L.A. Unified: Diary of a First-Year Teacher at One of America's Worst Schools

L.A. UNIFIED

DIARY OF A FIRST-YEAR TEACHER AT

ONE OF AMERICA’S WORST SCHOOLS

Mike Flax

Copyright © 2009 by Mike Flax.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2009903471

ISBN:      Hardcover        978-1-4415-2736-3

ISBN:      ebook      978-1-4691-0329-7

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Contents

Monday, August 28, 2006-

Tuesday, August 29, 2006-

Wednesday, August 30, 2006-

Wednesday, August 30, 2006-

Thursday, August 31, 2006-

Thursday, August 31, 2006-

Friday, September 1, 2006-

Tuesday, September 5, 2006

Wednesday, September 6, 2006

Thursday, September 7, 2006-

Friday, September 8, 2006-

Monday, September 11, 2006-

Tuesday, September 12, 2006-

Wednesday, September 13, 2006-

Wednesday, September 13, 2006-

Thursday, September 14, 2006-

Friday, September 15, 2006-

Monday, September 18, 2006-

Monday, September 18, 2006-

Tuesday, September 19, 2006-

Tuesday, September 19, 2006-

Wednesday, September 20, 2006-

Thursday, September 21, 2006-

Friday, September 22, 2006-

Friday, September 22, 2006-

Monday, September 25, 2006-

Tuesday, September 26, 2006-

Wednesday, September 27, 2006-

Thursday, September 28, 2006-

Friday, September 29, 2006-

Monday, October 2, 2006-

Tuesday, October 3, 2006-

Wednesday, October 4, 2006-

Thursday, October 5, 2006-

Friday, October 6, 2006-

Friday, October 6, 2006-

Saturday, October 7, 2006-

Monday, October 9, 2006-

Tuesday, October 10, 2006-

Wednesday, October 11, 2006-

Thursday, October 12, 2006-

Friday, October 13, 2006-

Monday, October 16, 2006-

Tuesday, October 17, 2006-

Wednesday, October 18, 2006-

Thursday, October 19, 2006-

Friday, October 20, 2006-

Monday, October 23, 2006-

Tuesday, October 24, 2006-

Wednesday, October 25, 2006-

Thursday, October 26, 2006-

Friday, October 27, 2006-

Monday, October 30, 2006-

Tuesday, October 31, 2006-

Wednesday, November 1, 2006-

Thursday, November 2, 2006-

Friday, November 3, 2006-

Monday, November 6, 2006-

Tuesday, November 7, 2006-

Wednesday, November 8, 2006-

Thursday, November 9, 2006-

Friday, November 10, 2006-

Monday, November 13, 2006-

Tuesday, November 14, 2006-

Wednesday, November 15, 2006-

Thursday, November 16, 2006-

Friday, November 17, 2006-

Monday, November 20, 2006-

Tuesday, November 21, 2006-

Wednesday, November 22, 2006-

Monday, November 27, 2006-

Tuesday, November 28, 2006-

Wednesday, November 29, 2006-

Thursday, November 30, 2006-

Friday, December 1, 2006-

Monday, December 4, 2006-

Tuesday, December 5, 2006-

Wednesday, December 6, 2006-

Thursday, December 7, 2006-

Friday, December 8, 2006-

Monday, December 11, 2006-

Tuesday, December 12, 2006-

Wednesday, December 13, 2006-

Thursday, December 14, 2006-

Friday, December 15, 2006-

Monday, December 18, 2006-

Tuesday, December 19, 2006-

Wednesday, December 20, 2006-

Thursday, December 21, 2006-

Friday, December 22, 2006-

Friday, January 19, 2007-

Thursday, February 15, 2007-

Wednesday, February 28, 2007-

Thursday March 1, 2007-

Friday, March 2, 2007-

Monday, March 5, 2007-

Tuesday March 6, 2007-

Wednesday, March 7, 2007-

Thursday, March 8, 2007-

Friday March 9, 2007-

Monday, March 12, 2007-

Tuesday, March 13, 2007-

Wednesday, March 14, 2007-

Thursday, March 15, 2007-

Friday, March 16, 2007-

Monday, March 19, 2007-

Tuesday, March 20, 2007-

Wednesday, March 21, 2007-

Thursday, March 22, 2007-

Friday, March 23, 2007-

Monday, March 26, 2007-

Tuesday, March 27, 2007-

Tuesday, March 27, 2007-

Wednesday, March 28, 2007-

Thursday, March 29, 2007-

Friday, March 30, 2007-

Monday, April 2, 2007-

Tuesday, April 3, 2007-

Wednesday, April 4, 2007-

Thursday, April 5, 2007-

Friday, April 6, 2007-

Monday, April 9, 2007-

Tuesday April 10, 2007-

Wednesday April 11, 2007-

Thursday, April 12, 2007-

Friday, April 13, 2007-

Monday April 16, 2007-

Tuesday April 17, 2007-

Wednesday April 18, 2007-

Thursday, April 19, 2007-

Friday, April 20, 2007-

Monday, April 23, 2007-

Tuesday, April 24, 2007-

Wednesday, April 25, 2007-

Thursday, April 26, 2007-

Friday, April 27, 2007-

Monday, April 30, 2007-

Tuesday, May 1, 2007-

Wednesday, May 2, 2007-

Thursday, May 3, 2007-

Friday, May 4, 2007-

Monday, May 7, 2007-

Tuesday, May 8, 2007-

Wednesday, May 9, 2007-

Thursday, May 10, 2007-

Friday, May 11, 2007-

Monday, May 14, 2007-

Tuesday, May 15, 2007-

Wednesday, May 16, 2007-

Thursday, May 17, 2007-

Friday, May 18, 2007-

Monday, May 21, 2007-

Tuesday, May 22, 2007-

Wednesday, May 23, 2007-

Thursday, May 24, 2007-

Friday, May 25, 2007-

Monday, May 28, 2007-

Tuesday, May 29, 2007-

Wednesday, May 30, 2007-

Thursday, May 31, 2007-

Friday, June 1, 2007-

Monday, June 4, 2007-

Tuesday, June 5, 2007-

Wednesday, June 6, 2007-

Thursday, June 7, 2007-

Friday, June 8, 2007-

Saturday, June 9, 2007-

Monday, June 11, 2007-

Tuesday, June 12, 2007-

Wednesday, June 13, 2007-

Thursday, June 14, 2007-

Thursday, June 14, 2007-

Friday, June 15, 2007-

Monday, June 18, 2007-

Tuesday, June 19, 2007-

Wednesday, June 20, 2007-

Thursday, June 21, 2007-

Friday, June 22, 2007-

Monday, June 25, 2007-

Tuesday, June 26, 2007-

Wednesday June 27, 2007-

Thursday, June 28, 2007-

Friday, June 29, 2007-

To Leanne, my wife and love… I did my best.

In a completely rational society, the best of us would aspire to

be teachers and the rest would settle for something less.

—Lee Iacocca

Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.

—H.L. Mencken

Fifty-percent of new teachers quit the profession in five years.

—Lisa Lambert, Washington Post, May 9, 2006

About 500,000 teachers quit nationally each year.

—Jill Tucker, San Francisco Chronicle, June 21, 2007

Monday, August 28, 2006-

A few years ago I started living by the idea that all life is a test of discipline. Everything that tastes or feels good can destroy a man; everything that sustains him tastes bland or requires great work. It’s in this test of discipline, however, that we either adapt and succeed, or succumb and fail.

So where do I begin? School starts today and I’m up early. It’s my first year of teaching since I left USC with a Master’s and fifty grand worth of loans to repay.

Pico-Union High School is, shall we say, old. And it’s difficult getting one’s room assignment, course assignment, and rosters twenty minutes before the start of school on the first day. But I will not complain because the kids need me, and I am here to help. I might be a bit of a bleeding heart, but don’t think I’m ignorant.

I know all about inner-city schools, having subbed for two years, tutored juvenile delinquents, and most recently, earned a Masters in Urban Education from Southern Cal. I admit that I am still learning about the Pico-Union area of Los Angeles, home to a great majority of our nation’s illegal or, preferably, undocumented aliens. Pico-Union High serves their children. I’ve been told that over ninety percent of them live below the poverty line and only eleven percent is proficient in English. Almost one hundred percent receive either a free or greatly reduced meal at breakfast, 10 a.m. nutrition, and lunch.

Those are just some of the things that don’t get a lot of press, even in Los Angeles. That’s good because if outsiders were aware, everyone from anti-immigration moderates to hardliners would make a stink, pointing to depressed areas like this as reason for stricter immigration laws and less funding for public schools. They would be even more incensed if they knew Pico-Union High has almost 6,000 of these students, making us the largest school in Los Angeles, possibly the country but I haven’t checked the official stats.

Before I go further, let me emphasize that while I am open-minded, I fear the crime in the infamous Rampart District where our school is located. I do not know much beyond what I’ve read in the Los Angeles Times or heard on the news. I know very little about the Rampart Police Scandal of ten years or so ago, but I know that recently, in their injunction, the LAPD called this a ‘Ten Gang Area’ because ten or more violent gangs, including transnational heavyweights La Mara Salvatrucha (MS 13) and 18th Street, operate in the neighborhood. There is graffiti everywhere and squalor to match, and in the two trips I’ve made to the school I have yet to see a friendly face anywhere in sight.

But I am here to do a good thing. That’s what I keep repeating to myself. I am here to do a good thing.

*     *     *

I know it wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but I tried to take a shortcut today in order to get to work extra early. This really backfired on me because the LAPD had blocked part of Hoover Avenue to investigate what looked like a shooting. I followed their detour (and saw the bright lights of the helicopter overhead) around the crime scene. Unfortunately, I turned down Burlington thinking I could follow it all the way to Pico-Union High School. This was not the case and I soon became lost. I was nervous, afraid to show up late on my first day, so when I saw a homeless man pushing a cart across the street in front of me I slowed down to ask him if the school was ahead.

Excuse me, sir? I said, poking my head out the window.

He turned and saw me and screamed, Fuck you, pencil dick cocksucker! I’m a God damn American! I’ll walk as fast as I want you motherfuckers! Get your cameras off of me!

Needless to say, I rolled up my window, circled the area a couple times and then managed to find the building on my own and park. I don’t plan on asking directions again anytime soon. I think the locals want to be left alone.

Anyway, shortly after parking I walked into our opening faculty meeting and sat down in between an older Latino man named Mr. La Starza and a portly white man named Mr. Dickinson. Dickinson sipped coffee and read through the newspaper, occasionally acknowledging some of his friends. On the itinerary they’d given us at the door Mr. La Starza scribbled, This Job Blows! I thought it was a little odd especially since he didn’t even make an effort to cover the message when others walked by. I guess he wasn’t ready to come back from vacation, laugh out loud.

Mr. McPatton, our principal, stood before us solemnly, as if he wanted to intimidate us into following his every command.

I’d like to welcome everyone back, he said. But let me address something. Some of you might have seen the surge in gang-related crime in the area, and I just want to reiterate something I’ve been saying all along: this is a safe school. I’ll say it again, this is a safe school. If you don’t believe me, there’s the door. He pointed demonstratively at the double doors and stared in a way that seemingly made his eyeballs bulge out. The WASC review team is coming. Our accreditation’s on the line, so I don’t need any of you coasting. And if you’ve got a problem with our kids, if you don’t think they can do it… He squinted like a gunfighter. I want to see you. I want to talk to you. The WASC team is coming. Let’s have a great semester, guys. Let’s have a great one.

The first item he addressed was our upcoming review visit from the Western Association of Schools and Colleges (WASC). I learned that our school was on probation as an under-performing school, receiving the demeaning classification of Program Improvement 7 School, a classification no school wants to have. This meant that a WASC team from the state would be on campus in only a few weeks to assess whether or not we would keep our accreditation.

Mr. McPatton was really sweating, looking like he was under the gun as he explained that Crenshaw had lost their accreditation, meaning that their diplomas were worthless, and that we were in immediate danger of losing ours.

It’s about results, guys, McPatton said. It’s a combination of performance on standardized tests and Expected Schoolwide Learning Results. They come by every three years and they want to see flags in every classroom, state standards on the board, and teachers teaching kids who are listening. They don’t want to see a bunch of graffiti and kids out of their seats and teachers reading the newspaper. They just want to see what looks like learning going on. He shrugged. At Crenshaw they didn’t see any of that.

*     *     *

After the faculty meeting there was a short homeroom period, my first encounter with students. I stood in my room apprehensive, watching the clock, wishing for a way to magically stop it, gather myself, and create a stronger starting image than my blue shirt, khakis, and red-striped tie gave me. Soaked with sweat, I waited for the bell and opened the door.

Students crammed the hallway. If I’d wanted to step out, I would not have been able to, so I just stayed in my door with my arms crossed. It was so loud that I backed away a little. It was then that a boy wearing tan Dickies with a blue Dodger’s jersey pushed by me. His head was shaved bald and his mustache was underdeveloped and he had tattoos on his neck. A long-haired boy who wore a black Slayer shirt with black jeans followed him, and then a group of girls came in, giggling. One of them said, Hi, mister and they sat in four seats in the middle.

Before I knew it the room was full of thirty, maybe forty students and the noise was as loud as it had been in the hallway. I walked over by the cabinets and watched the second hand on the clock, hoping that they would stop talking when the homeroom bell rang. As soon as it happened I walked to the front of the room with my roster; they did not stop talking.

There were forty desks in my room, which was good since there were thirty-eight students on the roster. Somehow, all the desks were filled and five students were standing. Holding the roster, I cleared my throat. The students continued talking. A group of boys sitting in the front row were engaged in a lively conversation and I walked in front of them, hoping that if I could get their attention they might stop, and subsequently, the others might stop.

Hey, fellas, I said. A couple of them looked at me. Hi, I’m Mr. O’Brien. They stopped talking so I went to address the rest of the class.

I am Mr. O’Brien, your new teacher. I really look forward to teaching you this year. I looked back at the boys in the front row and they’d already started to talk again.

Class? Hello, Class? I waved my arms. They continued talking over me. Class? Guys? Guys, please be quiet. Please, Class! Hello!

Nothing changed. I held up my arms and said, Hey guys, this is out of hand. They continued like I was invisible. Hey, guys! Hello! Hey, class? Hello? They continued on and I really felt embarrassed, scared in a rookie kind of way. I had subbed before and I had been a student teacher, but this was my first official class and they were talking as if I were in another room.

I stopped to write my name on the board, then I turned and shouted, Guys! Class, please! Maybe five or ten stopped talking, but the kids in the back kept on like it was a Friday night party. I finally pushed into the middle of the room, touched the desk of a boy wearing a white undershirt and checkerboard shorts and said, Excuse me, will you and your friends stop talking so I can make the announcements?

He smirked at me defiantly. Then he stood up and faced the others. Hey, shut the fuck up, the teacher’s got something to say. I didn’t approve of his cussing, but it was the first move anyone had made on my behalf so I didn’t punish him.

Then I moved over to the next talkative group of girls and I heard the boy in checkerboard shorts say something in Spanish that caused an uproar of laughter. I couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded derogatory and they were looking at me, laughing. I continued on unfazed.

Excuse me, young ladies. I’m Mr. O’Brien and I am your teacher. They smiled at me. Then someone from the middle of the room shouted, You’re new, aren’t you, mister?

I am, I said. I’d like… They resumed talking without any lapse. I looked around and saw that no one was staring at me. Look, guys! I know you’re happy to see one another after summer break, but would you please quiet down so I can take the attendance?

They won’t listen to you, mister, a girl in the front row said.

They won’t?

Naw, mister. They know you’re new. Besides, they don’t listen to nobody here. You got to be really mean with them. That’s the only way.

Well, I said. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be that kind of teacher, you know? She stared at me blankly. I set the attendance roster in front of her.

Listen, can you help me fill this out? I reached on the table behind me for a stack of programming cards with the students’ names and schedules. And can you help me pass these out? I can’t get their attention. She took the roster from me gingerly.

As she did so Ms. Cruz, who worked as in the instructional office, walked into the room and tapped me on the back.

What’s going on in here? she asked.

Oh, nothing I’m just—

Have you taken attendance? You need to take it by hand and by computer today.

I was just trying— She turned to the front of my class and hollered at an eardrum-bursting pitch.

Guys! Hey, kids, shut up! Hey! Within a few seconds their voices turned to whispers. The talking continued this way and she shouted again, Guys, knock it off! Stop talking right now! Right now, stop! With that, she managed to silence the homeroom and I felt a little embarrassed. As she stood there she searched the room and said, Miguel? You’re not on the roster. And Andy, David, Pablo… Katie? What are you doing in here?

A fat girl stood up and said, No, Miss, they put me in Ms. Washington’s homeroom but none of my friends are in there so I came here.

No, Ms. Cruz said. You need to go to your assigned homeroom. All of you. Let’s go. She clapped her hands and the designated students left. The rest of you… you’re too loud. I know you’re talking but there are almost forty people in here. It can get very loud.

A boy raised his hand. Miss, you lookin’ good. You and the twins, damn, girl. The class erupted in laughter.

Jose, don’t get started. It’s too early.

I’m just sayin’, Miss. Maybe me and you could… you know?

No chance, Ms. Cruz said. She handed me the roster. Class, this is Mr. O’Brien. He’s your new homeroom teacher. Be good to him.

Thank you, I said. She nodded and stepped back to watch me work. With a quiet class, I took attendance and passed out the programming cards. It was not a difficult task, but by the time I reached the last name, Ms. Cruz had gone and the class was as loud as it had been at the beginning. When the bell rang, they pushed past me like robots and I said, Goodbye, have a nice day. I don’t think any of them heard me, because no one returned the greeting.

*     *     *

Homeroom was followed by period one, which is my conference period. Today all the first year teachers were asked to attend a special briefing in the Principal’s Conference room with A-Track dean Jeff Anderson. I was there on time and I was alone. Five minutes later, Anderson came in and I introduced myself.

His teeth were crooked, his left eye had a terrible cataract, and his aftershave smelled like a woman’s perfume. Otherwise, he dressed well in Brooks Brothers’ slacks and a short sleeve button-down.

Get comfortable, please. He offered me a chocolate and explained, This can be a very pleasant place to work if you treat the job right, Mr. O’Brien. You need to be realistic here. Many of these children do not come from English speaking homes. This is their only practice. Their parents have not graduated college and they come from unbelievable poverty. Oh, uh, one other thing… over ninety-percent of our student body is Hispanic-Latino, but never, and I mean never, should you assume that all Latinos are the same. We have a diverse school. I nodded my head and he nodded his. I guess you know all that already so there’s no use talking about it again. Let me just say that you should not let the students sit on top of desks. Do not let them into your space. Do not let them touch your laptop or your roll book and do not answer them unless they raise their hand. No cell phones, radios, iPods, gadgets in the building. No hoods, no hats. Those are the first essentials. Also, be patient. Classroom management is a chore. Too many teachers call security as soon as something goes wrong. Be patient. Use the phone as a last resort. Got it? He smiled his crooked smile and checked his hair.

That sounds simple enough, I said, smiling back at him. Then he looked down, and I watched him closely. His head rose slowly and his cataract eye met me again. Let me advise you of something every young teacher needs to learn… especially in an inner-city school. His face became very serious. This is the best advice you’ll ever get. Be friendly, but not familiar. He looked me in the eye and raised his index finger. Friendly, but not familiar. Don’t ever let these kids know you. Don’t get personal with them. You are the teacher, they’re the kids. Remember that at all times. He shook his head. This is the number one cause of death for young teachers. Don’t let those little bastards know you. Believe me, they’ll test you every chance they get. They’ll try something every day to see if you’ll let them get away with it. Be aware of this. Because if you lose that boundary, you lose the class. And you’ll have a fight on your hands until the end of the year.

Okay, I said. Sounds like good advice.

Are you familiar with tagging? Anderson asked.

Not really. I don’t know the different groups if that’s what you’re asking.

Anything, you see… gang, crew… anything, you report it.

Report it? I said.

Report it, Anderson said. It is a daily battle. Gang activity is harder to pick up, but if you ever see a weapon, contact the main office immediately. Don’t break up fights.

Okay, I said.

Any questions?

Yeah, where are the copiers for us to use?

Anderson squirmed. Well, we have a copy room that we all share.

Oh, great. Where is it?

Across from the main office, he said. But I’m afraid it’s closed right now. The attendants have it open in two hour shifts and they probably won’t be here until eleven.

But I needed to make some copies of my literacy interest survey.

I don’t mean to disappoint you, but you’re not understanding the situation here. We have a shortage of copiers and we share one copy room.

Well, all right, I said. All right, I guess. I’ll figure it out.

Yeah, there you go, he said. Any other questions? Anything we can do?

No, I said. Thanks a lot.

Good luck, Mr. O, Anderson said. You need anything, you let me know.

Thanks.

*     *     *

My period two, four, and six classes are freshmen English. Unlike my homeroom, that’s a mix of sophomores and juniors, they were quiet today. I expected this (or hoped for it) but my gut tells me they’re just scared quiet and that they will change. I have heard bad things about teaching freshmen. So far, all is calm. I was able to introduce myself to them and tell them how excited I was to be their teacher. They seemed indifferent, at least in their reaction, so I really couldn’t get any sort of a read off them.

My period three and period five classes are American Literature, which means I’ll have anywhere from sophomores to seniors. Being that I am a new teacher, I think they gave me the leftover kids because they look like a bunch of gangbangers. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but the first boys to enter period three were a trio who all wore matching blue Dickies and white undershirts. Their hair was greased back and they had gold chains hanging on the outside of their shirts. Then two boys came in wearing black shorts, black Nike Cortez’s, tube socks, and Randy Moss’s number 18 Raider jersey. Their heads were also shaved and they had rosaries hanging on the outside. One of them had a pair of dark black sunglasses propped over his eyes. The other one handed me a green piece of paper to sign for his probation officer. I signed it and handed it back to him and they moved right to the back of the room.

In my period five class there is a talkative foursome of boys who wore matching blue tee-shirts, but their shorts were different; there is also the usual combination of rockers in dark jeans and heavy metal tee-shirts and a couple kids in polo shirts and shorts who look totally out of place. There’s even one boy who sat in the corner, away from all the others, wearing generic blue jeans and a short sleeve plaid shirt. I heard one of the students call him a beaner when he walked by, but I didn’t know how to handle the matter so I didn’t say anything.

Aside from all the boys, there are also six girls in there, one of whom wore fishnet stockings, a plaid skirt, and a purple sleeveless shirt. Two of them wore blue jeans and Raiders shirts, two of them wore jeans and Dodgers shirts. The other girl was wearing white pants and a collared shirt. I take it she’s not affiliated with anyone, but I’m not going to make any assumptions so early in the year. You can’t judge a book by its cover, right?

The freshmen act timid and scared and the sophomores, juniors and seniors in period three and five act disinterested. Only half had book bags and I haven’t seen many notebooks or supplies. I’m holding out hope for the rest of the week. Tomorrow, I’m going to give the first assignment. I have to stop by Kinko’s early tomorrow because there’s a delay at the school copy center and I put my request in too late.

Gosh, I really wish it were easier to make copies here.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006-

My second day as a credentialed teacher was interesting, to say the least. I arrived at my room and when I reached to open the door, I discovered that someone had left mayonnaise on the handle.

I went to the faculty men’s room for paper towels only to discover that my key did not work, so I went into the boy’s room but it was locked. Then I went down to the second floor faculty men’s room only to discover that it had no paper towels, so I went into the boy’s room nearby and discovered that it didn’t have any towels either. I wasn’t surprised since all but one of the mirrors was broken (the other was cracked and covered in graffiti). They’d really gone to work on that yellow tile, too, covering every inch of it in black lettering. They even covered most of the ceiling and the stalls.

Without a paper towel to clean my door’s handle, I washed my hands and flicked the water off. I continued to the main office where I saw Officer Flores and one of the other campus police officers leading a girl away in handcuffs. She wore baggy black sweatpants with a double or triple XL Oakland Raiders jersey. Her face was painted and she’d drawn sinister eyebrows in place of the natural ones she’d shaved off. The combination of dark shadow around the eyes and strikingly purple lip gloss made her look like a satanic clown. I stepped to the side of the police officers as they led her away.

Muerto, piggy, muerto, the girl said, smiling diabolically.

Just keep talking, Officer Flores answered.

Muerto, piggy! Muerto! Muerto! She continued on as they led her down the stairs. Absorbing the scene, I waited a few moments before I went in the office and asked for paper towels.

An inauspicious start indeed.

*     *     *

The literacy interest survey I assigned asked students to pick a significant moment in their development as a reader and writer. They were to pick one event from infancy to age four; one event from ages five through eight; one event from ages nine through twelve; and one or more events from age thirteen and up. I just wanted to diagnose their reading and writing backgrounds early in the semester before I assigned more complicated work.

Here is Charles Cell Block 187 Benitez’s literacy timeline:

Age 0-4:   I was born in the game

Age 5-8:   I didn’t like school and gots in trouble

Age 9-12:   I start smoking weed and drinking

Age 13:   I do shitty in school and get in fight

Age 14:   I do my first mission for the hood

Age 15:   I get jumped into the hood

Age 16:   I get locked up and house arrest

      West side fool. Fuck paisas

Here is Maura Gonzalez’s literacy timeline:

Age 0-4:   I play outside

Age 5-8:   My mom had my brother

Age 9-12:   I don’t like books

Age 13:   I gradated the 8th grade

*     *     *

I was reviewing my syllabus, minutes away from conducting the same literacy timeline survey with my period four class, when Ruben Domingo raised his hand.

Yes?

Mr. O’Brien? He was fighting a smile and the boys next to him were laughing uncontrollably. Seeing their glee, I too started to smile. Mr. O’Brien, are you a fag? The class burst out laughing. What had been a quiet, calm room turned into a lunch-time-cafeteria scene.

That’s not funny. Would you like for me to send you to office? Maybe you can ask the Dean the exact same question.

No. Have you ever smacked another man in the shower?

Ruben, I’m not playing around. I have a lesson to teach. We’re going to investigate your reading habits.

Mr. O’Brien? Walter Aguilar said. Do you like porn? The class started to laugh again.

Are you a virgin? a girl whose name I do not yet know, asked.

Guys… what’s with you today? Knock this silly crap off.

He’s a forty-year-old virgin, Hector Salguero said.

He likes gay porn!

Look at his chin! I like it, it looks like a big butt!

He’s got a fat butt chin!

He looks like a whitebread faggot!

He’s gringo!

And he handles men in the shower! Ruben Domingo shouted. Just then, a boy on the other side of the room got out of his seat.

Young man? Excuse me, guys! Stop this! Get back in your seat! I moved for the boy across the room, calling to get his attention, but it did no good. Then others also got up and they were all talking.

Stop this! Stop talking at once! Hey! Hey! They continued talking, laughing and joking, having beaten me. I don’t know how it started or how I should have handled it. Had I been too nice? Should I have immediately sent Ruben Domingo out of the room to send the message that inappropriate questions would not be tolerated? It was such a silly question, the type of thing that should be answered with a warning prior to major action, and I was too young to overreact to something so silly.

Guys, guys, stop talking! Get back in your seats! They were so happy and full of glee, as if I were invisible. Only Evelin Marquez and Diana Durantes were seated, my syllabus sitting in front of them, a pen in both of their hands to write down any instructions I would give.

Hey! Guys! Guys! It was out of control and my head started to ache from the noise. I was embarrassed, ashamed the teachers next door or across the hall would hear what was going on in my room and think horrible things about me. I exploded.

SHUT your mouths, please! I screamed as loud as I could and stomped my foot. That is enough! Nobody talks in here unless I tell them, too. Sheepishly, the freshmen took their seats and bowed their heads. The remainder of class was quiet, but their participation in the literacy survey was gone. I collected a few timelines akin to Charles Cellblock Benitez’s and asked what their favorite books were, but no one mentioned any books. Maybe I was just mean when I yelled at them. Not even Evelin and Diana participated. I didn’t have one student who admitted to having read a book.

*     *     *

During period five today a young man wearing black Dickie’s and a gray t-shirt walked in five minutes late. I attempted to cut him off at the door to ask for a pass, since students who do not arrive on time go to a detention room for late students called Tardy Sweep. He walked right past me, the light shimmering off his bald head.

Excuse me, sir, I said. He headed for a desk in the back of the room. Some of the other students snickered at my attempt to stop him. Hey, slow down. I approached him and asked, Do you have a pass? You’re five minutes late and I’ve already finished the attendance.

He sat down at a desk and glared at me, saying nothing.

Hello? Do you have a pass?

What!? he answered in a tone that reeked of undiluted animosity.

You need a pass, sir.

Man, fuck! He smacked the desk and stood up. Fuck this bullshit! I don’t care. He kicked the desk and started out of the room. Then one of the other students put