Reflections of a "Human Earthquake" Victim
Reflections of a
"Human Earthquake" Victim
Marvin X in Harlem, NY, 1968
photo Doug Harris
I’m sure we all have those teachers from our past who have impacted
our lives. Some have encouraged us to dig deep within and unleash
untapped potential. Some have inspired us to think beyond our little
world and reach new heights. I can’t remember, though, very many
teachers who have shocked me into a dizzying stupor, made me laugh, then
ultimately made me love them for their unbridled “Hootspa” (or as we
were fond of saying in my hometown….“Huevos”)
Meet Marvin X
I believe it was the fall semester of 1982 when I walked into the
first day of my English class. I was attending Kings River Community
College in the small, heavily Mennonite town of Reedley, CA. Our quaint
little town was your typical white-bread, very conservative, farming
community. So when we all took our seats and noticed that our instructor
was not your typical white, middle-aged teacher with patches on his
jacket sleeves, but was in fact an african american man, staring us
down, we were all a bit off of our game.
“Hello, welcome to my English class. My name is Marvin X. My legal
name is Marvin Jackmon, but I don’t use that name because that was given
to me by some white slave owner”! The classroom did a collective head
scratching, while some more disturbed students got up and walked into
the wall several times, then returned to their seats and joined the head
scratching asking panically “Um…your just a sub, right??”
Everyday in Marvin X’s class was like a field trip though a box of
Cracker Jacks. There was always some prize waiting for our small town
J.C. minds to grapple with. Mr. X always encouraged lively conversation
and I took full advantage of that, because we all know that asking a
thousand questions equals a passionate interest in the subject which
equals a passing grade!!!!
The thing I love most about him was that he loved…no, he fed on
tossing little “shock and awe” bombshells our way. Which was always
followed by that jubilant grin and sparkle in his eye’s. He kept
taunting us that some day he would share some of his poetry with us. But
he warned us, “My poetry is really “street” …so I’m not sure your ready
for it”.
Several more weeks passed, full of lively conversations, debate and
complete pandemonium swirling through our young impressionable little
minds. Finally, one day he came to class and announced that we were now
officially ready for one of his poems. Once again, he reiterated that
his poetry was pretty “street” and not for the faint of heart. We did a
collective gulp and nodded our heads.
This poem is called…
(wait for it)
“Confession of a Rapist”
(Oh dear Lord!!….um…uh…OK,, I can handle this! I can be street…or at least avenue)
He looked up with that sly grin and glimmer in his eyes, then proceeded with the opening line…
“I took the P***Y”
(we’re not talking about sweet little kittens here, folks.)
He just piloted his Enola Gay B-29 and dropped a bomb (a “P” bomb at that) amongst us citizens of Hiroshima Junior College!
Visualize those old black & white films of Atomic bomb testing
somewhere in the deserts of Nevada. The “Shock Wave” was so insanely
intense, our faces were wobbling and contorting to the massive G-forces,
that I’m pretty positive not one person heard another line from that
poem. Outside, after class, we quickly and hastily put together an
emergency Triage unit to asses the damages and re-attach any limbs or
brain matter that may have needed attending to.
Some fellow Christian students from the class were discussing the
possibility of assembling a mob with torches and pitch forks, the likes
of your typical Frankenstein movie. We soon realized that we were all
fine. A little shaken, but fine.
Oddly enough, there was maybe one complaint in class from a student,
and he very patiently and lovingly discussed it with us. In the end, we
all came through it like old trench buddies. Mr. X helped lift, perhaps
rather firmly, us out of our little comfort zones.
In the last few remaining weeks of class, we had several more great
conversations and debates. One sunny day he even held class outside
under a tree and we studied the book of Job from the Bible. I believe he
said he loved it because it read like a screenplay. He had lots of
great insight and challenged us daily.
There are only a handful of teachers from my two and a half years of
college (and no degree to show for it) that I have maybe a millisecond
of memory of them. Mr. X, however, made such an impact on me that his
memory is burned into the synapses of my brain. Was he shocking? Yes!
However, even more, he loved reaching through to us. He made us
think….really think!
Before I began writing this, I Googled him. Sure enough, there he was…
with that sly grin and glimmer in his eyes!
Thank you, Mr. X!
Comment Marvin X:
Let me thank all those beautiful students who attended my English class
at Kings River College, 1982. I had the time of my life, but my academic
career ended there, even though I received a 97% retention rate. I
simply no longer desired to teach again. It is indeed ironic that my
career ended not far from where my life began in Fowler, Ca., a few
miles down the road from Reedley. My mother was also born in Fowler but
never went to Reedley because the town was too racist.
But during my brief tenure at Reedley, the students treated me royally,
bringing me gifts of fruits, vegetables and herbs from their farms. Two
of my greatest poems were written during this time, i.e., For the Women
and Black History is World History. My students, nearly all White and/or
Chicano, did research papers on Black History is World History. One of
my Black students was from an Alabama town that hanged his friend from a
light post during the semester. Yes, the more things change, the more
they stay the same. But I am humbled by the reflections of my student
from Reedley Community College, aka Kings River College.
