Abstract
I can remember vividly the first time I saw the f-word scrawled on some sidewalk near my grade school. I asked about ten people what it meant until someone told me. Something died that day, and something was born: the idea that words scrawled in public spaces could shock you. Somehow the anonymity of the writers made such acts exciting, and the inscriptions became as concrete to me as the surface of the sidewalk. In junior high, the practice became more sophisticated. I remember the mysterious "slam books" in which anonymous students wrote malicious remarks about all the stuck-ups and hoods -"Fat Mark loves himself," and "Debbie wears blue panties," et cetera, et cetera. In short, for my generation carving our names, scribbling our curses, our pithy poetry, and our political anti/festos on the blackboards of the classroom became a rite of passage, whether you lived in a ghetto or a conventional middle-class suburban neighborhood like I did.