Of Lawyers, Samoans and Journalism

Posted on | July 22, 2026 | No Comments

Over the weekend, I wrote:

What is terrorism? It is the use of violence for political purposes, and is akin to guerrilla warfare — “insurgency,” as we are now wont to call it.

My use of the word “wont” in that sentence drew praise in the comments from my old friend Bert the Samoan lawyer:

Also, beautiful use of “wont.” The Bunhead would be proud.

“The Bunhead” is a reference to Mrs. Opal Lovett, an English instructor at Jacksonville (Alabama) State University who taught both Bert and me back in the day. Mrs. Lovett wore her hair in a bun, as did all proper old-fashioned Southern ladies back in the day. There were many such old-fashioned Southern ladies among the teachers of our youth. For example, my homeroom teacher in seventh grade was Mrs. Alexander, who spoke in a very deep drawl, more common in the coastal lowlands of the South than in the Piedmont region near Atlanta where I grew up. One of my childhood friends liked to tell about the time when Mrs. Alexander, offended by the smell of some students’ inadequate hygiene, briefly lectured a classroom about their “foul body odors,” which with her drawling voice struck my friend as hysterically comical.

Mrs. Alexander was the wife of Robert Alexander, who was principal of Turner Middle School at the time. His long and distinguished career as an educator in Douglas County made him the namesake of Alexander High School. When there was recently a sex scandal at Alexander High that made national headlines, I felt that scandal rather personally, having known the man for whom the school was named. Such behavior is unworthy of anyone associated with that name. But I digress . . .

JSU student newspaper staffer, 1983.

Bert the Samoan Lawyer will attest that, in my youth, I wasn’t much concerned with propriety and reputation, to put it mildly. Had there been a vote for “Most Likely to Become a Conservative Pundit,” certainly no one would have nominated me. While I showed some penchant for feature writing, as entertainment editor of the student newspaper at JSU, I had no interest in politics. It was Mrs. Lovett, in fact, who suggested to me my senior year that I should take some assignments writing regular news, sports, etc., in order to accumulate clippings that would demonstrate my ability to do different kinds of journalism. Almost by accident, after a couple of post-collegiate years doing various other things — nightclub DJ, forklift driver, rock-and-roll bands — I stumbled into a $4.50-an-hour entry-level job as a staff writer for a weekly paper in Austell, Georgia, and from there slowly worked my way up the ladder until I landed at the Washington Times in 1997.

“Writing is a skill, not a talent, and this difference is important because a skill can be improved by practice.”

That’s one of my quotes someone collected online, and a point that needs to be emphasized. At a family reunion down in Alabama many years ago, one of my great-aunts or distant cousins asked me what I was doing, and when I told her I was working for a newspaper, she replied, “Oh, you were always so creative!” Well, perhaps so, but newspaper reporting isn’t about “creativity.” In fact, it’s quite the opposite — in this business, you get fired for “creating” anything (e.g., Stephen Glass).

It is kind of weird, when you think about it, that we should regard the ability to write narrative prose as a creative talent akin to composing symphonies or carving statues. However good any journalist may be at his craft, he isn’t Mozart or Michelangelo. Grant that there is some element of innate aptitude involved in journalism, but merely being able to write a news story about a school board meeting — the kind of stuff a local newspaper reporter does — isn’t a “talent,” it’s a skill. Having started my career on the very lowest rung of the ladder, I was keenly aware that improving my skill was the key to getting ahead, and I consciously committed to improvement: Work harder, work faster, get better every day — but never let ’em see you sweat.

Eric “Otter” Stratton is my role model here. When he’s practicing golf with his Animal House brother Boon, there’s this colloquy:

Boon: “I gotta work on my game.”
Otter: “No, no, no, don’t think of it as work. The whole point is just to enjoy yourself.”

Treat your “work” as fun, and strive to make it seem you achieve success effortlessly. Those other guys, half-assing their way through life? They’re not even in the building when you’re burning the midnight oil, cranking it out in a desperate rush to meet your next deadline. You don’t owe them anything, especially not an explanation of why you’re better than them. You earned what you got, and if they envy the apparent ease of your success — imagining you’re just lucky — why let them in on your secret?

There was a time in the 1980s, when Bert the Samoan Lawyer was editor of a small newspaper in Alabama, and I was driving a forklift, and how I envied him! Even though Bert explained that it was a crappy job — overworked and underpaid — still it was obviously more prestigious than what I was doing, and I was surprised when he later quit the newspaper business and went to law school. Probably I should have heeded his warning about conditions in the journalism racket. There have definitely been times I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have stuck to driving a forklift. However, Bert became a remarkable success as a lawyer, and on occasion has provided me with very valuable legal advice, free of charge. Somehow or other, the envious shoe got switched to the other foot, and Bert has from time to time expressed the idea that my Gonzo adventures in journalism are a greater achievement than his lofty status as the most eminent Polynesian-American attorney in the Southeast.

Being a great lawyer involves a lot of writing, and Bert’s scholarly work has been featured in a number of legal journals, although such writing doesn’t afford him much opportunity to display his penchant for satirical humor, for which he was well-known in his JSU years. The Bunhead taught us well, in terms of grammar and such, and Bert was always a more diligent student than I, whose collegiate career was an extended party occasionally interrupted by attending classes. There are some who have accused me of engaging in satire, of being “creative” in my writing, an allegation I strenuously deny. Believe it or not, there are some people who have gone so far as to insinuate that Bert is not even a Samoan, but trust me — I report only the facts. As is my wont.

Yes, it can be used as a noun, too. Class dismissed!

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