A month ago, everyone I knew was elated about the presidential campaign. Now everyone I know just wants it to go away.

Barack has acquired a barnacle called Rev. Wright. Rev. Wright reminds me of Billy Carter (anyone remember Billy?), who climbed out of a beer bottle to become a constant embarrassment to Brother Jimmy, the big difference being that Jimmy already had been elected President, and Barack hasn’t. Poor Barack.

Hillary, a product of Yale Law School, wants us to think she chews Red Man and drives a semi.

And Straight-Talking John has flip-flopped like a beached tuna. By now he has succeeded in renouncing every position he ever held, putting even John Kerry to shame.

It is to barf.

But I come to bury these Caesars, not to praise them. Let’s start with the Democratic Party.

Howard Dean sent an email the other day asking me to take a look at his new straight-talking commercial that nails John McCain for saying we’ll stay in Iraq “100 years.” ‘We’ve got him on tape! Look! Look!’ Howard screamed, jumping up and down and puffing out his cheeks. Instead, I went to YouTube and watched the entire 6+-minute town hall meeting.

I saw a McCain who was giving a rather reasoned disquisition on how the U.S. always maintains troops for decades in places where it has fought, like Korea and Bosnia, and say Iraq would be no different. He did say “100 years” (bet HE’s sorry), but he also added a big “if,” which is that we’d be likely to stay in Iraq only as long as U.S. troops weren’t being killed.

So much for honesty on the part of the Democratic Party. Now let’s talk about one of its candidates, Poor Barack.

Poor Barack’s message of hope is being drowned by the guy he once (rather recently) compared to a beloved but crazy old uncle. (All right, Poor Barack didn’t use the word “crazy,” but we got the point.) Rev. Wright is crazy all right — crazy about himself. I was ready to feel some sympathy for a guy whose lifetime reputation gets trashed in about 90 minutes of presidential campaigning, but Rev. Wright has worn out his welcome. In this coming-out tour of his, it’s been all about The Rev.

Before he appeared at the Press Club, I wasn’t convinced Wright was a bad guy. After all, I recently wrote that he was merely expounding liberation theology, and that us whites ought not to be so naive because this stuff has been around a long time. Again though I went to YouTube, this time to view 6+ unedited minutes of one of Wright’s most inflammatory sermons.

I’m big on context and fairness, and I can truly say that in those 6+ minutes of context, Wright discredited himself. He told about a half a dozen lies and at least as many half-truths. He also displayed a most un-Christian demeanor, using the very kind of invective he accuses his enemies of using. Then he went before the Press Club audience and basically took Poor Barack down, saying our boy must say what he says because he’s just a politician. Ouch, Rev.

This couldn’t be worse for Poor Barack. Follow me here. Barack is trying to be the un-Jesse Jackson, the candidate who will transcend race and get us beyond the legacy of the Civil War that still cripples us Americans, black and white alike. But Barack attended The Rev’s church while The Rev was The Rev there, and Barack did so for years. The Rev conducted Barack’s marriage and baptized his kids. Barack says he never heard The Rev on one of his racist stemwinders but, after watching the YouTube video, I’m finding that harder to swallow.

If Barack is telling the truth, then he’s either naive or stupid — and we know he is neither of those things. And if Barack is lying, well … he’s lying — about pretty serious stuff — and looking more like what The Rev says he is: just another politician.

(Full disclosure: I really like Poor Barack. I think his call to cast off our 150-year-old racial millstone is just what America needs, and I’ve said so numerous times in numerous ways, in this space and elsewhere. I don’t think he really is “just another politician.” But if he starts looking like one to enough voters, it doesn’t matter what he “really” is.)

Another guy I really like — or anyway used to like — is Straight-Talking John. I am a sucker for straight talk, for one thing, and this guy sure has delivered it — for example, getting up in front of nativist audiences and talking about opening doors to Mexican immigrants, for God’s sake. He had a devil-may-care insouciance; he almost seemed to embrace self-immolation. For perverse observers of the political scene like myself, that’s very attractive. Sure, as a registered Democrat and proud liberal, I disliked many many of S-T John’s positions, but I thought he had the character and temperament to make a fine president. (Something I also thought, and still think, that Obama has. We’ll get to Hillary in a moment.)

But now John, who once blasted broad-scale tax-cutting as irresponsible, wants to extend the Bush tax cuts into forever. Now fiscally conservative John is now calling for a gas tax holiday this summer. (Great idea, John — that ought to dampen consumption nicely and drive crude prices back below $20 by, oh, Aug. 20, max.) John has a health plan that isn’t a plan at all, and the temerity to go into Appalachia and the Ninth Ward and tell those sad sacks that he doesn’t really think the federal government is the right body to do anything for them. (Unless you count the gas-tax holiday.) John! John! Straight-Talking John! We miss you, man!

Finally, there’s Hillary. I mean honestly, what’s to like? And voters really don’t like her. She wins Pennsylvania and her negative poll ratings go UP. How does she do that? Actually, I think I know. She lies about sniper fire in Bosnia to make herself look tough; she says illegal aliens (a) should (b) shouldn’t be given driver’s licenses; she claims the votes of two states (Michigan and Florida) that didn’t conduct legitimate primaries; she flip-flops on NAFTA, which could not have happened without the Clinton Administration’s massive support. Why, she even sides on a gas tax holiday with John the Economic Genius.

And then there’s Bill the Ineffable. Bill’s out there undercutting Poor Barack with the seamiest sort of racial manipulation, then pretending butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. These people want us to hand them the Red Phone for four, make that eight, years? It is, as I said, to barf.

It’s working, sorta. They’re tearing down Poor Barack (although failing to build up Big Bad Hil), and her argument gains traction that she deserves the nomination because she wins in the big Democratic states. Meantime John the Forked-Tongued seems to be trying to piss away this windfall, this gift the Democrats are trying to give him, by climbing into bed with W., the most hated president since … lemme see … Andrew Johnson?

And finally … this all may pass. Really, it may. Poor Barack still has the popular majority of primary votes in his pocket. He still occasionally remembers to remind us that all this back-and-forth is B.S., and to keep our eye on the ball — the economy and the war and health care. He probably wins the nomination; I make it 6:5 (any takers?). Hillary probably bites her lip and campaigns for Barack. Bill too, maybe. Then in the actual campaign, maybe John tries to Swift-Boat Barack and maybe it works. (It should be easy. Between Bill and Rev. Wright, the manual already is written.) Or maybe John nominates Cheney for vice president and starts wearing George Bush’s old clothes, and it doesn’t. Except for the Cheney part, John’s almost there already.

I don’t know. After the Democratic convention, my crystal ball grows cloudy. All I do know is, I wish I could stop paying attention. Too bad I can’t.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. This coming weekend, you can support our great Montgomery County MD library system at absolutely no cost, by buying ANYTHING (except memberships and gift cards) at ANY Barnes & Noble, ANYwhere in the world. Really — any THING any WHERE, not just in Montgomery County. Just give the cashier the following “Bookfair ID”: 238774. Write down that Bookfair ID number now. Then hie thee to the nearest Barnes & Noble this Friday-Saturday-Sunday and shop shop shop, hear?

The kids had finally succeeded in pissing me off.

It was the fourth day of my five-day stint as Writer in Residence at Thurgood Marshall Middle School on Chicago’s Northwest Side. Each of my four classes had been wonderful except this one — yet just the day before, these kids had turned wonderful too.

Now on Day 4, though, they were worse than ever — talking to each other, not paying attention. One girl in particular liked to throw me off with a running commentary under her breath; yet I could tell she was excited and motivated. I figured she’d been class clown so long she couldn’t stop now even if she wanted to. But on Day 3 she’d proven me wrong by becoming my most enthusiastic participant … and proven me right about being excited.

Now it’s Day 4 though and Day 3 might as well not have happened. They’re chattering away. I try to discuss the assigned story and they haven’t read it. Oops, there goes 20 minutes and what to do now? “Could we write our final paper instead?” someone asks. I grab as if for a life preserver. “OK, write for 10 minutes.” What do they do? Chatterchatterchatter.

I’ve been had. I’m pissed and I’m afraid I show it. “I’ve been trying to treat you like adults,” I say. “I think that’s a new experience. All your lives you’ve been graded and corrected and told what to do, and now here’s someone trying to treat you like a colleague, a fellow writer. I have no power over you: I can’t give you a grade, I can’t send you to the principal. But if I’m not mistaken, you asked to be in this class. You want to learn what I’m trying to teach. Well, you are only going to get out of this class what you put into it. You can only learn how to analyze the story if you read the story. You can only learn to write by writing.”

They’re quiet during my tirade. Then I ask them to start writing and they pull out their pads and pens, bend their little heads and write in silence for 10 minutes. Wow, I think. So this is what it’s like to be a teacher.

Actually, my inner teacher has been coming out a little more each day. I slow down, explain more, spell out, define words I’d been sure (on Day 1) they’d understand. Around Day 2.5 I begin getting very directive: Get out your pads, put your pads away, start writing, stop writing, stand up, sit down. I’d been warned that kids won’t want to speak, won’t want to volunteer, and I quickly discover how true that is. But …

… around Day 2 or 3, one girl asks to read what she’s written to the class. Then another. Then a third. I have the presence of mind not to utter a word of critique: Instead I lead a round of applause for each reader.

… I’ve prepared about 60 “hooks” — first lines of potential stories. Example: “Sunny said he had to return the U-Haul by six o’clock or pay for another day so there we sat, staring at everything we owned piled up in the middle of the floor …” I cut these up and put the slips into my white straw hat. Every day I pass the Magic Hat and have the kids spend five minutes completing the story. I make the rules tougher each day, and on Day 4 I announce they’ll write for twice as long — 10 minutes, not 5. Afterward, almost all say longer is better. More time to think, more time to get into our stories, they say. So on Day 5, I have them write for 20 minutes … and, glory be, they like that best of all.

… At the end, one of the girls has written 7+ chapters of a novel. Another girl, who asked for critique on Day 3, hands me a complete rewrite on Day 5 that is a far stronger piece.

This was a tough week. On my 30-minute break between Class #2 and Class #3 the first day, I just sat and stared into space, too pooped even to read the newspaper. After Class #4, my armpits were soaked.

The classes were a mix — some kids already writers, some writer wannabes, some with learning disabilities, a few in bilingual education. Something like 90% were Latinos, and 92% were classified as in poverty.

I didn’t learn that 92% statistic until I’d been teaching a day or so, and when I heard it I was stunned. As far as I was concerned, these kids are great — interested, motivated, excited, more than a few with that light shining in their eyes. One or two troublemakers, sure, and several with apparent language or learning problems; but when it came time to write, those heads were bent over their pads too, writing in silent concentration.

I started out my week with only one real goal: To silence their inner critic, to drive a stake through the heart of the little demon who sits on every writer’s shoulder and whispers, “You suck.” I told the kids that rules matter, spelling matters, grammar matters, and they’d go to English class and learn and get graded on that stuff, but that in my class that stuff didn’t matter — just write. I told them all first drafts are crappy and it’s OK, that’s why God made second drafts. I read them Anne Lamott and Elmore Leonard and a lot more besides, all to get them to that point on Day 5 where they’d write for 20 minutes and not want to stop.

And now it’s over. The second school had a last-minute conflict and canceled my gig with apologies. Frankly, I’m not losing sleep over it. The Chicago weather has been beastly, I have to get up at 5:15, I miss my wife and family, and, frankly, Week Two would be drudgery as much as discovery.

I am left wondering how professional teachers do what they do — “on” five days a week, doing five or six “shows” a day, toughest audiences anywhere, one false move and you’re a goner. Not only that — you have to improvise, respond to what the kids give you, be ready to turn on a dime. As my “handler” Dan August put it, it’s like playing jazz. Angelina Jolie probably works one-fiftieth as hard and as much, and doesn’t worry about live audiences.

Meantime, teachers probably earn about the same as Angelina’s gardener. Most teachers surely have the brains, skills and stage presence to earn more, yet they put in 40-year careers, slogging away each day in the face of cutbacks, parental indifference, crappy facilities, budget cuts and now No Child, hoping to see that light in a few eyes. I doff the Magic Hat to them.

Frank Joseph
www.tolovemercy.com

P.S. Good news: My novel TO LOVE MERCY has been honored by selection for the Open Book Program of the Institute for Positive Living — one of only three books selected each year. The Institute, a nonprofit group dedicated to instilling a love of reading in underprivileged kids, was to buy books for 250 kids and fly me back to Chicago to address them but …

P.P.S. Bad news: They serve kids down to 3rd grade, and TO LOVE MERCY is not appropriate for that age group. With embarrassment and regret, they backed out. But they love the novel and have offered a …

P.P.P.S. Consolation prize: Someone in their organization — a board member maybe — works for Oprah. They’re going to try getting a book to The Big O via that individual. Boy, do I hope they succeed.