Detentions and Fire Drills

September 30

Black Dickies and oversized black t-shirts. Smudged glasses and gelled spiky hair. Meet Luis – my 9^th grade nemesis. Luis is late to my class everyday. He refused to do work in class. He yells inappropriate things like “f---er” during instruction. Oh, Luis. Luis wants to try out for the JV soccer team next week, but might have some problems given that he has detention with me on Monday and a ‘U’ in citizenship and work habits. I was supposed to call his mother on Friday, but no one picked up.

Last week was super tiring. By Friday, I had a headache.

It is Sunday again, and I face a new week. I will not recount the bad parts (besides Luis, of course, because I feel like I needed to introduce him in my journal . . . I have a feeling he’ll appear in these pages again). I am going to list the good things. The experiences that make me feel validated as a teacher (and person – sometimes amidst the classroom insanity, I forget the humanity part).

The new best part of my day is 2:59 to 3:12 PM. Every day, the students who are tardy to first period have detention that same day for thirteen minutes in their sixth period class. This means that every day, I have at least four seniors who spend a few more minutes with me. I love it! They deep clean my white boards, which is so fortunate because I was getting a reputation as the teacher with the filthy boards. They help me move desks around and put up chairs on the day my floors get swept. The best part though is that they talk to me. I ask how their day is going, and how they like their classes. What are you doing on the weekend, Diane? Think we’ll win the football game, Marcos? And so on. I really love it. They don’t hate me because I’m not the one who assigned them the detention. They aren’t even being punished for misbehavior! They’re just too lazy to get to school on time! Clean white boards and the latest greatest 12^th grade gossip. That’s one happy teacher.

On Friday, we had our first fire drill. I never remembered these things taking a whole period. I thought they lasted fifteen minutes but apparently they take a whole 65 minute period. I would have loved it as a student. Woohoo – no fourth period notes! Now, as a teacher, I hate them. Waste a whole period to walk out to the football field when we could be learning about in-text citations?! Horrible! Anyway, I had to manage the fire drill with my infamous fourth period class. They all knew about the drill so the few minutes I had them in class were completely unproductive. Some of them even walked out before the bell rang.

“Carlos! Eslee! Where are you going?! Get in my class and sit down, the alarm hasn’t rung!”

“But, Miss! It was supposed to ring at 11:15 AM, it’s now 11:18!”

“Thank you, Carlos, I can tell the time.”

“But, Miss! I see people leaving – what if we’re the only ones left!”

“Carlos, get away from the window. No one is leaving yet. I’m not really afraid of an imaginary fire anyhow … we’ll survive.”

“I think we’re supposed to go, Miss, maybe the bell won’t ring.”

“Get in your chair now! I’ve been in a fire drill before, thank you. The alarm always rings!”

I then to proceed to lecture on the valuable time of a class period and how we must learn something today. I start handing out my handouts. I get about half way through the class when – of course – the deafening alarm rings. Chairs scrape the floor, handouts fly up (in a very Hollywood-esque teen drama fashion), and I am left yelling over the bleating alarm.

“Okay, WAIT UP! No one leaves – we’re doing this in an organized way! Walk to the North end of the football field. We’re on the 20 yard line. All together!” As my students race out the door and down the steps on to the street. Oh dear. Exiting a school in downtown Los Angeles is a lot different than the fire drills I had been to in my high school days. Getting to the football fields means walking the sidewalks of downtown, crossing major streets and holding up traffic.

I haven’t forgotten that this is supposed to be the recount of the lighter, happier moments of my week. I just need to describe the first scene so that we can all appreciate how it got so much better. Once on the field, and after I had filled out my missing person sheet and injury report sheet (“okay, where is Carlos?”), I had some great moments. Kevin – the students who always has his head down during class – came up to me and started chatting. Despite being the cool bad boy of Miguel Contreras, Kevin did not have too many friends in my class except for three girls who according to him were being too girly right now. Granted, they were doing cartwheels and giggling loudly. One of the girly girls is his on-again, off-again girlfriend. He really opened up. He told me the whole drama. He told me how he wants to go to church again. How he transitioned poorly from middle school to high school. How he wants to go to community college and then one day, Howard University. I loved every second of it. It is moments like this that feel validating. I talked to him like he was an adult, asking serious questions and expecting though-out answers. Because, in most ways, he is an adult. It’s scary/wonderful whenever I realize that of my students.

The Bad Day

September 22

Friday was my worst day yet. The first time I brought my work home. And not in the traditional sense because, let’s be honest, I bring my work home every day. Planning lessons, grading papers, making handouts. This Friday, I brought the hurt home. My fourth period class made me crazy. 28 seniors – and I felt like every one of them was against me. Even the good students who always sit quietly and do what I say made me feel horrible. While chaos erupted in my class, those good, quiet ones looked at me the whole time. I felt like they were saying… “act like a teacher, miss, what kind of control is this?” I let this one class affect my day. The rest of my classes were awesome – really incredible. The football game in the evening was also fun. For some reason, all I remember is my 4^th period class – and a girl named Beatrice.

I yelled for the first time. I took my first student into the hallway for a one-on-one “what the hell are you doing?!” conversation. I felt my voice strain for the first time – the high-pitched trembling that sounds like you’re about to cry. I always understood why you NEVER cry in a classroom, but I never understood why a teacher would ever feel that way. I know why now. It’s because you’re trying so hard, and they aren’t meeting you half way. I heard about a dozen expletives yelled in my class (granted they were never directed at me), but I didn’t know how to manage it. My voice turned ugly. “Do not use that word in my classroom, am I clear, Carlos?” I stood in front of my class and gave period 4 the teacher stare for a full 30 seconds. It felt like the longest thirty seconds I’ve ever stood in one place. By twenty seconds, every one was silent, except for Devie who said “damn, she’s angry” and Alis who said, “shiiiiiiiit” in a quiet, resigned voice. I stood there for the last ten seconds just for effect. Lie. I stood there for ten more seconds because I didn’t trust my choked voice to start talking again. I felt my cheeks burning red.

You know, it wasn’t all that bad. It feels horribly bad at the time. Every time I looked at Ross, I wanted to say “I’m sorry, I know you’re listening, and I know I’m giving a horrible lesson right now, but don’t stop listening!” Every time I looked at Cristina, I wanted to say “thank you, stick with me.” Every time I looked at Carlos, I wanted to say “are you f---ing kidding me, sit in your seat and shut up!” And I never say the f-word.

So Carlos and the rest of the rowdy 4^th period was not the reason I had the worst day yet. I can handle those kids. Sometimes they’re hilarious and productive in class, and sometimes they will be chaos. I can get over those students easily. They just make me tired and red in class. The reason I brought the hurt home was Beatrice. She’s easily one of the brightest students I have – such a great writer. She should be in AP Lit, but Ms. Drinkward, the AP teacher, said she’s too lazy. Beatrice was reading a book in my class. Can you imagine how infuriating that is? She’s reading – she likes to read! Yay! – but she’s not doing any work in class. Instead, she’s reading and talking to her friends. I tell her to put the book away repeatedly until I actually go over and take the book from her hands, shut it, and hand it back. She tells me that her mom is going to come in ‘cause she would be angry that I just did that. I sarcastically respond that, good, I would love to talk to her. I handled Beatrice all wrong. I should have challenged her with harder work, but instead, I got into a conversation with her in front of the whole class. She called me out.

“Miss, why are you telling me to work when every one else is not doing the stupid worksheet on introductions either.”

“Because I’m not talking to everyone else right now, Beatrice, I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t need this worksheet, when I write, I just write, I don’t need to fill this out. I don’t need this.”

“I know you’re a great writer, but I need you to learn how to follow directions and work productively in class.”

This went on for a little while.

We never resolved the conversation because at that point Carlos yelled something inappropriate, and we needed to go out into the hall. When Carlos and I came back in, the class was more subdued – a bit scared that I took someone out. Then again, Beatrice never picked up a pencil.

After school, I ran concessions at the football game with my fellow teachers and a lot of my 12^th grade seniors. Among them were students from my 4^th period class. We talked, joked. I even gave Carlos a high-five and let him hang around me as I grilled the hot dogs. Beatrice was always within talking distance, but we didn’t say a word to each other. I gave her a few small smiles, but something she could easily pretend she didn’t see. When she left around 9 PM from the varsity game, she walked by me.

“Goodbye, Beatrice.” I waved my hand.

She walked right by me, purposely and heartbreakingly ignoring me.

Ouch, it hurts.

The Beginning

September 16: Four days of teaching. It’s Sunday, and school has been in session for two weeks. For the first three days, I established rules and procedures, I developed classroom culture, I talked in-depth and in-length about our vision. I spent a day defining voice and what it meant to have one. I was feeling good – my students were listening! Besides rowdiness and a penchant for talking when I do, these kids were good. Then I learned what it meant to work in the biggest of big systems: The Los Angeles Unified School District.

I then miss the second week of school because of required English teacher training! The. Second. Week. Let me tell you what that means in teacher terms . . . shit happens. If you’re not there to reinforce all the rules and investment that you spent time creating, they disappear. I got a day break from training last Wednesday, and I was pleasantly surprised how controlled my students still were. I got a lot of questions about my absence though. Teachers at least wait a month before they pack their bags. On Tuesday, when I finally reenter the classroom, I dread their reaction to why I was gone again. I’m expecting at least a dozen exchanges along the lines of:

“miss, where you been? You vacationing?”
“no, Ricardo, I told you before. I had to go to some training about this new, awesome unit we’re about to start”
“awww, miss, don’t be lying – you got married?”

I am really excited about starting to teach content material now. I think I’m boring my students so far. And I fear my advisory (homeroom) class hates me. By the way, I never really had so many doubts until I became a teacher.

Ezequiel refuses to call me anything but Ms. GoSwimming. It annoys me to no end. [yes, sigh, I do appreciate the word play – I think he’ll like Shakespeare.]Imagine what I could do with his name!
Esmeralda asked on Day 2 what I do to my eyebrows. “They’re really nice, miss.”
Katherine (a really creative writer) came to school an hour early to read her short story on werewolves to me. It was really good. I asked her if she’d read Harry Potter (since everyone should read it regardless of werewolf fascinations and Book 3), but she gave me a two minute answer that mentioned witchcraft, the devil, and a pretty definite No, she does not read Harry Potter. Hmm, I wonder if moments like this are what my advisors warned against. Something about overcoming our biases. Forget racial biases and gender biases. This girl doesn’t like Harry!
Luis will not use the red-colored marker. Blue only.
Stephanie will not make a T-chart on her notebook paper without a ruler. Seriously? “Stephanie, don’t worry about straight lines, just draw two lines and let’s get on with the lesson.” “But they’re not straight!”
“Stephanie, I’m not repeating myself, let’s go.”
[Stephanie shoots me an ugly look, draws two lines very slowly, and looks at me with “now what?” eyes. During independent practice, she erased her hand-drawn lines and traced over them with a ruler.]

How to conclude the first few days? I am nervous before every single class. I have felt incompetent, unprepared, and misunderstood. But, oh, I love going to work in the morning. There’s no feeling more alive than minute one. Forty seniors pack into the classroom. You’re probably not picturing it right. They are not in their seats – they are not looking at me in the front. They are talking to their friends, with iPods in their ears, they are still eating breakfast, and they are sitting on tables, fighting over the one chair with wheels. I really love minute one. “Class, Do Now is on the board. Sarry, throw away the bagel. Salvador, headphones out. You know better. Francisco, you’re sitting up here with me today. No one sits in the rolling chair! Ladies, make-up away. Okay, good morning, class, let’s get started.”