I once worked for a publisher who fished a cigarette butt out of the men’s room urinal and then like Diogenes seeking an honest man went to every male in the newspaper plant, over 20 different guys, asking each as he held the soggy cancer stub in a wet paper towel, “Is this yours?”
“It sure is,” I wanted to respond. “Got a match?” I wasn’t quite that stupid, though, and knew with absolute certainty such a crack would have me fired on the spot. I’d already grown to believe my old boss viewed us all like a plantation owner did his field hands. Although he never said it directly, the message the Louisiana publisher and newspaper owner wanted to convey was that he would spare no indignity to find anyone who dared soil a urinal he owned. “Thou shall not disrespect my property” was clearly intended, and this definitely included the normally foul smelling, deeply stained WWII era plumbing fixture.
With that story in mind I pose a question: Who was easier on the mind to work for, the Louisiana slave driver or a compassionate, caring high school principal when the major task at hand was producing a good newspaper and quality student journalists? Hands down, boys and girls, the relationship with the publisher was far easier because the mission was well defined. When I taught journalism and sponsored a high school newspaper, it commonly seemed that doing a really good job often made my boss uncomfortable, and by then I’d long ago stopped throwing cigarettes into urinals. This is not to say I worked for bad administrators; they were quality people.
The core problem was that principals generally wanted what’s known in the business as a “house organ” and that’s a piece of public relations fluff where everything’s just dandy, but this kind of product is only read by the people who want to be praised in print. A really good newspaper, however, will often make authority cringe, and it’s a basic mission. See the problem?
I eventually learned a way to get around a lot of these barriers and still keep my job, and we’ll get back to all this later as we further explore the wild, weird, wonderfully screwed-up world of journalism and journalism education. I decided to tackle this task so that in my own small way I’d help prevent fake news from becoming the only news, something that would be cataclysmic for our nation, or so this old scribbler believes.
FYI, quality high school journalism programs were fairly rare when I practiced the vile craft in the 90s, and they’re getting even scarcer by the day now. This may be because there’s a most limited number of masochists, and an even smaller group of these who know how to write for a living and teach others to swim in ink and electrons while fending off society’s many sharks.
With all this behind us, I must stress I faced twice the trials and tribulations I did as a newspaper reporter, editor and ad hustler when I decided to teach journalism at a large San Antonio high school. The combination of a teenage staff, disgruntled faculty members, conflicting agenda, and the desire to create real life journalism experiences for my students often had me teetering on the brink of one catastrophe or another. Equally true, it put me in contact with hundreds of great kids I’ll never forget. One in particular tried to sell a yearbook ad to the state mental hospital here, the story for this edition of “How not to advance in the field of education.”
In all candor, lots of times my own stupidity came back to haunt me. I’ve always been a “wise guy” quick with the quip, but soon discovered I had to be careful with my sarcasm around students, even intelligent ones. I guess it’s also very important to say upfront before unraveling this particular tale I mean no disrespect to those suffering from mental illness, nor do I discount the importance of access to quality mental health care which always seems to be too little too late. Instead I make light of the general insanity of life which surrounds all of us, and if this bothers somebody, so be it.
All I know for sure is when I took over a broken down journalism program I had many moments of less than lucid thoughts. I discovered on day one my predecessor had been fired and left the yearbook from the previous term incomplete and unpublished. The AWOL annual resulted in about 10 angry calls a day asking either for refunds or delivery of a book I’d never seen. I leaned toward refunds at first, and then discovered the school owed over $20,000 in back yearbook debt, so refunds were not a viable option.
Over six frantic weeks we threw together what might be the worst high school yearbook ever created, really just a book of disassociated images, and blurry ones at that. Upon publication, I expected more angry complaints, but received few, the reason being the previous books were so bad we had essentially lived down to expectations, but at least that millstone was gone so I could proceed to make my own troubles.
Like any media mogul facing financial crisis, I turned my efforts to increasing advertising revenue. I mandated every journalism student sell at least one yearbook or newspaper ad and was advised doing so was legitimate as advertising was part of the formal curriculum. Stuffing 15 kids into my rusty VW van was not, but became a popular part of the process. I’d transport groups of students after school to various areas having a lot of stores, turn my teenage ninja ad reps loose on the community, and then reward the group with a free pizza afterwards. Pizza, by the way, powers many high school journalism programs. I also filled a refrigerator in my office with cheap soda and created a wage system where every hour spent working after school earned a free drink. Yes, I rotted a lot of teeth, but free sodas and such helped lead to a reliable after school crew always essential on any good yearbook and newspaper program.
Just before the end of the marking period, a bright but less than diligent student hovered around my desk moaning, “Oh Mr. Brown I’m going to fail. I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked the kid.
“I didn’t sell an ad,” he answered. I put down the thick stack of yearbook poof pages I’d been reviewing and looked up to the kid from my seat behind a desk covered in about an inch of paper work, a half inch down about two weeks old that I still hadn’t time to clear off.
“And why didn’t you sell an ad?” I continued.
“I ummmm…I… errr….I don’t know,” he answered. Of course we both knew the answer—he’d waited until the last minute to even think about doing a required project, but I let that one go and just went on.
“Did you do your market research”
“No.”
“Do you have an ad concept?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what makes for a successful ad sale?”
“No, not really.”
“Did you even think of a business you might want to try to sell an ad to?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” the student said, one day before the project deadline.
Of course, weeks earlier I’d taught all of my journalism students the basic principles just mentioned, and also how to prepare a sample ad to show a prospective advertiser, but the student hadn’t bothered to pay attention or practice the skills with the ample time provided. Anyone who’s worked with teenagers knows this is a very common situation for present-oriented adolescents.
I kept in reserve a supply of “sure sales,” business people I knew would buy an ad if only asked. I held these business contacts for kids who really tried to complete the advertising assignment, but were just unsuccessful, long believing that any student who makes an honest effort should receive a passing grade.
“Please, please, please Mr. Brown. Give me an idea of some place I can sell an ad,” the kid begged with his best look of desperation and concern. I’d already decided to give him one of my sure sales contacts, but only after I sweated him a bit so that he wouldn’t be as inclined to let another major project wait until the last minute.
“At this late stage,” I said to the kid, “I’d try selling an ad to the state mental hospital.”
There were about six other kids in the room during this after school exchange and all of them had a good laugh, precisely my intention, but my target apparently didn’t get the joke.
“OK…OK,” he said, “what should I say?”
“Well you have to think up an ad concept,” I answered.
“Can you give me one?” the kid pleaded.
By this time, I thought the tardy salesman was just pretending to be oblivious, so I shot back, “OK. Here’s one for the yearbook, a congratulations ad with the heading, ‘We’re Nuts for You Class of 92.’” I further suggested an illustration, a cross-eyed squirrel juggling pecans.
My comedy act brought down the house of observers. I was then momentarily distracted by a photography student dripping a roll of wet film all over my lap, and when I turned back around to talk to the Nuts for You kid, he was gone. I intended to quit teasing him and then lead my student into designing an ad for one of my sure sales contacts, but he left before I could do so.
The following morning, I was certain a brief career teaching high school journalism was over.
“Oh Mr. Brown…Oh Mr. Brown. Now I know for sure I’m going to fail,” the very sad kid related in all seriousness. “They wouldn’t buy the ad.”
“What ad?” I said.
“The one for the mental hospital,” the kid replied.
“You didn’t really try to sell an ad to the state mental hospital?” I asked, hoping he was just pulling my leg, but fearing he was in earnest.
“Oh yes sir, I sure did,” he answered solemnly.
Knowing I was doomed now, I just prodded for details.
“Did you tell them your ad concept?”
“I sure did. I even wrote it down and read it back to them: We’re Nuts for You Class of 92.”
“Ahh… what did they say?”
“No a whole lot really. She just kept saying “well ummm… well ummm,” my budding sales professional explained.
Desperate now and thinking about possible damage control, I asked the student if he’d told his parents about the assignment.
“Yes sir,” the student answered. “My dad thinks it was pretty unethical.”
I thought for sure I’d be fired, but nothing at all happened, except I gave the kid an additional day to finish his ad sales project with a client I gave him.
You’d think I’d learn to never repeat such a mistake, but that’s far from true. Had it not been for me, “big dork” would have never been identified in my last big yearbook, a story I’ll relate soon as I continue to recount a life of misprints, typographical flubs and other egregious errors. Equally true, my students also won a bunch of UIL competition medals, made many trips to the Texas journalism state finals, and our paper earned numerous awards, most prestigious a national one from Quill and Scroll. It’s the only plaque tossed my way over the years I decided to display.
Maybe it does take a real nut job to become a journalist, and an even bigger one to teach the craft. Much more later. Gotta go now. For some weird reason I feel like cracking a bowl of pecans for lunch.