we accept that there are talents, how do we determine what is and isn't a talent?  My example above about any shlub becoming a virtuoso no doubt rankled a few of you (that would be the musicians in the audience.)  You may say "hey, playing an instrument isn't just the mechanical placement of fingers or the practiced techniques of applying air, it takes soul, man!"

I'll have to take your word, hippies, because I've never learned to play an instrument.   But I have had people ask me to teach them to write, and I absolutely cannot help you there.  I cannot begin to tell you how ideas form in my head, they just do.  I imagine that if I begged a talented songwriter to teach me how to turn individual notes into love, hate, and exhilaration, he or she would just look at me sadly like  I was a dog who wanted to learn how to drive; neither of us has any hope of doing it, and we couldn't even understand the explanation of why not.

And what about public speaking?  Lots of people claim that they can teach you to move crowds or become the world's greatest salesperson, and indeed, these enlightened individuals will share these secrets with you if you pay for their book/tapes/seminars.  But then they brag about how many people have read/listened to/attended their product.  If the secret was that easy, surely there must be legions of svengalis running around armed with this unstoppable advice.

And be careful ladies, there are plenty of guys out there giving seminars on how to pick up women.  Surely none of you are safe once these sages of sexy teach hordes of men the secrets of forcing you to fall hopelessly in love with them.  But maybe not.

Some things can't be taught.  At least, not taught in such a way that will make you good at something if you don't have the basic abilities.

Beauty is the same way, if your skull is the right shape, your features will be appropriately symmetrical, and thus you will be good looking.  If it is not, you can dress well and wear flawless makeup and look well put together, but not pretty.  Sorry, she's born with it.

It's never Maybelline.

I'm sorry if this comes a big bringdown, but there are some things at which we will never get any better.  But that doesn't mean we can't try.  Maybe no one gets your stuff, man, and one day you will be appreciated.  So keep it up!

I'm sorry if that did not sound like sincere encouragement.  I've tried to get better at that for years, but...you know.

Warning: Graphic Descriptions of Boo-Boo Toe

So this summer I broke my toe.  The nail was all black, but it stayed on.  I went to an orthopedist, who gave me a soft cast, and I wore it dutifully (I even had to ride the scooter thing at Winn Dixie, which was a trifle humiliating, and let my wife drive, which was a lot humiliating.)

The toe healed, new nail growth was pushing the nasty black part forward, all was well.

But then, a month or so ago, the front part of the nail (the black part,) finally came off.  It was only a quarter inch from the front, so I didn't think much of it.

But apparently the nail behind got confused and decided to grow sideways into the flesh of my toe.   I developed a massive swollen lump of inflamed tissue around the invasive blade of keratin that was shanking my toe from the inside.  I messed with it, and thought that I had dislodged it and that it would grow forward normally.

I was wrong.

It recently became apparent that the nail was ingrown, and had dug into my toemeat like it was a cave complex in Afghanistan.

I made an appointment for the foot doctor for Monday, thinking they could advise me as to what I would have to do, and if it would require surgery or whatnot.

Instead, when I went in, he took a look at it and said "yeah, that's ingrown.  Let's get it out.  You allergic to Lidocaine?"

And like that, I felt the safety bar lower down around my shoulders as the cars of the terrorcoaster began clicking along on their long ride upwards, before plummeting down the screaming track of pain and fear.

The guy sprayed my toe with a can of whatever Captain Cold uses to stop the Flash, and then injected me with something he claimed would numb the area (I didn't see the label, but I'm pretty sure it was bees, judging by feel alone.)  Being a manly man, I did not scream, because emotions are for women and robots (only at the end of their character development arc, and then only right before a heroic act of self sacrifice.)

Then he went away, presumably to laugh, and returned after my foot had gone "numb" (a more accurate description would be to say that the bees had knocked the extremity mostly unconscious.)  I allowed him to put the little curtain up to block my view of the procedure, certainly not because I was squeamish to observe the action itself, but out of polite respect for his professional technique, which I believe he had acquired after years extracting information from political prisoners somewhere like North Korea or the Sudan.

The procedure ( I later gleaned from my wife, who was kind enough to accompany me for the event,) involved him taking a pair of snippers and simply slicing at my toe like a Dreadnok and carving a gash down the side of the nail.  He then took out a pair of locking forceps and grabbed the offending nail fragment, yanking out a jagged shard of bloody nail that would not have looked out of place emerging from one of Wolverine's knuckles.

None of this was pleasant.

And that is why I will not be able to come in to school tomorrow and stand on my feet for five and a half hours proctoring the SAT.

My sincerest apologies, and fucking ow.

Talking Shit.

Please note:  The following was posted on Facebook a while ago (back in 2012, hence the Mayan apocalypse reference.  Enjoy.)

I've never been afraid of shit.

I mean this in the literal sense: I was raised in Davie, Fl, and to live there is to know shit on a very personal level. I've been around cow shit, horse shit, chicken shit, goat shit, elephant shit (Swap Shop anyone?.) You name it, I've been experienced its excrement.

And I've changed plenty of diapers, from cousins to nieces and nephews and my own kids, I've smelled it all, from the black primordial ooze of meconium to the bright mustard yellow toxic sludge that my nephew would befoul the world with.

My own kids are capable of spewing their share of pestilential loads, and I've learned to live with their noxious leavings with aplomb. I don't even cringe anymore.

But what I just experienced has aged me beyond my years. What Arthur just...committed is beyond a sin and can only be described as an abomination.

This was not a smell, but rather a vicious assault deep into my nasal cavities. That stench is now firmly seated in my bones, a malignant presence that may never be scoured clean. I don't need a shower, I need an exorcism.

The mess itself was indescribable, and looked like mankind's doom made manifest. The normal question that arises from encountering such blights is to inquire as to what the child has been eating, but the only answer that can suffice is THE SOULS OF THE DAMNED.

It is time to accept the sinister truth: My child's ass is possessed. I fear that his bottom has become a gateway to the realm of Azathoth, the blind idiotic nuclear chaos at the dark heart of the universe.

This necrostool he has made is the herald of Kali Yuga, and the end times are upon us all. Expect the flocks of flesh eating worm-crows to wheel overhead and the rivers of boiling pitch to fill the streets any day now, because the Mayans were right.

And I think I need to wash out that diaper pail at the very least. Because DAMN.

In A Galaxy Far, Far Away There Will Still Be Dummies

Much has been made of how Star Wars, being a fantasy set in space, does not bother with realistic depictions of technology.

I would dispute that claim, pointing out that the technology we use is not merely a matter of what has been invented, but also the human elements that control what we use in our daily lives.

Also, the Star Wars universe is full of dummies.

There are tons of things we all use, despite there being better alternatives.  Let's face it, the fact that electric cars have faced such an uphill climb is not simply a matter of inadequate batteries.  Electric cars would be devastating to several industries, and those people (rightly so,) have struggled to suppress the usage of the technology, and we ourselves do not trust such innovations, because we are so accustomed to the internal combustion engine ("you mean I can't shake windows when I rev my car?  people migh tthink I'm gay!")

Whereas cell phones were immediately popular, and new industries popped up over night to capitalize on this new tech.  It spread like a virus, and people scrambled to make the tech better and cheaper to get it into as many hands as possible.

Likewise, in Star Wars, we see the people of Tatooine, the backwater of the galaxy, using second-, third- or more hand technology, battered and repaired.  Everything is held together with duct tape and baling wire, such as the mismatched parts of the Millennium Falcon, or C-3P0's off color leg.  (this by the way, is the obvious reason why Artoo can no longer fly in the classic trilogy.  With no one to keep fixing his various systems, none of his fancier bits work anymore.)

The Empire has top of the line military hardware, clearly designed for efficiency and intimidation.  THe Rebellion has beat up old fighters like the Y-wing, which are missing their outer fairings, leaving exposed wires and bits.

On the subject of Imperial technology, why on Earth (or Coruscant,) would the Empire bother to use walkers like the AT-AT?  Simple.  They are made by a company that has a lot of friends in the Imperial Military's procurement division.  Try Googling the V-22 Osprey some time, and then come back and tell me how the military would never choose inferior machinery.

And then there'e the issue of cost.  If the AT-AT is economical, and the people who make these decisions can use that to their advantage, you bet your ass that troopers are going to be clanking along in a walker while the civilian who ordered them gets a shiny new speeder for his wife.

And if stormtrooper armor does interfere with eripheral vision?  Tough.  The Emperor wants to maintain the image here, and if some of you bastards get ambushed, so what?  Human lives are literally the cheapest resource at his disposal (try to salvage the armor and that E-11 blaster though, that stuff is still worth a buck once you wash the smell of dead stormtrooper out of it.)

Then there is the terminology.  In our own world, we hold on to words, adapting them to fit newer tech by just slapping them on the next new thing.  We still say 'dialing' a phone for example, even though we tap a touchscreen now.  Likewise, we say "my phone's ringing," instead of "my phone is playing Lady Gaga's 'Bad Romance,' I should answer it."

That is why you get terms like 'turbolasers' to refer to the large blaster cannons on Imperial ships.  They are clearly not lasers (plasma weapons, duh,) but hundreds of years prior maybe they were.  We still call the artillery aboard modern aircraft carriers 'cannons,' even though they are nothing like the primitive weapons that bore that name originally.

If our soldiers begin carrying railguns or lasers, we sill still call them 'rifles' if they hold them to their shoulders to fire.  Neither will have barrels with spiral grooves in them to impart spin to a metal projectile, but the term 'rifle' has simply become synonymous with long arms.  The Death Star's planet-cracking weapon is called a 'Superlaser,' but it is entirely probable that that was just the name the designer (Wallex Blissex) came up with to explain it to the dummies he worked with.  You know, just like life.

Speaking of dummies, it's time to talk about Han Solo.  Han is a hero, don;t get me wrong, and of course I love him just like the rest of you.  But for all his prowess at piloting spacecraft, Han is no rocket scientist.

He doesn't need to be, he just flies the things, and fixes them when they break.  He doesn't care about the science behind how it all works, just the practical applications.  So it's natural that sometimes he might get confused about some of the terminology.

You see where this is going, right?

A parsec is a measure of distance in space, and it is a large unit of measurement.  Really large.  So in the original, 1977 Star Wars (Episode IV: A New Hope,) when Han brags about his ship's speed by claiming it made the 'Kessel Run' in less than twelve parsecs,  he was clearly mistaken.  Because he's a dumb, lovable goofball, and he was talking to a couple of dumb hicks, so it's not like he was putting on his A game.

And that's fine.  You don't need to come up with some lame-ass convoluted explanation about Kessel being surrounded by black holes so that you have to be fast to make it within a particular distance or some shit like that.

Sigh.

Anyways, my point is that before you pick apart something in SciFi for being illogical (like all those jackasses who thought the name 'unobtanium' in Avatar was stupid,) look around at our own world, from which the writers draw their inspiration.

In a world where we name new species after everyone from gary Larson to Han Solo (it's true, look it up,) it would be ridiculous to think that scientists would suddenly stop having lame senses of humor.

What is a Roleplaying Game? A Primer For the Uninitiated.

As I’ve mentioned before, I play Roleplaying Games (the real kind, as I’ve also mentioned previously.)

Some of you know what I mean, but for many of you, this is a foreign concept, or you may be confused as to some of the finer points on how such games are played.  So I’ve decided to create this primer on RPG’s, to sort of lift up the curtain and shw you how it all works.

And this way, you closeted geeks can see what you’ve been missing, and what you’ve been too afraid to ask about.

To begin with, the core concept of RPG’s is that you control a character.  This character is rather like an extension of yourself in the fictional world of the game, rather like an avatar in a computer game.

Usually, you create this character, determining things like race (or species,) gender, physical appearance, personality, and the various mental and physical attributes that define them.

These attributes can include things such as how strong your character is, how tough, how agile, how charismatic, and so forth.  Each game uses different rules and statistics to create your character, and different methods of determining these abilities.

Some games go for a balanced approach, where every new character is roughly equal, as you must make choices of give and take, so that each character starts out with the same potential, and you choose how to apply it.

This is usually called the “point buy” system, and you can allocate points into your various attributes.  So if you want your character to be super smart, you won’t have much left to put in things like physical attributes.  Conversely, you could be exceptionally strong, but this would be balanced by not having much left to put in intelligence.  This can create a feeling of fairness and equality.

Other games (perhaps more realistically,) have you randomly generate your scores using dice or other methods (more on dice below.)  This means that, just like the real world, some people will be stronger, smarter and tougher than someone else, just because they had lucky rolls at character creation.

Because of this idea of creating a new persona, these games allow you to explore new possibilities.  Not only are stories normally set in another world (such as the Old West, a high fantasy realm of magic and warriors, or a galaxy far, far away,) but you can also be someone entirely different from who you are.  Not just because you are playing an elf or an alien, but because you can choose to be the strong one, or the smart one, or the noble or ignoble one.  You can choose your character’s personality, and try your hand at making choices you never would in your own life.

And those choices are what the game is all about.  Once you have your character, you make decisions about what your character does in the story.  Whenever you have a choice to make, from which way to turn at a crossroads, to whether to talk or fight in a situation, YOU are the one to decide.

But just like in life, not everything you try to do will work.  RPG’s have rules to determine how well something works, or how badly you fail.  If you are in a bar fight in a game, you can’t just say “I punch the big guy and knock him out,” and expect it to happen, any more than you can just decide to knock someone out in real life; there are lots of factors that control if you are able to do that.

Most games use dice for this.  Your abilities, such as how strong you are, how skilled you are at fighting, any bonuses you get, like if the other guy is drunk, or you’re wearing brass knuckles, all affect your chances.  You then roll dice to see if it happens.  So there is always a chance for a lucky shot, as well as for a random fumble, and these combine to make the game interesting and cinematic when done right.

Failure in the game is a lot like in life; fail to sneak away from the town guards, you may get caught, fail to deactivate the bomb aboard the freight train, you blow up, fail to properly set the coordinates for traveling through hyperspace and you could end up passing right through a star or a super nova (and that would end your trip real fast, wouldn’t it?)

But failures make the story interesting.  No one wants to play a game where you never lose, and never have to try harder; you would never grow as a character.

And games allow for that growth by tracking experience.  Nearly every game charts your character’s development, allowing you to become better, stronger, or faster, by ‘leveling up.’  When you level up, you can increase skills or learn new abilities.  Most games allow you to grow in new directions, and not keep you limited to what you chose at the beginning.  If you want your warrior to learn to cast spells, or for your computer hacker to train to throw knives, you can do so.

Experience allows characters to get better, face tougher and tougher opponents, and unlock new powers and abilities.  This is one of the great attractions of these sorts of games; they allow you to get better, and give the players a sense of accomplishment.

But how does one actually play the game?  One player is in charge of running the game; telling the story and adjudicating die rolls.  This individual is referred to by different titles such as Dungeon Master, Referee, Storyteller, etc., depending on the specific game, but the generic term is Game Master.

The GM describes the setting for the other players, so they can react accordingly, describing what their characters would like to do in the situation.  The GM must then determine how the players’ actions would affect the story.

Some GM’s use pre-made adventures, with all the encounters, treasure, and characters involved already laid out for you.  But others write their own stories, and this allows you to share your ideas with players, as everyone participates in creating a story together.  The players have no idea where the story will lead them, and the GM has no idea what the players will do in reaction to it.  This is one of the most compelling aspects of playing RPG’s.

There is no board; the GM describes the setting, the action, and any other characters who are involved.  The players must use their imaginations to create the scene in their heads.  Some people use miniature figurines to represent the various characters when in combat, often on a map to indicate where everyone is standing.  But that is not necessary.

Not necessary, but awesome. 

People play RPG’s in any place, on nearly any surface.  The classic image of a group of friends sitting around a table with nothing more than some papers (character sheets that list a character’s stats for the players, notes about the adventure for the GM,) some dice and rule books represents all that is needed to enjoy a game.

There are hundreds of different RPG’s available.  They range from all kinds of rulesets, from painfully

simple (FUDGE System,) to bewilderingly complex (Twilight 2000, 1^st edition Shadowrun.)  And pretty much any setting you can imagine (I can name about a dozen Old West games alone, for example.)  There are games based on nearly any story, movie, or intellectual property you can think of (Marvel superheroes, Star Trek, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Mars books, you name it,) has a game associated with it.  And if it doesn’t, you can adapt a set a rules to fit it (or someone online has already done so for you.)

It’s not for everyone:  Just like any activity, some are going to find it boring.  And of course, it’s only really going to be fun if you are playing with people you like, and who are looking to get the same thing out of the game as you are.

But if the idea of sitting around a table with a group of friends, being part of a story in your imagination (and probably eating pizza,) sounds like a good time, then maybe it’s time you faced your fear, picked up a rulebook and some dice (and a 2-liter of Mountain Dew if you want to perpetuate the stereotype,) and get together with friends to give it a try.

We won’t tell.

The Scariest Disney Villain of All Time

The scariest Disney villain of all time is from Cars.  You remember when Lightning McQueen and Mater go tractor tipping?  They wake up Frank, the huge industrial combine who chases them off with his whirling blades.

It’s a cute and funny scene, and you never really feel that the characters are in too much trouble (Mater is laughing the whole time, so he knows they can get away.)  But the threat of being shredded in the spinning barrel of blades is not the scary part.

The scary part is his existence.

This is Cars, remember?  The world is made up of anthropomorphized machines.  Even the bugs are tiny Volkswagens.  The reason there aren’t any convertibles in the world is because then they’d have to show the inside of the passenger compartment.  There are no humans, no animals, not even any insects (although plenty of plants, apparently.)

Instead of animals, they have tractors that are like cows, and Frank, the aforementioned combine, who acts just like a bull.  It’s cute and all, but it opens up a very scary question.

Why the hell are there combines?

A combine is designed to harvest grain from fields, gathering up the wheat and collecting it to be processed and milled.  Into flour.  For bread.

Why are they growing crops?

You see them when McQueen is travelling across country, long before he ever gets near Radiator Springs.  During the driving montage, he passes row upon row of crops, mostly corn.  Tractors are a common sight (McQueen isn’t confused to see one,) so these are not the only crops they are growing in the country.

Now I know some of you think you’re clever, and are thinking, “maybe they’re growing crops to make ethanol or biodiesel?”

Shut your dirty mouth and don’t you ever let me hear that commie talk again.  Here are some reasons why you are wrong (as well us un-American.)

First off, those options just aren’t practical replacements for petroleum products, which take millions of years to make (it’s why the company is called Dinoco, remember.)  Standard internal combustion engines just can’t run well on these ‘organic’ fuels, especially not race cars.  So the idea that the whole society is running largely on those fuels doesn't really hold water.

Speaking of ‘organic fuel,’ Fillmore makes a big deal about the oil companies and their conspiracies, which makes it pretty clear to me that Tex, the owner of Dinoco Oil, ain’t putting corn and switchgrass into cars’ tanks.

Finally, if the major oil companies were creating their product from plants, what are Frank and the tractors doing in Radiator Springs, which is in the middle of nowhere?  Are they growing their own oil?  It makes sense if that’s where Fillmore is getting the supplies for his own organic fuel, but that only makes sense for small time operators, the majority of the world must run on oil.

So what are the crops for?  I have a perfectly logical explanation that fits all the details and answers many questions.  They are growing corn and wheat to process into flour, for making bread.

To feed their human slaves.

There will always be things that the cars won’t be able to do for themselves, even the smaller, nimble little pittys that run around and do nearly everything.  Precision work will require human hands, and those come attached to human bodies.

What if there are entire factories of humans, manufacturing new cars, held in thrall to the machines they built?  What if they are considered unclean by the cars, like untouchables, and hidden away, never to be mentioned in polite society.

There’s your plot to Cars 3.

Lightning McQueen and Mater find an escaped human, perhaps an adorable child, who makes them aware of the abuse and suffering that the human slaves face inside the manufacturing plants, where they make the parts all cars need to keep running.

They decide to use Lightning’s fame to expose the truth to the world, but the shadowy group who runs the operation (perhaps a sinister triad of large trucks known as the Big Three,) try to eliminate them in a wild chase across the country while the heroes try to get to Washington to see the president in the White Garage.

In the end, the humans are granted their freedom, and both people and cars learn to work and live together.  We get an uplifting ending, and a perfect end to the trilogy.

Are you listening Disney?  I’m still waiting for that call, and now that you own Star Wars, you really need me.

I’ll be waiting.

Join us next time on “Why Your Childhood is Built on Lies” for our discussion of animal fighting rings, slavery, and Uncle Toms when we look at the race traitor Pikachu from Pokemon.

Useless Knowledge

“Why we gotta learn this shit?”

            Her arms were folded across her chest, mostly covering the faded stains of her dress code compliant polo shirt.  It was obvious that it had seen hard use, and had been washed too many times.  The shirt matched the faded slacks, with frayed cuffs, a small hole at one knee and more stains here and there.

            Both contrasted sharply with the brand new sneakers, which clearly cost more than any I had ever purchased myself.  One had to have priorities, and the school clothes were only for school, and therefore did not warrant any special attention, but the shoes could be worn outside of school.

You know, in the real world.  With people.

“I ain’t never gon’ use this!  I ain’t being no actor!”  As always, the lines were delivered in a harsh, barking voice, and accompanied by her accustomed scowl and the jutting out of her bottom lip.  It was a bumper, that lip.  Like the extended bumpers you see on large trucks, jutting out to protect the vehicle from running into something.

“We’ve been through this before,” I said, calling her by her first name (as opposed to using her ‘government name,’ which would inevitably set off another argument.)  “I’m not going to get into an argument with you.  This is something that I feel you should learn.  You may not agree now, but one day it may come in handy, you never know.”

The speech never caused a sudden epiphany in students, granting them enlightenment about their future.  Usually they would just roll their eyes and write me off as another boring old person spouting off institutionalized bullshit.  But they would shut up for a while.

But not today.  Today she was having a bad day, and it had been determined that I would be the recipient of her wrath.

“You always say that.  We ain’t never gonna use that shit!”  She knew I would have to engage her if she cursed enough.  I would not be baited.

“Please watch your language.  And you can’t know what the future might bring.  My response was a huff of breath as she turned in her seat away from me.

‘One day you might use this information.’  Teachers had been giving out that same speech when I was in high school, and it hadn’t worked on me either.

But it had been true, nonetheless.  Every teacher who sighed and said this for the thousandth time had been telling the truth.  But I had not listened, and I still regret all the time I wasted, both theirs and mine.  And this lesson was important.  I was trying to teach a life skill (public speaking) that could absolutely help them in the future.  This skill could one day be the key to a better job, or mending a failing relationship, or keep a simple misunderstanding from escalating to violence.  I knew they needed this knowledge.   They could use this one day.

Now I was here, trying to make it make sense to them.  I knew what I was saying was true, but how to get them to understand? 

Continuing to use her first name, and speaking in the most calm, patient and caring voice, I faced her and politely asked her to simply take the assignment and allow me to teach the lesson.  I was ready to give up on her.  She had been obstinate all year, and fought me at every turn whenever I tried to teach her.  I was ready to invoke ‘please fail quietly’ protocols.

But I kept it together, because I was a professional.  This freshman would not force me to abandon that.  I handed her the sheet, which she looked at with that same scowl.

“This ain’t mean nothing in the real world.  Why we got to learn this…” she had lost much of her stridency, saying the words one more time, like a mantra.

I don’t know why that was what made me snap.

Despite all I had learned, I resolved to break the rules.  Ignoring all my teacher training (which I always did anyway,) and going against everything I had learned in all my years of teaching in the classroom, I was going to make a Hail Mary play on this kid.

I would tell her the truth.

“Listen kid,” I said through gritted teeth as I lowered my face next to hers.  From here I could see that she had not washed her face anytime recently, and I could smell the Cheetos that served as her lunch.

“You wanna know why kid?   Because people died for you to learn this.”

She all but cocked her head to the side like a confused dog.  I didn’t allow her to ask the wrong questions that she was preparing.

“in ancient times, education was not only a privilege of the rich, it was their secret weapon.  If you can deny the commoners the most basic education, you keep all knowledge to yourself.  You maintain a monopoly on learning, and only those in the club are allowed to unlock their potential.”

“Later, when the first schools and colleges were established, they were the one way common-born families could make a better life for their children, sending their sons off to learn the secrets of reading, writing, arithmetic, astronomy.  Armed with that kind of knowledge, they could become whatever they wished.  And the sons who did not receive that education?  They were fated to always work for those who did. “

“In America, we created a public school system to educate the sons and daughters of commoners, because in America, we were all commoners.  But even then, there were plenty of people who were deemed unworthy of learning what the wealthier citizens’ children did.”

“Wrong religion, wrong gender, wrong country of origin, wrong color of skin; any of these could mark someone as not good enough to get a quality education.  If you weren’t the right kind, you didn’t deserve to know things.”

“A lot of people had to fight long and hard, and faced hatred, bigotry, and violence to make our school system accept every student.  Many died in that fight, struggling for the rights of all the citizens, not just the few who could afford them.”

“They gave their lives for the future.  To say that we are not going to hold back information that could open doors of success for you.  That we are not going to skip subjects because we think you are not good enough to learn that, or that you will never need them because you will never have a chance to use them.”

“Because our mission is to give every single one of you every chance that the other kids have.  The wealthy, the privileged, the important; you will be given a chance to learn every single thing that they get to learn.  It’s all down to how hard you want to work.”

“So you want to know why I’m teaching you this shit?  Because you may not think that you need it, but I will NEVER let someone come in my class and say that one of my students doesn’t deserve to learn anything.”

“Not even you.”

“Now take out your pencil, shut up, and learn.”