First Day of Professor Mardue’s Writing Class


“Welcome, students, welcome. I am professor Mardue, pronounced Mar-doo-way, not Mar-doo. Please don’t call me professor Mar-doo. Our family is from Argentina. We don’t say it Mar-doo. We say it Mar-doo-way.

“Now that you’re all in your seats, the first thing we do is take out all of paper, pens, or pencils, and place them on the desks. Yes, anything that you can write with, or write on, put right there on your desk-top. I will collect it. I am coming around with my trash-can. See, I’m putting all of your writing stuff in this old blue trash can. My hungry trash can is eating up all of your stuff. Goodbye yellow pencil, goodbye green felt-tip, goodbye red binder. There, there and there; all gone. You won’t need any of that stuff from now on.

“I know exactly why you’re here. You are here to get help with your writing. You all have been identified as ‘problem writers.’ Everyone in this room has tried the standard remedies, and they haven’t worked—your problems still persist. That is because your other classes were too lenient and you got away with murder. But not here, not now. Your problems with writing are over.

“That is because you will never write again. Not a shopping list, not a note to your friends, not a diary entry, not an email. You are hereby forbidden to write even a single letter of the alphabet. You may not write numbers. You may not write your name. For you, language is spoken only—any other kind of representation you may not do. You’ve had your chance, and you have shown that you cannot handle writing. Normal people can handle a little bit of writing, but for people like you, complete abstinence is the only cure. There is no such thing as writing ‘in moderation’ for the real problem writer. Don’t even think about it.

“What is that, Hermann? Snickering? I assure you that this is no joke. And what is that sticking out of those baggy pants? Your cell phone…I see. Give that to me. No, I’m not going to throw your phone away, Hermann, I just want to hold it up for the class to see. You see Hermann’s phone, everyone? Yes, Lily, it is a very nice phone—a Raz-R, if I’m not mistaken. Now, I push this button, and what do I see? Yes, Hermann has been sending and receiving text messages. Look, I can see what day and time he sent his very last one. I show you this because I will be randomly checking cell phones for the rest of the term. If I find any sent text messages dated after today—instant F. And don’t even think about sending email—I have ways of checking on that. No writing! No writing! No writing!


“What is that, big boy in the impossibly large athletic shirt? Did I hear you cough so as to cover up the phrase “psycho-nerd” that you keep muttering under your breath to your gangster friends? Keep that up and you’ll get a big fat 'F.' Now how would that look on your transcript?

“Let’s get out our textbooks. We are going to do a group reading about the history of the English language. Would you start please, short girl in the way-too-skimpy beige skirt with the fringes on it? Page 22, where it says ' The Celts...'

Less than a week later Mardue made his first bust—Antoine was caught with math homework sticking out of his backpack. Mardue let him off with a warning. Soon infractions of the no-writing rule began cropping up everywhere. Hermann taunted Mardue openly with a rambling six-page essay on tattoos that he had put together for sociology class. Before he knew it, Mardue was neck-deep in student writing of all kinds; he was kept frantic ferreting out the forbidden writing and making threats about grades. The students seemed to enjoy the vein-popping rages that frequently overtook Mardue as he discovered violation after violation.
The following Thursday principal Smalley, short and rotund, checked on Mardue and found the room awash in the printed word. Students were bent over their desks writing, others were taping specimens of writing to the wall, and still others were reading aloud from things that they had written, competing to be heard.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Mardue, you really have ‘em working,” said Smalley, taking in the scene. “Most of our composition teachers can’t get any work out of ‘em at all.”
“It’s pronounced Mar-doo-way,” Mardue corrected Smalley, licking his lips and nervously twisting one end of his moustache between long, spidery fingers, “Mar-doo-way. Not Mar—doo.”

A Trio of Texts to Teach Teens By
By Grant Maher

Here are three recommended books for the teacher who wants to blaze a path towards a better world, one teen student at a time.

Creger, John. The Personal Creed Project and a New Vision of Learning: Teaching the Universe of Meaning In & Beyond the Classroom. Portsmouth, N.H. Heineman. 2004

Creger asserts that there is only one prime goal for learning—“the growth and development of a fully realized, well balanced personality”— a goal which our current educational system often pays lip service to but seldom supports. No mere lip service here--Creger delivers the groceries with his Creed Project, a values based writing program that his students say reinvigorates their commitment to learning. He explains how “depersonalization” shuts down kids in our schools and how it can be alleviated by reconnecting young people to a world of meaning both inside and outside of the classroom through reflective writing. This visionary book is essential for those who want to transcend the current educational milieu and rise to a higher plane of teaching, what Creger envisions as “teaching for the 21st century.”


Warner, Mary L. Adolescents in the Search for Meaning: Tapping the Powerful Resource of Story. Toronto. Scarecrow Press. 2006.

Warner has done a large study on what teens get of their reading material. Her survey results will astonish you and change the way you think about teens and reading (one surprise: how influential those “Chicken Soup” books really are). Based on the testimony of actual adolescents, Warner has assembled a definitive listing of authors and books that are guaranteed to deliver maximum impact to teen readers. This book is a must-have for the teacher who wants to put students in touch with stories that will help them make sense of their lives and give them a deeper understanding of the world.


Zemelman, Steven. Harvey Daniels. A Community of Writers: Teaching Writing in the Junior and Senior High School. Porstmouth, N.H. Heineman 1988.

This book writes the book on “process writing.” Teaching writing any other way, it is now widely recognized, is simply the wrong way. Zemelman and Daniels explain in a very engaging style how to conceive of and teach writing as a journey rather than a goal, while aiming a glaring spotlight on practices from the past (like flooding student papers with red ink) that just don’t work or are even harmful. Classroom climate, time-management, writing workshops, peer-editing and more are discussed in depth. Although this book is getting a little dated (and some of the practices in need of a make-over) no writing teacher at the junior high level or above should step into a classroom without having read it.

(Sour) Grapes
By Grant Maher

Grapes are pressed into wine; they have provided people with comfort and inspiration since ancient times.

So am I like grapes—when pressed I exude the liquid of my essence which comforts and inspires those around me.

Grapes can go bad; wine can turn to vinegar. So it is with me; inevitably I dismay and repel those around me with my essence.

It is all in the ratios; since my intentions are mostly good, most of my wine refreshes. That which is corked goes back to the cellar. I linger not on bad tastes.

To Bacchus I give all of my grapes and wine as a sacrifice, that all be well in the heavens

Supersize my Job: Not!
By Grant Maher

Teaching and nursing have something in common: time compression. It happens like this: the teacher or nurse is first carefully instructed and drilled on how to properly teach or nurse. Then, the newly minted teacher or nurse goes out and gets a job.
The teacher promptly finds that she must work forty hours per week, and will teach a large quantity of students. Within days of beginning her new job, she will realize that she doesn’t have time to teach properly according to the tenets of her careful training. She must learn how to wing it, how to concentrate on what’s most important, how to pick her battles. Likewise the nurse; after careful and thorough training in the art of patient care, she will be put into an assignment that is too large to handle. Bed-baths, care plans, and empathy all go out the window in the rush to keep up with the essentials like medication.
It seems as if teachers and nurses are always being handed a “portion size” that is too large, and always being forced to bite off more than they can chew. The employer seems to say “take it or leave it. Accept the assignment or we’ll give it to someone else who will.” How in the heck did these two kinds of professionals lose their “portion control?” How do they get it back?
Nurses should have no more than six patients to care for at a time. Teachers really shouldn’t have to deal with more than twelve head at a pop of any age group. Work schedules should be around 30 hours a week, ideally. This way teachers and nurses can recharge their batteries and do things like write, nurture their families, and take time to visit with friends and to entertain. A person’s job should not dominate their schedule to an unreasonable degree. Any professional deserves a spacious, unrushed and un-hassled life.
“Yeah, right,” you might say. “That’s not going to happen.” And I say, “Well, why not?” Why do teachers and nurses take these artery-bursting assignments? Learn to say “no.” Let positions go unfilled until employers get the message—offer kinder, gentler assignments (and yes, pay a little less money) and the professionals will serve you well.

White Bread
By Grant Maher


I’m from a place
Few people would care to be from;
A non-descript street
In a non-descript city
Lined with non-descript trees
And non-descript cars.

I’m from a home
Where ghosts speak in certain rooms
To anyone under five years old;
Grandma fell down the stairs in that house
And died.

I’m from a family
That’s impossible to define;
We’re white all right—very, very Caucasian—
Not there’s anything wrong with that…
Or is there? Is there something wrong with that?

I’m from a place where
It’s possible to be savagely mauled inside
Yet on the outside look perfectly fine.
I’ll bet lots of people are from a place like that;
Or am I the only one?

I’m from food;
Plain white bread.
Nobody in my family eats it,
But nonetheless—shouldn’t there be plain white bread
Somewhere in our house?
Maybe Mommy and Daddy keep the loaf hidden in their bedroom;

Someday I’m going to sneak in and destroy it.

Some Unsafe Classrooms
By Grant Maher

As a substitute teacher at Gilroy high school, I encountered the occasional chaotic and ominous class. Boys sometimes bickered and threatened each other. I would eject the offending parties from the classroom but the campus security force routinely rounded up these liberated students and returned them to me within minutes. I could not purge the unruly—I had to deal with them. All too soon a scuffle too blatant to ignore would break out again, and then the whole weary cycle would start over. I had a flimsy yardstick that I would slap on a desk when I needed to get students’ attention, and with that yardstick I yearned to smack heads as well.
There were quiet students who never spoke out, and I didn’t want them to. The responses they were likely to get from peers were unpredictable and usually very negative. “Best not to risk it,” I thought. “Let them just sit quietly.” Years later, when I got a glimpse at the inside workings of jail, I recognized the same atmosphere that had been prevalent in those Gilroy classrooms. Between the attitude of students and of inmates I could discern no difference; between myself and a prison guard there had been none either.
I once accepted a substitute assignment at a grade school in Gilroy and created a living hell on earth for one little 4th grader. I was really not feeling very peppy that day, and the class pretty much spun out of control when I took the kids from the classroom to the school library to choose reading books. There were some boys in this class who seemed very eager to act out aggressively against peers, much to my consternation. I had never encountered a group of young children with this predator/victim dynamic before, and I was nonplussed. Exhortations were getting me nowhere—had these been my own children, there’d be spanking to do.
While trying to restore order to the milling and anxious children, I noticed a little girl in a pink frilly dress huddled under a table, weeping and moaning as a peer, Herbert, poked and tormented her. “Oh!” she cried out. “This is the worst day ever!”
This cry was the death-knell of my career as a substitute in Gilroy and my first attempt to be a teacher. I had lasted eighteen months. I owned that I was not good at maintaining classroom order; it’s easy to blame the kids but I don’t think it had been their fault. On a daily basis, teachers maintain order in the same Gilroy classrooms where I had failed. How these superior beings manage this trick mystifies me to this day. What I learned is that safety is job number one in a classroom or anywhere in life. If you can’t stand the heat then get out of the kitchen. I was going to look for somewhere cooler to try my hand at teaching, the only profession that really mattered to me.

Listen Up, Teacher!
By Henry Himmlor
Counsel on Education to the State of California


There is a nation that loves the world enough to sacrifice its sons and daughters for its sake. That nation is us--the USA. The problem is, there are in the USA elements who want to interfere with our sacrifice and prevent it from being completed—and these elements are teachers. You must not become one of the teachers who are trying to betray our nation.
Global unity is necessary for mankind. The kind of global unity that is needed is called “free-market democracy,” or FMD. The USA is the only nation strong enough to bring FMD to all peoples of the world and thereby usher in the New Golden Age. To do this job we need large numbers of cooperating citizens, both in business and in the military. These citizens must be disciplined, they must be ruthless, and above all they must be properly motivated. It will require an iron fist to unify this divided planet. There can be no room for dissent. All US citizens must act as one to succeed in this difficult task.
To grow into the right kind of worker or soldier, our youth need the right kind of education, and that is why we have things organized the way we do right now. Yes, we must instill into them the fear of failure. Our students, regrettably, must shoulder the heavy burden of world liberation and have no right to self-fulfillment at this time. Only after the great task is done can we allow our children the luxury of self-exploration and development--a privilege that everyone will enjoy in the Golden Age. But until the goal of world FMD becomes a reality, our children must endure certain limitations in their education. The plan must go forward without interference.
Therefore, be on your guard against subversive education groups like the American Writing Project and the Personal Creed Project. So called progressive educators like Jonathan Lovell, Laura Brown, and John Creger are out to change the educational system. They are out to fill our youth with ideas that will spoil them for the war effort. They will tell you that our youth are “de-personalized,” as if that is a bad thing. Yes, it is bad, but a necessary evil. Our youth must be made somewhat numb, somewhat de-personalized, somewhat demoralized if they are to carry out the violent acts that they must perform in the name of world peace. Only if their souls are made hollow will the military seem like a wonderful harbor for their aspirations, or money the only worthwhile end.
Do we understand each other, teacher? Remember, under the Homeland Security Patriot Act all teachers will be under intense scrutiny. If you are not with us, then you are against us. You do not want to be against us. So do the right thing—teach the State mandated standards if you must (but don’t make them interesting) and don’t raise your voice. Blend in quietly, and prepare the children for the fight. Doing this, you fulfill your part in our glorious national destiny.

Alligator
By Grant Maher


I have been an alligator before, and I wouldn’t mind being one again.
I remember how to be an alligator whenever I put on my mask, fins, and snorkel and enter into some body of fresh water, often a river, lake, or swimming pool. I don’t cotton to the ocean.
Human beings like to play and splash in water. I like to float motionless or scull along slowly with my flat scaly tail. I remember what it means to lurk. I like to lurk. I hang about by the water’s edge, knowing what I want to do. Yes, I want lunge out of the water and grab someone by the foot and pull them in. Yes, that would be splendid.
Sometimes I do this to my kids. They scream. I love it when they scream.
After a time of cruising and lurking and lunging and enjoying the coolness and the watery smell of the water, and watching anything and everything floating on the water’s surface, I like to get out and bask in the sun. The soothing heat soaks into my scaly back and lulls and hypnotizes my reptilian brain. I lay torpid and blissful on hot rocks or concrete until a secret thermostat in my bloodstream goes 'click' and compels me to slither back into the cool water, savoring the contrast in temperature.
Now I grow hungry. What’s for lunch? I visualize the salami sandwiches and pickles packed in the ice-chest. I emerge from the water and rear up on my hind legs, heading for the food. I am a person again. Alligator time is over. But, like I said—I have been an alligator before, and I wouldn’t mind being one again.

A Place in My Life Where I Feel Safe
By Grant Maher


I feel safe walking around in my neighborhood, which centers on the intersection of Los Padres Avenue and El Camino Real in Santa Clara. The surrounding streets are lined with magnificent large trees and orderly front yards, and on the Camino are abundant mixed businesses.
While walking, there is a sense of purpose (exercise) yet the walking itself is effortless. The mind goes quiet; there will be time for business and worry later. For now, there’s just breathing and the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other, and watching the landscape swim by.
Yesterday on the corner of Los Padres Avenue and El Camino there was a near tragedy; a small lost girl about three years old (daddy went to the store and left her home alone; dumb daddy) stood poised to launch herself into the whizzing traffic of the Camino, frightened and weeping. My girlfriend Aileen and I were driving by and Aileen spotted the lone child with her sharp mother’s eye—and quickly pulled over. I leaped from the vehicle and snatched up the girl. Twenty minutes later the police arrived to pick Sarah or Sahara (we couldn’t dope out which of these names was the correct one) up from my home. The officers found the lost one busy with Play-Doh-- she had crafted a blue crocodile that wasn’t half-bad.
My “safe place” kept its innocence, and for that I was grateful.
“Hey Aileen, what story won’t be in the newspaper tomorrow?” I asked her later.
“I don’t know Grant, what?” she replied.
“”Toddler squished on the El Camino.”” I said.
“You’re just all full of yourself, aren’t you?” observed Aileen.
Yes, I was.

The Death Marches
By Grant Maher


All night, I dreamed of the future
And glory for the Nation.
“Without the war, everything would be better.”
People say.

Sure, war is a drag, but so is hunger and cold;
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Yankee boots trampled Germany and Japan
And look at them now.

Let’s just up and say it: “World Empire”—
Once a remote fantasy
Now a distinct possibility;
A choice, even.

Imagine, just for a minute,
That we have all agreed
To stretch out our hands
And collectively seize the ring—

Nothing less than everything, and everyone.
We could make hunger and cold cease to exist, could we not?
In the morning, I forgot this dream;
This ain’t Bush country out here.

Disclaimer: the above poem does not necessarily reflect the political views of the poet. It could be satire.