The Story of the Grammar Hammer
Or, why my children exist
Earlier this week, my 6-year-old Finley asked me, “How was I born?”
“Let me tell you a story,” I said. “It begins when I was in 5th grade.”
In 1998, my parents decided we should move from Kelso to the adjoining city, Longview. I was in 5th grade. The first kid who befriended me was Darrell. We hung out at recess, walking around and talking about whatever 5th graders talk about. One day, we decided to play basketball with some of the other kids. Darrell introduced me to William, who became my basketball buddy.
In middle school I had classes with William and Darrell and Nathan and Sarah and others from the year before. William introduced me to Christian, and Christian and I became fast friends. I rode my bike to his house—or sometimes ran—and we would play backyard baseball and watch the Huskies and sometimes buy ice cream from the ice cream truck. His house and mine weren’t far as the crow flies, but because they were separated by a golf course, I had to go up and over a steep hill to get there.
The summer before seventh grade, I turned 13 years old. I invited my two best friends, William and Christian, to a concert and sleepover. It was my first big-name concert: Weird Al Yankovic, performing his “Running With Scissors” tour. My friends and I had a blast.
In seventh grade, I befriended Tyler. Tyler had been in 6th grade with us, but I didn’t really hang out with him until 7th grade. Tyler and I ran track together, both doing the half-mile and mile. We were both into music and the idea of filmmaking. In 8th grade, Tyler, Christian, and I were an inseparable trio.
High school. I had many classes with Tyler and Christian, and we all talked about becoming journalists. But only Tyler and Christian took the high school journalism classes and wrote for the school paper. I did running start and environmental studies, and never investigated what being a journalist entailed.
The time came to apply for college. I only applied to Western Washington University, under the impression that was where several of my friends were going. I selected Journalism for my major. But all of my friends went elsewhere. Tyler went to WSU, Christian to UW. I ended up at Western by myself. There were other people from my high school there, but I wasn’t close with them.
At the end of my freshman year, I took my first journalism class. The professor and my peers were great, but I discovered I hated journalism. I didn’t like interviewing people, I didn’t like the deadlines. I did enjoy one thing, though: the grammar and AP Style Guide quizzes. I aced them all. I said to one of my classmates, “I’m the grammar hammer!”
In sixth grade, after my mom bought me some Weird Al albums on cassette tape (which I listened to on my cassette tape radio), I began to write my own parody songs. At first, I did lengthy mashups. I would use the lyrics from one song just long enough for someone to recognize the tune before switching to another song—with a grammatically smooth transition. Unfortunately, I don’t have any surviving records of these songs, but here is an example of what it would have looked like:
I want something else, to get me through this … lonely road, the only one that I have ever known, don’t know … who let the dogs out? Who, who who? Who let the dogs … party like it’s 1999 …
In 7th grade, I wrote my breakout parody song: “Oops, I Tooted Again,” based on “Oops, I Did It Again,” by Britney Spears. Very soon after this, I was introduced to heavy metal, and I started to write original songs for that genre. In 8th grade, I learned to play guitar, and I wrote hundreds of songs by the time I graduated high school.
During this period, I also listened to a lot of rap music. It was on the radio, at school dances, recited by my peers. I tried my hand at writing rap lyrics. That’s when I stumbled into the tools of poetry: rhythm (stressed and unstressed syllables; length of line), perfect and slant rhymes, alliteration, interior rhymes, metaphor, metonymy, etc.
While I was in high school, Apple introduced Garageband. The music program came standard on Macs, and I loved it. I played around with the preset loops before creating my own melodies, beats, and instruments. Sometimes I would randomly place notes to create a melody, then learn to play it on guitar. Sometimes it went the other direction. I recorded myself singing and playing guitar. I recorded myself singing over electronic music.
During my first year in college, I made my first hip-hop beat. I looked through my files for lyrics that would fit and found a lengthy song (originally written for guitar) called “King Bird,” a narrative song about all the birds choosing who would rule the rest. Then I recorded myself rapping the lyrics over the beat. A new era of musical creation opened before me.
And one day, late in spring quarter, after the journalism class that turned me away from journalism, I created the lyrics and beats for my soon-to-be breakout song, “Grammar Hammer.”
That summer, I made an entire album of original songs on Garageband, twelve beauties of lyrical depth and unparalleled musical accomplishment. I burned several copies and passed them out to friends at the end of the summer, including my high school friend Tyler, who took the album to WSU. He told me he often blasted one of the songs, “Chaos,” in the campus newsroom on deadline nights.
Sophomore year. There is a cafe on Western’s campus called “The Underground Coffeehouse” (or at least that’s what it was called when I went there). Once a week, they hosted an open mic night. All throughout fall and winter quarter, I went with some friends and we watched musicians, poets, and comedians perform. One of my friends ran the sound. I kept telling people, “One of these nights, I’m going to rap.”
Near the end of winter quarter, I picked my night. I wrote my name on the sign-up sheet. I wore my standard blue plaid flannel shirt. I put my beats on a flash drive and gave it to my friend at the sound booth. The Underground was packed with people. A whole crowd of friends—and friends of friends—had shown up to watch me.
A few acts performed, and then it was my turn. I walked up to the stage and grabbed the microphone. My hands were slick with sweat. My stomach was tight. My heart raced. I was ready. It was very quiet. For a moment I worried the music wouldn’t start. Then I heard the beat come in. I couldn’t retreat now.
The first song I did was “King Bird.” The crowd loved it. Some people told me afterward how surprised they were. They thought I was going to tell jokes. Instead I rapped. I didn’t know what to do with my body or hands, so I bobbed side to side and made little T-Rex arms. My wife calls it “floppy fish hands” (see picture at the top of this post).
Dance moves aside, the first song went great. As the beat faded out, and the applause died down, I announced the next song. “This next song … this is next song is, uh, is called ‘Grammar Hammer.’” Someone in the crowd shouted “Yessss!” While I waited for the song to begin, I sat on a stool onstage, as if I hadn’t just rapped, and as if I wasn’t about to do it again.
Then the bass line of Grammar Hammer started. I stood up and got back into the bobbing, floppy-fish-hands groove again. Then, at just the right moment, I began to rap. The chorus is my favorite part:
I’m the grammar hammer
I’m a red pen slammer
I’ll tear your writing apartI’m the grammar hammer
I’m a red pen slammer
I’m a credited editor, I’m the best in the art
At one point during the song, my friend on sound added echo and reverb. It threw me off because I had never been on a mic with those effects before. I stumbled briefly, but then just focused on the beat.
The song was, at that time, much too long. After the bridge, I repeat the first verse, which ends with the line: “You don’t need a comma every time you think your audience needs a pause.” The music cut out and everybody cheered. I should have ended there. But I kept going after that with another double chorus. Then I was done. I put the mic back on the stand and walked offstage, satisfied, wired, giddy, and just wanting to get out of the spotlight. I had accomplished what I set out to do. Now it was done. I could be proud of myself.
“Let’s just give one more round of applause for Nate Hoover!” the host shouted before introducing the next act. I got a lot of high fives, hugs, and “wows” during the intermission and after the night was over. I was so relieved to be done, and so happy (but embarrassed) for the attention.
For months afterward, the occasional stranger would ask me if I was the Grammar Hammer. Once, the cashier at a burger place asked me. Someone in one of my spring quarter classes asked me. It was a surprise to be recognized by strangers.
During spring break, I went on a mission trip to Haiti with one of the campus ministries. One of the students on the trip worked at a summer camp in Bellingham. She told me they still needed counselors, and that I should apply. I did.
At an initial training for the summer camp, one of my fellow counselors came up to me and asked, “Are you the Grammar Hammer?” “Yes,” I said. I don’t remember the conversation after that.
A month later, I found out that this person and I would be co-counselors for the same group of kids. She had just graduated with her teaching degree, and was beginning a new teaching job that September. It turns out that in one week, she got hired for the summer camp, got hired at a school for the fall, and met her future husband (me). My co-counselor’s name was Allison, and we started dating by the end of the summer. We got married two years later, and eventually had kids.
So anyway, that’s the story I told Finley earlier this week when he asked, “How was I born?”
The Leo energy is strong with this one.