Linda Jones's Open Salon Blog

For writers considering subbing when reporting wasn't enough

Sun, 25 Mar 2012 10:03:16 -0400

I used to make my living as a newspaper journalist. Now I work as a freelance writer and consultant. Over the years, I have worked an eclectic mix of odd jobs and entrepreneurial projects to supplement my income when the business of selling words gets slow.

I have counted boxers and briefs while working for an inventory company, and have sold bras during a stint working at a high-end intimate apparel shop. I have been paid to groom natural hair and well compensated for giving lectures about the beauty of wearing it that way. People have rented a special space in my house when they needed a quiet place to create and contemplate and event coordinators have even paid me to come to their events to play my African drums.

But of all of the part-time jobs that I have held outside of my chosen profession, the one that has caused people to most question my rationality and mental state, has been my work as a substitute teacher. Those who care about me and even those who don't know me, cannot fathom how or why I put myself through working a job that they have described as torture and hell.

What many of them fail to realize is that I am a former news reporter. What substitute teachers go through is really not that much different from what I did for decades.

Both jobs require having to function in an atmosphere of chaos and deal with people who throw tantrums and have meltdowns on a regular basis. Substitute teachers, just like news reporters, have to force ourselves to be nice to difficult and self-absorbed characters who are predisposed to treating us like we’re scum and despising us before they even know us.

Substitute teaching is not a job for wimps. It is a job for fools who have a warped sense of adventure and are accustomed to not being compensated for what we are really worth. Former news reporters and writers more than adequately fit that profile. All things considered, I am really no stranger to this type of work.

Lately I’ve noticed that more of my freelance writer friends and former news colleagues have joined me in working as substitutes telling ourselves that it is only until we find something full time that is more in keeping with our professional training. We are of course fully aware that in this challenged economy and with all the competition that we face, our dream second career may never materialize. But we remain hopeful. and we also remain resourceful. We're smart enough to know that nothing a writer does ever goes to waste. So if we survive this subbing experience and walk away in one piece, we will have more than enough material to market as memoir or standup comedy. Non-writers who endure working as subs, also have that same advantage, but writers are more likely to go there.

Last week my friend Ric, a former colleague and freelance writer and editor who lives in Tennessee, announced on Facebook that he will be substituting junior high and high school students in the Nashville area very soon.

“Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers,” he wrote somewhat pathetically at the end of his post. From the tone of Ric’s message, you would think he was about to be led to the gallows.

Instead of sending condolences, I emailed Ric with words of encouragement and advice from my three years of frontline substitute teaching in the Dallas area, that I hoped would be helpful to him. His grateful response inspired me to offer the same support to my other far-flung colleagues who may be contemplating a similar move and want some insight.

So here is my a list of 10 survival tips created specifically for former news writers who are considering subbing when reporting wasn’t enough.

1. Do not be afraid. If you survived the madness of the newsroom, you will be able to handle the chaos of the classroom.

2. Do not take it personally when the students curse you out and call you names when they realize that you are actually going to write up their bad behavior. It is no different from the verbal lashings that we got from public officials when we wrote about their public displays of stupidity. (“You *#@&^! I didn’t know you were going to put that in the paper!”)

3. Be patient with your students’ public displays of stupidity. Remember that the frontal lobe of their young brains is not fully connected to the part in the back that dispenses good sense. That crazed state of mind will correct itself as they mature. But if they grow up to become public officials, that part of the brain will disconnect again, automatically.

4. Do not let the students make you so befuddled that you start to believe that it is you who are crazy and not them. Keep your focus. No, there is nothing wrong with your eyesight. You actually did see that student using a cell phone, despite his claims that it was your imagination. And your ears were not were ringing. That sound was really coming from the cell phone that the student claimed you did not see. Remember to be as sure of yourself as you were when your editor took the liberty of writing in your story about a church gathering that there organ music playing in the room. You were firm in telling him that while he was in the newsroom, you were at the church and there was no music coming from an organ because they did not have one.

5. Believe absolutely nothing that your students tell you. Any “emergency” requests to go to the bathroom are grossly exaggerated lies. Tell them to check back with you when their pants are wet. You must expect the same validation that you required from those news sources who expected you to write a front-page expose based solely on their rumor, conjecture and hearsay. Before granting any bathroom requests, have students produce evidence from at least two reliable sources to substantiate their claim.

6. If any of your students try to skip class by handing you a note that was allegedly written by another teacher, turn their shameless act of forgery into a teachable moment. Activate your inner editor and point out the errors in spelling, punctuation and grammar that you will no doubt find in their bogus document. Then tell them to go somewhere and sitdown. If you discover that the bogus note is real and was actually written by another teacher, make the corrections yourself, using a red pen. Also, write the teacher a note to do better next time.

7. Remember how cool and adept you were at handling those rude and obstinate characters who tolerated you during interviews but really felt you were unworthy to be in their presence? You will need those impeccable people skills when that teacher or principal whom you have never met, bursts into your classroom unannounced and starts ordering them around as though you aren’t even there. (“Well, good morning! My name is Linda. And you are?”)

These next substitute scenarios will not require tapping into your reservoir of news media skills to handle insufferable personalities. All you will need to draw on is your common sense.

8. Refrain from repeating those threats that our mothers used to make that had to do with performing nonsensical and superhuman feats in order to scare us into good behavior. Unless you are an expert in physics and know something about implementing time travel, your threats to knock the students back into last Friday will only get you laughed out of the room. Threaten to call their mothers instead. While subs may not be capable of transporting students back into time, their mothers are.

9. Beware of those students whose eyes light up when they see you. They can sense your inexperience. That syrupy sweet greeting and compliment about how nice you look in the sweater that you have on backwards is a prelude to misery. Save yourself from those suck ups and write them up before you even take attendance.

10. Take immediate action in the presence of students who try to beat you down with their swagger, sass and attitude. Get right in their faces, look them straight their eyes, and clearly, tell them how much you love them. They will either melt or be too shocked and tongue-tied to respond.

I hope that these survival tips dear colleagues, help make your transition into subbing a smooth one.

One final piece of advice: On those inevitable days when things become so unbearable that that you are ready to walk out, do one last thing before you leave. Step back, look at the faces of the students in the room, and notice the ones who are trying to speak to you with their eyes. What they are trying to say is that they really need you to be there and that they really want to learn. While their body language may not be enough to make you want to turn subbing into a permanent gig, it just might fortify you enough to get through the rest of the day. It works for me.

Social groupaholic needs more than 12 steps

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 10:08:01 -0400

My name is Linda and I am a Facebook social groupaholic.

I wasn’t always so hopelessly addicted. It happened suddenly and without warning.

I started out as a casual contributor, posting occasional status updates in Facebook news feeds and on my wall. I kept my musings to a minimum and could quit whenever I wanted.

But somewhere along the way I got hooked on posting my minutiae in those eccentric but wildly popular social groups that have caused smart people to lose their common sense.

These epidemic and addictive groups are the ones that that begin with phrases like, “You know you’re from (hometown USA) if . . .,” or “You know you like (favorite pastime) if . . .,” or “You know you attended (college USA) if . . .” There seems to be a group for every peculiar proclivity and obscure place of birth.

Social groupaholics like me have bectome obsessed with posting ad nauseum and nostalgically about hometown memories, our offbeat pastimes and shameful college antics that we used to categorically deny.

I blame my so-called ‘friends’ who think they know me, for my addiction. Without my knowledge or permission they ‘enrolled’ me in a few groups that they felt were in keeping with my special interests. Thanks to their idle acts of kindness my email box became flooded with posts from Afro-centric college alumni and people who live and breathe for African dance and the rhythm of the drum. Most of the people who invaded my space were complete strangers, but kindred spirits all the same. They wrote about trivia that was familiar and I got sucked in.

I post repeatedly and uncontrollably about matters of great unimportance to many but of great interest to my special new Facebook crew.

The rush that I and my fellow Facebook social groupaholics get from sharing our mindless musings is euphoric but fleeting. That is why we do serial posting; we want to maintain and prolong our high.

I can’t speak for the others but I’m in so deep into this abyss that it will take more than 12 Steps for me to crawl out.

Please help me on my journey to recovery from this dependency. I have taken the first steps by admitting that I am powerless over this obsession and believe that a power greater than myself can restore me to sanity. But I cannot do this alone. Intervention, personal testimonials or sage advice on how to break this time-sucking habit will be greatly appreciated. Without your help I fear that I will continue posting my useless, trivial nonsense, one more time, after time, after time.

My Gil Scott-Heron memorial moment

Mon, 30 May 2011 21:05:32 -0400

When I lived in D.C. in the late ‘70s, my tiny studio apartment was on the northwest side of the city, in a building right across from Meridian Hill Park, commonly known in the black cultural community as Malcolm X Park.

It was in Malcolm X Park where guys and a few girls of Afro and Latino persuasions gathered daily with their bongos, congas, djembes, bottles, plastic buckets and sticks, to form a makeshift percussive band. I adopted that band from a distance and relied on their homegrown rhythms to be my morning wake-up and pain reducing backdrop for my workouts in the park.

The members of my makeshift rhythm band were a down-to-earth, motley bunch of folks. They were people who I saw frequently on the streets, but never any one I expected to see on screen or stage. Then one day, Gil Scott- Heron, my poetic hero, sat in. Without fanfare, there he was, sitting in the mix, rocking with the rest. To me, that was a big deal. I was 20-something recently moved to the culturally vibrant Chocolate City and totally in love with Gil’s voice, his looks and his lyrics. I never expected to see the man who was celebrity to me, jamming in the park in a show that wasn’t his own. When I noticed that Gil’s presence wasn’t causing the hearts or the rhythms of the other band members to skip a beat, I figured that he must have been more regular on that scene that I had imagined. I was told later that he was. I was in awe, but I didn’t do anything idiotic like make the band stop the music so I could ask Gil for his autograph. But I did stop my workout and stood there gazing as he sat with conga between his knees, wearing a look of pure bliss on his face as he played.

While I never had an opportunity to see Gil perform live in concert, I don’t feel deprived now that he is gone. My memories of that brief moment in the park and the literary legacy that he left in his wake, makes me still feel rich indeed.

Impressions of Art (Blakey)

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 16:10:30 -0400

Art Blakey, the late jazz drummer and band leader would have been 90 years old this year had he lived. He was born in October 11, 1919. He died on October 16, 1990. October also happened to be the month that I met him and his Jazz Messengers 30 years ago when I was a young writer.The following reflections are a tribute to one of my favorite musicians.

Impressions of Art

The man on stage peered at me from behind his drums. He sent rhythms to my table – a beat not intended for the rest of the crowd. We had never met, but something about him seemed so familiar. It was like his spirit knew mine. My friends Janet and Desda, seated next to me, noticed our exchange. Was it déjà vu, they wondered. So did I. It was October, 1980. We were at Bubba’s, Ft. Lauderdale’s place for jazz and a social oasis for me and my collective of sister friends who often joined me on my frequent forays into the night.

On this night, Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers were the club headliners. It was Art who sent me the gaze from the stage. I had seen most of the jazz groups at Bubba’s during the year that I moved to South Florida from North Carolina. They were all class acts, but this group was different. Four young, hot, be-bopping sidemen led by a dynamic and high-spirited elder on drums.

Their music was frenetic and electrifying. They projected so much energy and appeared to be having so much fun.

Charles Fambrough the workhorse walked all over the bottom with his upright bass.

Wynton Marsalis, New Orleans born and bred. Trumpeter extraordinaire. Nineteen years old and cocky. His solo generated deafening applause. With hand to stomach, trumpet pulled close to his side, he boweds low, eased up, stepped back to his place, nodding confidently as if he is agreeing with what the audience knows--his style is so very cool.

Bashful Bobby Watson on alto sax worked like a woodpecker, rapidly and relentlessly pecking his listeners with hard driving riffs that made them shout. After his unmerciful solo, that grown man blushed and giggled when the audience showed their appreciation with wild applause. Billy Pierce, the tenor saxophonist and pianist James Williams, were the low profile Messengers. Their stage presence was subdued, but their sound was solid and tight.

Then there was Art. Ebony Art. Mouth wide open, eyes rolled back, growling, flirting and drumming himself into ecstasy. Somewhere along the way Art invited me into the fold. He approached our table during a break. Short and slightly bow-legged, there was a swagger in his stride. His dark skin was set off by a natty white suit and hair of salt and pepper gray.

“Are you a drummer?” he said to me in a deep, gravely voice that growled. I would rather have been mistaken for a singer or dancer. But even though his opening line suggested that playing percussion was my pastime, I was still charmed and intrigued by this squat little man who was leader of the band.

When the show was over and we prepared to leave, Art took my hand and asked me to stay. “I love you so much,” he said. I disengaged my hand and laughed at his open lie. But days later I took him up on his offer to meet him for coffee that I don’t even drink.

We spent an engaging afternoon of musing about music, storytelling and sharing particulars about our lives. I gave him a sketch of my life as a 20-something neophyte news reporter, originally from Ohio, most recently from North Carolina, by way of D.C. I shared an apartment in Ft. Lauderdale suburb with a reporter who worked for the competition. She was my professional enemy but personal friend I talked about being in self-imposed exile from the delightfully distracting social life of the Chocolate City to focus on developing my career. I shared how I loved the South Florida weather, access to the islands and Bubbas. I hated the racism, was tolerating my job and biding my time.

Art shared snippets about his life, his music and his politics. He was raised in Pittsburgh and grew up in foster care. His first musical training was on piano, but he switched to drums. He was married several times, fathered several children and adopted several more. He ranted about lack of appreciation for the richness of black culture and lamented the disrespect for jazz. He brimmed with worldly wisdom.

October 11, 1980. It was Art Blakey’s birthday and a party at my place was in the works. We cooked by committee. Desda called in from work to give us her recipe for pigeon peas and rice. Beverly made her sweet golden cornbread and Pat prepared the fried chicken and cabbage. My pecan pie was sticky but my carrot cake, sublime.

“You’re rare,” said bassman Fambrough, marveling over how we interacted as friends and extended our friendship to them. “You’re real good sistahs.”

I told him that it was an even exchange; our thanks for bringing us the music that we greatly appreciated and thoroughly enjoyed.

When we set the food out, I blew a chord on my blues harp and we all sang Happy Birthday to Art.

Art was 61 years old in age and 17 years young in spirit. He was cunning and comical. He kept his Messengers laughing and also drove them mad.

They called their beloved band leader a “triflin’ nigga with three Cadillacs and a van.” Their colorful stories about Art were endless and hilarious.

Fambrough hated the nights when Art made the otherwise impeccably-dressed Messengers dress in identical blue denim overalls. Art made it difficult for them to maintain any semblance of cool when they were dressed like refugees from the 1960's Poor Peoples March and had to watch him roam the stage sermonizing about black consciousness and his love of jazz.

Wynton’s story about his Blakey moment was punctuated with profanity and funny as hell. Wynton told us how he once got fed up with having to travel to their long distance gigs by bus. He claimed that the log and rocky rides were giving him hemorrhoids and decided to confront Art with his complaint. He went to his hotel room one night and demanded that he let them fly. Art listened patiently to Wynton’s tirade. When Wynton finished, Art gave him a great big hug. “I love you guys.” he said, growling softly in Wynton's ear.

Wynton claimed that Art held him so close that he could feel his “Johnson” pressing up against his leg. For that fleeting, affectionate moment, Wynton thought that Art was going to give his Messengers a break and let them travel to their next gig by plane. But the hug was only a momentary pacifier. As soon as the embrace was over, Art nonchalantly announced the travel plans for the next day.

“The bus leaves at 12:30,” he deadpanned. Wynton left the room angry and with no hope or help for his hemorrhoids.

The Messengers had a field day talking about Art’s prehistoric way with women. They called him the "Neanderthal Man," one who tactlessly pounced on his female prey and growled opening lines that were weak and obsolete. “Grrr, Hey Angel, when did you fall from Heaven? Rrr Hey Sweetness, is your husband married? Rrrr You have a great future 'behind' you.

To the Messengers envy, Art’s dated approach worked. The Messengers said that Art was never one to let his drumming get in the way of his flirting. He was skilled at playing patterns that gave him space to throw kisses to the women without missing a beat. Fambrough recalled how Art acted once when he noticed a woman getting all worked up over his performance. In the middle of the set, Art signaled Jimmy to play a solo on piano, bolted from the stage, bolted toward the woman’s table and launched into his Neanderthal act. Grrrr.

Art’s comical antics forced Fambrough to frequently play with his eyes closed in order to keep the beat.

During the final days of the Art Blakey experience, I struggled to keep my eyes open, so I could keep my job. I didn’t want to miss a moment of the Jazz Messenger’s last days at Bubba’s, so I got very little sleep. On Sunday morning following their last performance on Saturday night, I dragged into the newsroom and was was grateful that my assignments for the day were light. But I was also sad. I had gotten used to the fun and positive rhythms that Art and his Messengers bought into my life and I wasn’t ready to accept that they had taken their music and their madness to another place.

Postscript. October 2009.

I never got a chance to tell Art that the lame opening line he used on me when I first met him, turned out to be somewhat prophetic. I still make my living as a writer, but over the years I developed a passion for African drumming and became skilled enough to hold my own.

I also never got a chance to help Art produce the memoir that he had entertained notions of writing. After hearing his rich stories, I urged him to write a book about his life. I was unsure about my own abilities at the time, but was willing to record everything that he had to say and worry about editing later. Regrettably that time never came.

In my last conversation with Art, I asked him how he liked New York, the city that he had adopted as his home.

“I wouldn’t leave New York to go to heaven,” he told me.

Art died of lung cancer on October 16, 1990 in the same month that I met him nearly 30 years ago.

As as it turned out, Art ultimately did leave New York, and went to perform on a higher stage. My guess is that he is seated behind his cymbals, in the rhythm section of heaven, growling and flirting with a choir of angels, and drumming the demons out of hell.