Aldous Huxley
INTRODUCTION
This project is part of the war on cancer, in this case against the “carcinominclature of our time” (Thurber), a language in flight from reality and rapidly becoming the servant of nightmare. Nowhere is the pathology more evident than in the language of “Vietnam,” the poor country metamorphosed into a synonym for unspeakable acts: “attrition,” “pacification,” “defoliation,” “body counts,” “progressive-squeeze-and-talk.” Such usage not only pollutes the language but leads the young minds of our generation into a world cut adrift from meaning.
One hundred and thirty years ago, Alexis de Tocqueville wondered whether language deterioration might be inherent in democracy. Does the compulsion to win riches, pleasure, and power in a competitive society make the perversion of meaning and the debasement of language inevitable?
We at Mansfield High School have tried to say NO by introducing and testing a pilot course for high school juniors on “Semantics in Situ, or The Unsuckering of our Generation.”
Then Arnold described his pedagogical strategies—for Poetry and Public Speech, for Language in Education, for an annotated Language Pollution Index—and gave several examples of successful student projects. This was his
CONCLUSION
Applying to real life skills learned in literature study, and concepts learned in biology and ecology, can serve to lead students to the semantic sophistication necessary for “unsuckering.” From our six-week experience the class and I conclude that separate units on semantics will not have a meaningful effect unless they can be incorporated into an entire curriculum. Given the explosion of mass media and the “havoc wrought by verbal artillery on the fortress of reason” (Thurber), semantics must become the core of the high school curriculum if an educated population is to have any hold on democracy.
Arnold got his scholarship and was one of the first accepted at Harvard. But this to skip ahead.
Twelve
Senior year was chaotic, the zenith and the nadir of Arnold’s high school career. Preseason practice began on August 16th, in preparation for the opener on September 8th, the first Friday night of fall semester. Thirty-six boys in gym shorts and Tiger Ts gathered at Geyer Field under a blazing midafternoon sun to hear Head Coach Tommy Crews:
“Welcome, guys! You’re a good, tough-lookin bunch. You know there’s 347 boys at Mansfield High. You divide that by three, and that’s about 115 in each class.”
“Hundred and fifteen and two-thirds!” yelled Jerrod Sims.
“Sims, that slide rule’s fixin to wind up you know where.”
“Where’s that, sir?”
Snickering. Crews let it go.
“As I was saying, 115—and two-thirds—boys in each class, and here you are, thirty-six of you. That means you’re a very special breed. There are ballplayers out there who are just as good as you are, maybe better, but they’re not here now. For whatever reason, they weren’t able to stick it out, they didn’t have what it takes. You guys are special! It’s you guys who are gonna carry the torch for the ’67–’68 season. Some of you have been dreaming about bein here today since y’all were pint-size runts, and I know this is pretty special for you. If you work hard, if you pay the price, this season will be one of the great moments of your life. Be proud you’re part of this program, and keep up the Tiger tradition. What do Tigers say?”
The crew roared.
“I can’t hear you!”
They roared louder.
“I can’t hear you!”
“GGGRRRRRAAAARRRRRRH!”
“That’s better! Chuck has a couple of words for you.”
Assistant Coach Chuck Terwilliger: “Some of you boys haven’t played before, been in the spotlight. Well, I’ve got some advice for you. Have fun, hustle your ass, and stick the hell out of em. This isn’t gonna be a party. You’re gonna get hurt, and if you get hurt, that’s fine, you’re hurt. But if you get dumped, and you’re gonna lay there and whine about it, you don’t belong on the field anyway. Understand? What do Tigers say?”
While roaring half-heartedly, Arnold thought of Sammy Clayborn, who last year had lost a testicle toughing it out. No one had bothered to examine him after the game, and he hadn’t wanted to be a faggot and have some guy poking around in his pants.
“OK, guys,” Coach Crews continued, “this afternoon we’re gonna find out how hard you can play in 97 degrees. This is good practice for playing at 10 below when we go to State in December!”
A chorus of laughs and groans.
“Starting tomorrow morning, I want to see each and every one of you in the gym by 6:15 in the A.M. You know what that means? It means you’re in bed by 9—alone [knowing laughs]. It means no alcohol on weekdays—and that means you, Mahoney [more laughs]! It means you stay healthy—not for you, but for Mansfield. Understand? Today we’ll loosen up and do some playing. I want A through M over here and N through Z over here. One second. Chuck wants to say something.”
“Yeah. I just want to say that y’all notice there are nine colored boys in this room with us today. Let’s give em a hand. [Applause.] I think last year’s experience with our first colored team members was a rewarding one. They got a lot to offer, and we’re gonna treat em well. Right?”
“Right,” the boys affirmed.
“I can’t hear you, Tigers.”
“RIGHT!”
“OK, that’s it. A through M; N through Z.”
In the days before junk mail, young Texas boys never received letters, unless they wrote away to the ads in the back of comic books. But Arnold and his parents were first delighted, then shocked, then astounded at the daily arrival of recruitment letters: several apiece from Nebraska, Texas A&M, Arkansas, Notre Dame, the University of Houston, Clemson, Texas Tech, Oklahoma, Oklahoma State, LSU, SMU, UCLA. They kept arriving in slow crescendo.
Mr. Dawes, the postman, kept mental notes on all the senders and could narrate the week’s contents to Arnold, and presumably to everyone else he saw. Arnold was continually accosted by teachers, store owners, and mothers on the street: “You gonna accept Clemson? My brother went to Clemson. Loved it.” “Hey, the Aggies! That’s great. Great team. Terrific party school!” “Go, Arnie! Texas Tech. Way to go, buckeroo!”
Arnold Hitler, strong and tan, son of southwest sidewalks, being courted from as far away as Los Angeles! The siren song of foreign lands, arriving by mail in Mansfield, Texas, a rich mix of the Old South and the Wild West, where folks were friendly to a fault but fiercely independent; a God-fearing place, Mansfield, propped up by Baptist beliefs in flag and family but home to hell-raisers, always perched on the edge of violence, yet still, in some way, innocent. Arnold’s was the world of a small Texas town, isolated, insulated, a hodgepodge of junkyards and auto-supply stores, old mansions and new warehouses, all dusty and slightly seedy, a town where the four seasons of the year were football, basketball, track, and baseball but where one season dominated the rest as Christmas does the entire year. Mansfield coaches called upon the spirit of Texas individualism, plus the teamwork of the oppressed.
And now Los Angeles was calling on Mansfield for help. Our very Lady of Indiana seemed to be crying for Arnold. Because of him, the outside world was finally paying attention to Mansfield, a hitherto nowhere place where kids cruised Main and Broad on Saturday nights and teenaged honor was measured in beers. Amidst a building barrage of letters, the town anointed their annual hero as a representative, typical yet exemplary, of all the good people of Mansfield.
Arnold felt less than heroic. If anything, recently abandoned