MLK’s “Letter From a Birmingham Jail.” Among other things, remarkable body copy for a big idea.
January 21, 2013
Imprisoned, King set forth to writing…
When I was in college, I took a course on rhetoric and debate in 20th century America. In it, we looked at numerous famous speeches made by famous people: Lincoln, Jefferson, King, etc. (Learning from great persuaders how to fashion a rational and emotional argument would later become highly useful in my career as a copywriter –both as a writer and presenter.) During that semester, no document we studied was more powerful than Martin Luther King’s “Letter From a Birmingham Jail.”
I am not being glib when I say the “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” is one of the finest pieces of long copy ever written. Certainly Equal Rights is a big idea. I like it better than King’s more famous “I Have a Dream” speech. Not because of content (both are awesome) but because of circumstances. King was alone in a jail cell when he wrote it.
On this, the anniversary of what would have been MLK’s 84th birthday; I think it a fine thing to reexamine this seminal document. An excerpt follows. The full text is linked below it.
“We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse and buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, “Wait.” But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can’t go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five year old son who is asking: “Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?”; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading “white” and “colored”; when your first name becomes “nigger,” your middle name becomes “boy” (however old you are) and your last name becomes “John,” and your wife and mother are never given the respected title “Mrs.”; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of “nobodiness”–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience. You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court’s decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. One may well ask: “How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?” The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: just and unjust. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that “an unjust law is no law at all.”
My perspective on Cisco’s new ad campaign. I’ll be blunt. It’s not a commercial yet. It’s what we call a “rip-o-matic.” As such, it’s nicely done. But still.
For those unaware (or is it unawares?), a “rip” is a video put together by an agency to sell the “big idea” to a client. Often referred to as a manifesto or mantra, they are considered du rigueur in pitches and in the delivery of new campaigns. I have made dozens in my career. We all have. Anthem videos are a great tool and I won’t sell them short. However, they are not commercials. They are more like commercials for commercials. In a presentation we might use such a video to explain our strategy or set the stage for a new tagline.
Speaking of taglines that is another reason I’m nonplussed. Theirs: Tomorrow starts here. Gee whiz, I was wondering about that. Aren’t you weary of companies stating the future is right here right now? Trying to own the future is like saying you’re cool. Show me. Which is what the creative should have done in lieu of a pedantic anthem.
Allow me a tangent. Certain random pieces of copy drive me bonkers. Not because they are loathsome clichés or shilling too hard but, oddly enough, because they are precious and unique. To a fault. Like when millennial hipster John Krasinski applies the made up word “coolish” in an Esurance commercial. Here it’s the phrase “The Internet of Everything.” I think they’re going for childlike wonder but it makes me cringe. In both cases I suddenly become aware of the copywriter and that bothers me. Maybe I’m alone in this. Maybe “The Internet of Everything” is coolish.
So, I’m wondering why Cisco and its famous ad agency opted for a piece of Wikipedia-like show and tell instead of good stories and remarkable feats. Perhaps the brand team fell in love with their baby too soon and birthed it prematurely? Lord knows it’s hard denying a client who loves something even if it isn’t cooked yet.
My guess is the real advertising will come soon enough. Maybe tomorrow, which I’m told starts here.
Arty and provocative film for Smart Cars.
“We make ads not art.” When I began my career the debate whether advertising was (or should be) considered art was a big one. Creative ad schools were few and the craft typically was taught out of a university’s journalism school, a department that is now largely defunct. Many of us came to the profession out of other portals not specifically tied to advertising, such as Creative Writing, Media Studies or the Art school. Perhaps we only saw the word “art” in art director and “writer” in copywriter. Regardless, we were drawn to the possibility of making art-like objects for a living.
At the same time future account people were coming from a more traditional background: business, finance and economics. These folks took art as an elective. Maybe they audited a journalism class. Regardless, they had few notions about advertising being art. Among other things, this created a storm front between creative and accounts; one, that in my opinion, is just beginning to dissipate.
Advertising, art or both?
With the advent of the Web many of these firewalls have collapsed. Advertising and art have blurred in the face of one mandate: Get noticed! We see countless examples of films and posters posing as advertising. And visa versa.* Creating cool art-like objects is now considered the legitimate craft of advertising more than ever before. Whereas in 1984 only a commercial like Apple’s “1984” ever transcended commerce in 2012 countless propaganda for brands do just that. Granted, few are as seminal as Chiat Day’s epic manifesto but not for lack of trying.
Social media demands that advertising function as art (or entertainment) in order for it to be shared and go viral. If an advertiser chooses to merely block and tackle, lacking human relevance, his message will die a quick death.
Within moments I found examples of advertising that fit an art-like definition. Like them or not, they make you think about the world differently. They make us wonder about the role of brands in art. They challenge us. Historically speaking, few argue that being challenged was ever a good thing for an ad. But it is now.
Big winner at Cannes. Tell me it’s not art…
*Andy Warhol made a career out of mashing advertising into art. He was a rogue. Now he would just be an art director.
“Make the logo, I mean lawn bigger!”
This weekend I bought a house! Hopefully, sold one too. As anyone who’s been there knows this is an exciting but stressful time. Ergo, I do not have a proper post for my blog.
Or do I?
All this buying and selling got me thinking: Personal property is a category that seldom uses copywriters to ply its wares. Of course, we’ve all read copy for real estate. But a copywriter probably didn’t write it. Unless, obviously, the seller happened to be one. Yet, even then, we copywriters defer to our realtors for pimping our properties.
Kind of ironic. I’ve languished over a piece of copy for just about everything consumable yet when it came to my very own house I let the “real estate lady” do it. And I’m betting you did, too.
Why is that?
It’s not like they are very good at it. Clichés abound. Coded phrases are an obnoxious part of the equation: “Cozy” means small. “Rustic” means shitty. And so on.
In some respects the copy hardly matters, especially now. We just want stats and photos…plenty of photos. Still, there’s always a short paragraph or two. And it most definitely is copy.
Ah, well, who am I to quibble? I’m staring at two contracts!
Death of a Salesman: My grandfather, Jack Postaer.
April 27, 2012
Jack Postaer, 1913-2012
Advertising runs in our blood. My father was in it for 50 years, the “P” in RPA is his. My brothers are both practitioners in Adland. Jeremy even found a way to make money as a voice-over. Can you say “Bing?” Before retiring, my mother was an art buyer for several Chicago agencies, including FCB, when they still called it that. And then there’s me. I took to this business as if God himself told me to.
Yet maybe we need to go back farther than my father, to this man, Jack Postaer. My grandfather earned a living actually selling stuff, as a green grocer and later a cab driver. As a teenager he sold ice from the back of a truck, this when they still used horses. Air conditioning was called Lake Michigan. And people surfed the radio. Obviously, I don’t remember him as a workingman (he retired when my memory started!) but some years ago I went through a period when I asked him untold questions about his youth, where he lived, how it was…
My grandfather lived much of his life on Chicago’s south side, going to Maxwell Street to buy and barter: eBay from a truck bay. Hard core retail. For men like Jack, the American dream meant selling. During the Great Depression, selling even harder.
Maybe the Postaer gene for it, then, started with him.
Jack Postaer and his long line of salesmen
When my dad got his first “career” job, writing copy for the venerable Sears Roebuck Catalog, Jack was mighty proud. Brokenhearted when he quit, to write jingles on Michigan Avenue. Much, much later when I started my career at the famous Leo Burnett Company, Gramps was over the moon. If, on occasion, The Chicago Tribune’s George Lazarus deemed one of us worthy of his column the phone rang before we got the paper. Jack understood the greatness in selling and loved that we got it, too.
Grandpa Jack died yesterday, peacefully, at the age of 99. I’ll bet the silver dollar he once gave me that when he sees Leo Burnett in Heaven he’ll be sure and show him those clippings.
Finally, many of you are friends of mine on Facebook. On behalf of our family I’d like to thank you for all the kind words. It was deeply appreciated.
The Happy Soul Industry
The Last Generation
