Hecklers in the classroom

New commenter Lucy, a stand-up comedian, has posted some interesting stuff about hecklers on her blog. I've never done stand-up, but I think I can relate to what a pain they are. There are a few students who think of themselves as the hecklers of the college classroom: unsure of where they stand in the academic world, and trapped in their own sad little existence, they carry on the "class clown" and "life-of-the-party" roles they inhabited in high school...only to find they're not too well received among the grown-ups. Instead of being a democratic, take-back-the-power-for-the-people voice in the crowd, college-classroom hecklers are usually our cultural/ national id speaking. It's up to the professor and/or fellow students to take these people out behind the woodshed, so to speak.

A few Spring Semesters ago, I taught a Comp I class at 9:00 on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. This group was a good one; even though it was pure hell for that bunch of teenagers to be up any time before 2pm, they struggled and did their best to be awake and intelligent for my class.

Except for one guy.

Chance* shouldn't have been in college. He needed a few hard years of construction or restaurant work before he could really appreciate what a privilege a college education is. He boasted about how he really wasn't supposed to be in college—how he and his three younger brothers raised themselves out in rural Poke Stick*, Georgia; how they showered under the garden hose outside their roach-infested trailer with no electricity while their dad smoked meth in the back shed; how he sweet-talked the drama profs at D2U into giving him a full acting scholarship when he'd never had so much as a background part in a school play. He certainly looked as if he were from Poke Stick, with a tall, lanky, malnourished frame and a mat of greasy blond hair underneath his trucker's cap, but something just wasn't quite right. I felt as if this guy might be a regular J.T. LeRoy.

Chance had a bad habit of mumbling under his breath about four times per class period, usually something that would make the clueless little sorority girls around him shiver with suppressed giggles. I'm hard of hearing (blame it on years of working around heavy machinery and/or loud music), so I'd always look in Chance's direction and say, "What? Something you wanted to add to the discussion?" And he'd say, in his best Poke Stick accent, "Nuthin." After a while, I would add, "So if it's nuthin, why are you talking?" and a cold glare. This worked for a while, but Chance was the type who liked to try and rattle his high school teachers. It was NOT going to work on a college professor—at least not this one.

While he might have "escaped" his "upbringing," Chance had certainly not managed to leave its mindsets behind. He had taken everything negative that a poor or working-class kid could learn and absorbed it all: racism, sexism, braggartism a la Hank Williams Jr., religious intolerance. Yep, he had a bad case of the Know-Nothings.

One day, we were discussing political correctness. What did the term really mean? I wanted to know, and I told the students a little of my introduction to the idea of P.C. in the academic world. The students had all heard the term derided on various talk radio and yell-at-the-other-guy TV shows, but none could really define it. We began examining the history behind "correct" names for racial and ethnic groups, and we had some good laughs as we considered our own upbringings and how our parents taught us about race and class. I asked the white students whether they minded being called "white" if their black classmates were called "African-American." They thought about it and said they didn't mind being referred to as white. Several black students agreed that black was fine with them, as they didn't really identify with their African ancestry and weren't offended by the term. "Although brown is a lot more accurate..." one conceded.

"Kinda like 'peach' or 'pasty' would be more accurate for me," I said, showing the fish-belly-white inside of my forearm to great laughter. A couple black students then said they really preferred African-American, as it more accurately described their heritage.

Then Chance opened his mouth. "I don't see how come we gotta use all them fancy words to describe somebody," he said. "We just oughtta say the truth."

"What do you mean?" I asked. This is one of my favorite phrases in the classroom; I love making students clarify and justify the things they blurt out in class.

"I mean...there just ain't no call for fancy phrases 'n all 'at. Call 'em what they are."

"Call who what?" I thought I knew where this might be going, and I wanted to call him on it. I'd had enough of this pain-in-the-ass kid for one semester.

"Well—" Chance began. A few classmates were beginning to give him puzzled looks. Had he had a nip before coming to class? Funny, he didn't smell like Mad Dog 20/20. "You shouldn't hafta call 'em anything fancy—just what they are."

"Chance, I'm not following you."

He sighed deeply, as if to say, You moron professor, since you're not going to read between the lines, I'll say it out loud. "I just don't see why we have to say 'African-American' or 'black' or anything like that."

By now, a few black students were glaring at Chance. A few more were looking down at their desks, as were many of the white students: Lord, please shut this guy up. Please. Most of the students were simply slack-jawed. Could he be...did he really...?

"So, what do you suggest, Chance? You're not being clear."

He sighed, exasperated. "You know," he said and did the you-get-my-drift gesture with his shoulders and hands. "Just call 'em what they are."

I thought it was bizarre how the "they" he kept referring to were real people, sitting just one or two desks away from him. This was about to get ugly.

"So, okay," I stammered, wondering what the hell I was going to do next. "You say we should 'call people what they are,' regardless."

"Yep, that's it."

"Just call them what you 'honestly' think they 'honestly' are?"

"Yyyyyepperr." Ignorant country bastard, I thought. I paused before the rising tide of rage in my solar plexus.

"Okay, Asshole."

Chance almost fell out of his chair. "Whoo-! Whu-whu-whu-whu—whuuut didjew just say?!?!?"

The class was chortling now, and the students who had been glaring at Chance just a few minutes before were now clearly relieved at not having to kick his ass.

"Well, Chance, you said we should call other people by what they are, and not some politically correct name, so...there you have it." His expression was that of a bull who's just met the business end of a cattle prod. "You don't like that? Geez, I thought you'd be all for that." And I moved the discussion on to the next point.

At the end of the day, I opened my e-mail to find a computer-generated "Drop" notice: "Student #xxx-xxx-xxx, Chance T. Ledbetter*, has dropped COMP I, Section xxxxx, Prof. Kitty B. Goode."

I could have been fired on the spot for what I said to Chance, but as soon as I heard it come out of my mouth, I knew it would be a risk worth taking. And sometimes, to both save face and get a lesson across, one has to do just that.

A full 50% of the evaluations at semester's end mentioned this incident: "I really learned a lot that day" and "Prof. Kitty really showed us about political correctness. I'll never forget her class" were among the comments I read. I'm thankful that the students were a bright and loyal, if sleepy, bunch.