Abio 28: Trial by fire
Abio 28: Trial by fire
The final assignment in my teaching credentialing program at Hayward State was to do a stint of student teaching solo in a real classroom. I was assigned to teach English at Willard Junior High in South Berkeley.
I learned something new right away. I learned that my credential training taught me all sorts of educational theories, methodologies, and evaluation techniques, but there was one thing that college did not teach me, didn’t even mention; they never taught me crowd control.
How am I going to transfer the joy of reading and the ideas of great thinkers if the students don’t pay attention, don’t want to pay attention, have no interest in anything I say. They just wanted to mess around, talk, yawn, and see what they could get away with. I won’t say all the students, but a lot. I earned their ire. I also earned the ire even of the good students. One girl, perhaps the smartest kid at the school, began to resent me because I was unable to get the class to behave long enough for her to learn anything.
I went to the principal with my concerns, Mr. Tedesco, and he was sympathetic. He arranged for me to sit in the back of a well-run history class where the students remained quiet at least and let those who wanted to learn, learn.
The campus discipline policy was simple and straight forward. If a student misbehaved once, that student got a 15-minute detention after school. If the student misbehaved again, the detention became 45 minutes. Teachers would write down the names of the troublemakers for each of six periods. At the end of the day, 20 minutes before the release bell, student TAs would visit each room and collect teacher detention lists. Just before the parting bell, the intercom would come on with an announcement. “Will the following students come to the gym after school.” Then they’d read off the delinquent names.
The history teacher I observed had discipline down to an art. He was teaching the Louisiana Purchase and he never missed a beat. If a student spoke out of turn, or any other infraction, he would point to the student and say, mid-sentence, “Fifteen,” and go on teaching. If the same student misbehaved again, he’d point and say “forty-five.” His student TA would write down the names. That is all he ever said to his class clowns. No explanations or questions, just “fifteen” and “forty-five.”
After class I spoke to him. I told him I liked his smooth approach and complimented him on staying on task with his attentive students.
He gave me this piece of advice. “Don’t give the disrupters any air time. I’m here to teach history, not manners or behavior therapy. Let the administrators and campus security do that.” I took his advice to heart and tried it the very next day. It was a real challenge.
One boy, Ted, a nice enough kid, but with little interest in behaving, came up to my desk. On top of my desk was a class set of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I would pass them out at the start of class and collect them at the end. Ted asked me if he could have another copy of my handout sheet. I turned to my file cabinet, grabbed a sheet, and turned back. Ted was walking away from me and about 20 of my Steinbeck books were missing. “Ted!” I yelled. He turned around. He had all 20 stuffed underneath his shirt, obviously bulging rectangles. I couldn’t help myself. I started laughing. “Put those back.” He did. “Here’s your handout. Go sit down.”
One day, an adult stranger came to my open door, not a school official. He pointed to one of my freshman girls to come to the door. He was wearing a lot of gold around his neck and fingers. He yelled at her in the hallway, something about, “Where’s my money?” Then he was gone and the girl returned to her seat. I don’t think the stranger was her dad.
Then there was Carlos. He seemed to hate all things school related, with passion, and refused to be reined in. He was walking to his desk that day when a girl dropped her pencil on the floor. She left her seat and bent down to pick it up. Carlos grabbed her by the hair and rubbed her face where his legs joined his torso. Ahem. That was too much. “Carlos, fifteen!” I said. He gave me lip. “Forty-five,” I said.
Carlos ran across the room and jumped out the window. Poof! He was gone. I called campus security. A uniformed guard came to my door. I told him what happened. He nodded knowingly. “We know Carlos. We’ll find him.” And they did. I got a call. Carlos was in the office and would be serving his 45 after school. “Fine. Thank you,” I said and continued with our lesson.
I stayed after school to grade papers for nearly an hour. Then I packed up, hopped on my motorcycle, and drove down toward Telegraph Avenue. Carlos was standing on the corner. When he saw me coming, he stepped out into the street with great swagger and put his hands up to stop me. I stopped directly in front of him. Without a word, he handed me a note and walked away. When I got to my apartment, I read the note.
“Gibbs, you have really done it now. You just gave the wrong guy detention. Watch yourself. Your going to wake up dead real soon.” Signed Carlos.
What to do, I wondered. At first, I thought tomorrow I’ll just hand the note over to the principal and let administrators deal with him. Then I thought about the consequences. Carlos would likely be expelled from school and maybe even arrested. He’s just a freshman. I decided to deal with it myself.
The next day, Carlos came to class as if nothing had happened. He sat at his desk fuming, arms folded, giving me the hairy eyeball. I took his note from my shirt pocket and set it on my desk. The starting bell had not rung yet. “Carlos,” I said. “Come up here. I want to talk to you about this note.” He swaggered to my desk unabashed. I turned the note in his direction and put my finger on a word. “You see this word? You wrote, “Your going to wake up dead real soon.” That is the wrong form of you’re. I circled it. Take this note home and rewrite if you want credit, and don’t jump out the window anymore, or I’ll worry about you, and I’ll have to call security and tell them the whole story. We don’t want that.”
He smiled just a bit and shook his head in disbelief, as if no one had ever given him a break before. He took the note, which was the only evidence I had of his death threat. He shoved it in his pocket and returned to his seat. We made brief eye contact and we both were wearing the subtlest of grins. His behavior improved, he at least opened his book while we read, and he did not jump out the window anymore.
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