When I was a senior at A. C. Flora High School, I wrote a letter to the editor for our school newspaper questioning if there was such a thing as one's permanent record. They had used those two words to threaten us from first grade. Anything that we did wrong would go on our "permanent record". I wanted to see mine. My guidance counselor called me into her office and briefly showed me that there was such a thing. My letter caused a stir at the school.
When I got to college, I wrote some letters to the editor of our school newspaper concerning issues on campus. I also wrote one to the local Anderson newspaper regarding water pollution at a park. At PC, my letter writing got more intense. In fact, it was like having a weekly column in our school's newspaper. I caused a lot of trouble with some of my letters, especially with the administration and the football team. The latter threatened to kill me, because of what I said, and I had to leave campus for a week or so. Consequently, I failed two classes for missing the mid-term exams.
As I was leaving to go to seminary, my father told me not to write anymore letters to the editor. I told him I would just concentrate on school and not write any letters. I broke my promise to him after an incident in the news. There was a story about a man who was holding some people hostage in his home. He had a shotgun. The police had negotiated with the man to let the hostages go. They told him that he wouldn't be harmed. He did what they said. He gave up and came outside to be immediately arrested. He was manhandled by the police and thrown in jail. When I heard that story, I was appalled. The police had broken their word to the man. They had lied to him to get him to give up. I had to write a letter.
I wrote a letter to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram newspaper. It was primarily about trusting the police. It was about honesty and fairness. Those are two things that I have tried to live my life by. I was disgusted at what had happened to the man. Today, he would have been treated as mentally ill. In the 1970's, he was just a criminal. The newspaper printed my letter.
A few days later, I got an angry call from my father. He was mad, because I had written a letter to the editor. One of his friends in Fort Worth had seen my letter and had told him about it. Despite the fact that my father was well-known by professors at the seminary, I was naive to think that 1000 miles between my father and me would keep the letter from being discovered by him. No more letters. Okay, no more letters, I said. I kept my word, while I lived in Fort Worth. Even with all of the persecution I suffered during my last semester at seminary, the only letters I wrote were to my parents. Probably a good thing.