Harry Gets a Job Offer But 3 Weeks Later it's Yanked Away--Wasting Precious Time to Find a New School

The following is Part 4 of a series of stories recounting the saga of 9-year veteran public school teacher Harry Mills after he was kicked out--along with colleagues, administrators and support staff--from an urban school serving a poor, crime-infested neighborhood. Everyone was thrown out on their asses after the Big City School District board of education last March declared the place hopelessly mired in low scores on state tests, then gave it to a private charter operator which could run the place without accountability to the public for how they spend tax money, nor restrictions mandated by laws protecting civil rights of students and parents.
It's written as fiction so the author is reasonably protected from retaliation by people with such a bad self-image that they see themselves in these characters. The story is written more to amuse the reader than to inform. If you want non-fiction about the current self-destruction of the Los Angeles Unified School District, click "Fremont Watch," in the box on the right featuring our friendly sponsors. Enjoy!


By Mark J. Blocker

Harry Mills spent the past 9 years teaching at a public middle school where he was slugged, shoved, spit upon, cursed at, had his car keyed, and gravely insulted too many times to count. But the number of students with whom he enjoyed a mutually respectful and sometimes adoring relationship outnumbered these petty indignities, so year after year he kept returning to work at Missouri Compromise Middle School. It was now June turning into July, and he would have been preparing for his September return had not the Big City School District closed the school before immediately re-opening and handing it off to a charter school company so it could skirt around the State law that requires a school district to collect a predetermined amount of signatures from parents and staff before condemning a school and offering it up to bids from outside operators.
The move was illegal as a riot, but since the local media had been whipping the public into a lather about "expensive, poorly performing" schools in the Big City School District, the switch was executed before an opposition could be organized. The impotent teachers' union had long ago bumbled its way to the sidelines, and the community's elderly congresswoman shuffled into the issue too late. It was now a fait accompli.
It's not like Harry was out on the street shoving a shopping cart, though. He was still employed by the Big City School District, he just had to find another BCSD school in which to teach. If he couldn't secure a position on his own, the BCSD would send him where there was an opening for an English teacher with his credential. If he wasn't proactive, this fall Harry could be inching along a two-hour commute.
So far, the search wasn't going too well. He first interview was for Nickerson Gardens High School in Volts--an area even worse than that served by his former school. Nickerson High is a charter, but it's run by the mayor's Premiere Schools for Tomorrow which allows teachers to keep their BCSD seniority, pay and benefits. The same could not be said for the charter operator Bright Spot which grabbed the keys to Missouri Compromise MS. A month had passed since that first job interview, so Harry figured Nickerson HS had passed on him. He wondered whether it was because of all the disparaging posts he wrote about the mayor on the Big City Times newspaper web site after it reported that his campaign was financed by billionaires eager to turn local public schools into cash cows for themselves and cronies. The Times articles didn't describe the situation so succinctly, however.
Now was the last week of June, and school was over. But this was no time for reflection about professional lessons learned during the past academic year. Harry was having a bad time hustling a new gig, suffering through a pair of hostile interviews that left him feeling like an incompetent moron. Mills was starting to worry that this job search was going to become a degrading snipe hunt. (See Part 3)


Ring! Ring! Harry gets a bite in the same dirty lake
The phone rang again. It was a Mr. Humberto "Bert"  Suarez, principal at Blockburn Middle School in Volts. Volts again. Well, Harry didn't get into this business to teach in Sugarland, so he gladly accepted the invitation and looked forward to the interview. Like Nickerson HS, Blockburn MS was also operating under the mayor's Premiere Schools for Tomorrow. Harry shrugged, nobody reads the Times or its web site anymore. Good.
On the Friday before 4th of July weekend, Harry left his suit inside the closet and put on one of his loud Hawaiian shirts, a pair of black jeans, and drove once again deep into LA's festering pustule of Volts. It wasn't like the suit did him any good. Besides, it was summer, and it was hot. Only a moron wears a wool suit this time of year.
This section of Volts was nicer than where they held the previous interview. On three sides Blockburn was fronted by large, barren asphalt parking lots buffering humungous, nameless concrete shells Harry surmised were vacant warehouses. There were no ominous housing projects and boarded up store fronts once painted garishly but now faded with poorly rendered hand-painted signs offering in misspelled English various sundries to Hispanic pedestrians. Harry even spied in the distance a chain supermarket gracing the former premises of a burned down Korean liquor store and its unfortunate neighboring businesses.

Campus an oasis for students
Blockburn's inner campus was an oasis. Walking through an open gate of a heavily fortified fence, Harry stepped into a lush quad area. Immaculate green lawn and an array of California trees, running the gamut of oaks, palms and redwoods, made Blackburn's campus a wonderful place to spend the day for Volts's 12 and 13 year olds.
Harry knocked on the locked door of the main office. No answer. Then he went looking for the library figuring everybody must be over there at some meeting. The door was locked. He went back to the front to count cars in the parking lot, but was greeted by a man who reminded him of actor Eric Estrada in his "CHPs" TV show days, but with about 30 more pounds.
"Hi, I'm Harry Mills. Do you know where I can find Mr. Suarez the principal?"
"You're looking at him!"
After a firm handshake and a few pleasantries, Suarez turned around, unlocked the closest door, and led Mills into a storage room. Boxes were stacked everywhere, but a large table and two chairs offered a place to conduct the Q&A.
"Sit down, Mills. I'll be right back."
Harry sat. Before leaving the room, Suarez hurriedly set a pair of old sneakers on the table within whiffing distance of Harry, who tentatively resumed breathing very shallowly, after scooting further down the table while Suarez was in the next room busy gathering papers.
"So," Saurez called from the other room, "Missouri Compromise, huh? We just hired another English teacher from there. . . uh, Estrada? Ospina?"
"None of those names ring a bell."
Harry heard a paper ruffle. "No, no! Here is is, Elita Bermudez!"
"Ah, yes, Ms. Bermudez! She was two doors down. Great teacher." Harry then added, "Say, she's a lot prettier than I am, though."
Suarez guffawed. "Well, we try to balance things out around here."

Harry and Suarez hit it off
We're getting along, thought Harry. This guy's a principal who doesn't treat his teachers like shit. Suarez returned to the room, grinning. He tossed a folder holding resumes on the table, sat down, then leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head sticking his elbows out to the sides. Harry assumed the same relaxed body language. Then Suarez did all the talking. Once in a while Harry nodded to show understanding and agreement. Suarez didn't seem to notice. He just continued his monologue.
Blockburn, Suarez confirmed, was under the umbrella of Premiere. He himself was so sold on the organization's vision that he left the Compton district to take this job. The school day would be divided into 7 periods, with struggling students required to use the 7th to complete assignments and homework; others could take an elective. He had found a reading intervention program worth tens of thousands of dollars stuffed into a storage room. The program proved itself effective at other schools, so he was going to implement it. As part of Premiere, the faculty is required to participate in 100 extra hours of paid training and professional development during the year. Would that be a problem?
"Hell, no," Harry replied. "I'm always looking for ways to become a better. . ."
Suarez started in again. Most students, he noted, were what you call, ELLs, or English Language Learners. Spanish is their first language, but most can't read nor write it. So they speak street versions of two languages and are essentially illiterate in both. Meanwhile, the brand of English spoken by nearby African-Americans is also non-standard. That makes them ELLs too, though they're not permitted in English Language Development classes.
"Look, Mills, I can see by your resume you already know this stuff. You've been teaching ELLs for years. You have a Cross-Cultural Language and Academic Development specialist certificate. These letters show your principal and former lit coach both recommend you.
"I have one more guy to interview, but it looks like you're my man. I'll call and let you know one way or the other by the end of today."
They shook on it and Harry practically danced back to his car. Later that afternoon, Suarez called back and told him he did indeed have the job. All of the sudden intrusive charter schools, more frequent observations and endless training didn't seem so bad. Whatever it takes to get these kids proficient, Harry told himself.
But it all came crashing down like a propped up tree house three weeks later when Suarez called back and said BCSD was negating the previous teacher's transfer and sending her back.
"Maybe you can ask if they'll let you be in our pool of subs," Suarez half-heartedly suggested.
Harry said he would but didn't. He didn't want to substitute; he wanted to improve as an English teacher, and the only way to do that is to teach English everyday. Suddenly, Harry realized what went wrong. Thanks, Suarez, for sitting on the God damned intent-to-hire paperwork! Now I've gotta make up for lost time!
Harry could've bitched, but it wasn't his style. Instead, he sent resumes out to a wider circle of schools. He still had August to find a place willing to take him.

School Ends, Clock is Ticking for Displaced Teacher to Find a New Gig Within the Big City School District

So Far, No One Wants Harry (He Doesn't Love Them, Either)

PART 3 of a fictional story written by Mark J. Blocker solely for the reader's entertainment. The following are merely characters. They don't represent real people either living or dead. Heaven forbid they remind you of someone you know, or of yourself; but if they do--that's life! If you haven't already, be sure to read the last two posts before you read this if you want the story in its entirety.

June 24. Last day of school, and last day of Missouri Compromise Middle School being staffed and administered by the Big City School District. From now on, it would still be funded by the BCSD but run by charter operator Bright Spot. Back in March the school board voted to wash its hands of the inner-city school, handing it over to an independent charter operator. This was particularly insulting to the school's incumbent administration and faculty since they had submitted a formal proposal to run the school--a proposal that was endorsed by the outgoing superintendent. Nevertheless, the majority of board members--whose campaigns were supported by the mayor who was a political rival of the superintendent--blew off the suggestion and instead implemented the mayor's mandate: Break up the behemoth BCSD and hand off the goods to major donors to his recent campaign. Surprise.
So the final day had arrived and BCSD teacher Harry Mills was officially without a school. Mills had to find another school at which to teach, or the BCSD would send him wherever it pleased. The clock was officially ticking.
The kids were cleared out, the classroom was swept, Harry's prized pencil sharpener and paperweight were safely ensconced in the trunk of his car, so Harry conducted his last order of business in the front office: surrendering his classroom key. Mr. Frost took it and checked off a box next to Mills's name.
Sticking his right hand out, Harry said, "Perhaps our paths will cross again Mr. Frost."
Frost glanced upward and to the left, cocking a brow at the thought. He silently grabbed Harry's hand and the grip was surprisingly firm. In fact, to Harry the handshaking ceremony was completely free of any awkward pause.
Then Harry moved on to the principal, who was standing at the end of the counter. "Perhaps I'll have the pleasure to work with you again, Ms. Moon. It certainly was too brief. Good luck, now."
She nodded and dabbed her eye with a tissue. "Thank you, Mr. Mills," she sniffed.
Again, Harry was surprised. All through her tenure, Ms. Moon seemed to value efficiency over emotion.
Exiting the office, Harry silently patted the shoulders of each teacher waiting in line for Frost.
Starting his car, Harry was surprised at how little sadness he felt leaving Missouri Compromise after teaching there 9 years. It was the only school where he had ever picked up a stick of chalk and tried to sell a kid on the importance of looking good on paper.
Speaking of looking good on paper, Harry sent out resumes to virtually every school in the southern area served by BCSD. He already had two bites: South Pole Middle School a few miles to the south, and Fresh Gas Middle School, in the town of Worthington--named for a famous car dealer whose business supplied so much sales tax revenue for the city the council renamed the town in his honor. Then they did whatever the fuck he wanted for 20 years until he got caught for Federal Tax Evasion and rewinding odometers. But it's still called Worthington. It's also where Southern California refines its crude oil into gasoline.
Cold wind at South Pole
The nice lady in a sweatshirt running the front desk at South Pole MS directed Harry in his cheap suit to a classroom where the staff was conducting some sort of professional development. It was the first day of summer vacation, so Harry thought it odd that they would be conducting a PD in June and not in September as a warm up for the new school year. Must be something to do with the budget and the fiscal year, he mused.
"No," answered a bubbly woman who looked like a professional soccer mom in her 30s, corn fed and with a toothy grin. "It's just, I believe, we all have separation anxiety." She seemed very warm and friendly. The kids must love her, Harry thought, I hope I get the room next to her.
Harry looked around the room and noticed something was weird. The teachers were all sitting at miniature tables. It was all classroom furniture for grade schoolers. The teachers' knees were up near their chests and many of their asses spilled off the chairs. If they dropped a pencil, they could pick it up without bending down.
They were apparently doing an exercise on teaching juvenile literature. They had big sheets of butcher paper spread out before them, and in groups they were cutting out pictures from magazines to make a collage depicting a scene from the book. Harry thought such endeavors were useless bullshit, but authorities maintained that it helped students with writing difficulties demonstrate that they had successfully visualized and interpreted the story. While everybody busied themselves with the task at hand, unwelcome memories of childhood revisited Harry. He was alone, left out and not immediately fitting in. Good Lord, Harry thought, you're 53 and the new kid in town all over again.
A few minutes later the PD was over, and they led Mills upstairs to the library. Harry thought it odd the library was up on the second floor. He certainly didn't envy the poor saps who lugged all the books up there.
Games begin
"So, uh," began a very stocky woman who apparently liked to shave her head, "Mr. Mills is it?" She double checked his resume, "tell us a little about yourself." Harry did, and the four adults sitting on the other side of the massive library table kept their eyes on their copies of Harry's rez, his cover letter, and three letters of recommendation. Were they checking to see that his stories matched?
The four silently stared at the bald lady. She began talking again, "Says here, on this letter from a . . . a Mr. Biting, that you, and I quote, 'bring new ideas to the table'." After a pregnant pause she continued, "Could you please tell us what some of these, uh, 'new ideas' are?"
Whether wittingly or by accident, the woman caught Harry off guard. He really had no idea to what Biting was referring. Harry considered all of his own ideas used. They were based on previous experiences and tried-and-true suggestions from past mentors. He frantically tried to reload memories of meetings with Biting, his former literacy coach, to come up with something good.
He shrugged, "Err, maybe . . . I guess he's talking about ideas I may have had during collaborations, how to . . . approach implementing lessons after looking at test data, things like that."
The woman frowned. She reminded Harry of actor James Earl Jones with too much estrogen. Man, what an ass kicking principal, he thought. If a kid ever got called into her office, she'd . . .
But she wasn't the principal. That was the Caribbean dude wearing the Belize soccer jersey who silently sat observing the unfolding tragedy. He escorted Harry out of the building where they had a nice conversation about how South Pole Middle School really is a nice place in which to work.
The principal told Harry the campus is divided into two sections: one for 7th and 8th graders; the other for 6th graders. The sections are separated by a narrow street, but joined by a pedestrian bridge that allows students to safely cross from one campus to the other when needed.
"During the last week of school," the principal proudly recounted with his refreshing Caribbean patois, "we have a ceremony where the 6th graders cross that bridge and they are escorted by the 7th graders around the campus to meet next year's teachers and visit the classrooms. They have lunch together and play sports and other activities all afternoon. It gives them the opportunity to formally meet  their peers for the following year."
"What a great idea!" Harry enthused. He told the principal he certainly would look forward to joining South Pole's staff. They shook hands, the principal patted Harry on the back, and that was the last Harry had ever heard from Antarctica Middle School. Or whatever it was called.
Hey! Come on down to Fresh Gas Middle School in Worthington just off the 610 Freeway take the Avalon exit go right . . .
Things didn't go much better later that week at Fresh Gas MS down in Worthington. The principal reminded Mills of his estranged brother's second wife: a size 2 shrew with flaming red hair and long, sharp finger nails. Those were also red. Mills's brother's wife hated Harry and forbade them to have any contact after Harry once said something nice about his brother's first wife. The way the principal eyed Harry, his gray beard, pony tail, ill fitting suit and black sneakers contrasting against his brown belt, she looked like she was going to declare a similar mandate, too.
Instead, she led him into a conference room where two other teachers were waiting. He remembered the woman from a week-long professional development they had together the previous summer. He waited for some acknowledgement of their previous encounter, but she offered none, so he let it rest. The other teacher was some young guy who looked more like Opie Taylor than Ron Howard. He even had freckles, tousled red hair and squinted while reading Harry's paperwork. Mills noticed something while gazing at the others seated around the circular table: they all had red hair.
Ding! Round Two
"So," the principal began, "tell us about your test scores."
"They're fine. I passed the SSAT and the CBEST on my first try. I have a CLAD, and my credential is good for another two years."
"No, no, no! I mean your students," she sneered.
"Oh, them! Heh, heh," Harry chuckled. "Did anyone tell you why I'm looking for a job? They closed down my old school, heh heh." Harry noticed he was a little too jovial compared to the others.
The red brigade just stared back at him. Then they smirked and dropped their eyes back upon photocopies of his papers. Before they asked a follow-up question, Harry threw up his hands.
"I'm not a magician. I don't have a magic wand. My students tended to score what is average for the district and what was average for Missouri Compromise." Then, like a fool, he continued. "These standardized tests are just one measurement of a student's capabilities. They don't measure his or her ability to come up with an original thought and defend it. They only measure how well he or she agrees with whoever wrote the test. And most of the students we teach in this district come from a different culture than the individual who wrote the test. There's a chasm, a disconnect that's affecting the results, so you can't use them as the sole measurement of achievement. Hell, I even have trouble with some of these tests for the textbooks, and I'm pretty confident I could argue that my answers aren't any more or less correct than those on the so-called answer key! Our kids don't have the opportunity to explain or defend their answers.
"Half the time I just write my own tests covering what the class and I agree upon as the important elements of an author's argument. Of course, it's not really a democratic consensus. Sometimes I have to issue a teacher's declaration."
There was silence. Harry punctuated the end of his monologue with another regrettable chuckle. No one else joined in. No one else smiled. They didn't even shake his hand when the interview was called to a conclusion, and Harry was told by his angry sister-in-law's doppleganger that it was time to go.

Job Interview Over, Urged to "Have a Nice Day," Harry Does the Best He Can Walking to His Car

Part 2: Veteran Teacher Harry Mills Exits His First Job Interview at a Recently Reconstituted High School in Watts After Being Fired From His Previous Post at Another Reconstituted Low Performing Middle School in Nearby Athens

The following is a work of fiction so the author, a Los Angeles public school teacher, can't piss anybody off who could make his professional life miserable. If you haven't already done so, read Part 1 posted July 14. This story is the follow-up. It is written by Mark J. Blocker solely for your entertainment.

Now done with interviewing for the position at newly reconstituted Nickerson Gardens High School in Watts, English teacher Harry Mills walked along 103rd Street hoping he wouldn't get the job after all. Watts had to be the worst pustule festering on L.A.'s wide open face. Gang members getting fucked up in public in the middle of a Wednesday; spray painted profane gang slogans and busted windows on houses unbelievably occupied by breathing, thinking people; washed-up bums sleeping or dying in the middle of the street; and God only knows what else.
Why didn't Mayor Sotomayor's charter school venture, Premiere Schools for Tomorrow, hold the interviews at Nickerson High itself? It couldn't be any worse than the neighborhood surrounding Track Star Elementary.
Across the street a little Latino grocery was the last business still occupying a stretch of four store fronts. They wouldn't even let customers inside. You had to wait at a fortified screen door, tell the clerk what you wanted, give him the money or some food stamps, then he'd go back to get your items--candy, chips, sodas, cigarettes, baby food--whatever as long as it wasn't fresh or natural.
Three blacks in their 20s dressed head to toe in purple stood by a public phone sharing one of those generic cigarettes that mom-and-pop stores weren't supposed to sell as singles. Harry tried to imagine how that busted-up phone could possibly remain operable and who would want to hold the receiver by their mouth and ear. The three purple loiterers appeared more tentative and nervous than menacing. Harry then spotted an LAPD squad car parked amongst several abandoned heaps in an adjacent dirt lot. A pair of buzzed-cut cops behind the windshield surveyed the scene. A teenage hispanic girl wearing a turquoise blouse with "BITCH" written in sequins across her inadequately supported breasts pushed a baby stroller while two toddlers--a boy and a girl--followed behind dangerously close to the curb. Both children craned their necks looking toward Track Star's playground on the other side of the street.
103rd Street is a two lane thoroughfare with a steady stream of cars going about 25 to 30 miles per hour. Various faded, 20-year-old cars sporting an array of dents and scratches were parked along the curb with two- to four-foot gaps in between. The little girl, wearing a floral jumper and her hair pulled up to a stem sticking straight out of the top her head, paused, and from her low vantage point between two parked cars, surveyed the inviting school and its playground. All the older children were playing kickball, soccer, tetherball and foursquare.
Oblivious to the child's redirected movement, the mother . . . aunt . . .  or baby sitter . . . continued pushing her stroller while the little boy turned back toward the girl.
Lifting the hatch to his Prius, Mills watched the little girl and now the little boy. The little girl turned around, bent over, placed her hands on the curb to steady herself, then stepped backwards into the gutter. Harry tossed his briefcase into the car and immediately stepped into the street to stop traffic. Front ends dipped, but no tires screeched. One of the Grape Street Crips by the phone loped past four parked cars to retrieve the girl. He held her hand and walked her along the sidewalk back to the woman, bringing along the little boy with his other hand.
Harry exhaled, dropped his arms and returned to his car. Fishing the keys from his pocket, he turned around to see the young lady bowing profusely and placing her hands together as if praying to the young man. Then she bent down and began slapping the girl who wailed over the sound of tired engines and cracked tail pipes. The Crip shrugged and stepped back toward his group. One of his partners took a long drag and held in the tobacco smoke while the other grinned shaking his head.

Harry turned and surveyed the playground on the other side of the tall, fortified fence. It had the same bars as wrought iron but none of the decor, just vertical bars with two horizontal reinforcements running across at the top and bottom. On the other side, hundreds of 4th and 5th-grade students squealed as they kicked, chased and caught balls that soared and bounced in every direction under a sonic rain of laughter and screams. The school uniforms were navy blue pants or skirts with white tennis shirts. Some children eschewed the formal games and busied themselves simply chasing each other or conversing on benches. A few teachers or aides milled about, usually with a gaggle of students following closely, vying for adult attention. That sun-baked asphalt with its painted white lines, and the adjacent patch of lush green grass hosted several parties every school day at recess and after the last bell. Harry gazed at the pretty lady teachers and the athletic young men supervising the playground. He noticed an older, graying guy with longish hair and a beard wearing shades and a Hawaiian shirt, leaning against the trunk of a purple jacaranda. The learned fool was gesturing wildly and entertaining about a dozen boys and girls. Suddenly a wave of jealousy washed over Harry. Watts isn't such a bad place after all, he thought.
When he pulled away, the Crips, the cops, the mother and the toddlers were all gone. In their place, an almost naked, emaciated whore the color of dusty obsidian hiked up her thong so the fabric disappeared into her repulsive crotch. An unremarkable tit slipped out of her bikini top and swung a little as she waved at Harry to come on over. A drunk was pissing inside the phone booth. He pointed his front toward the street and the urine streamed as if pouring out a cherub into a fountain--but it splattered all over the sidewalk dangerously close to the prostitute's red high heels. The children and the teachers continued their isolated reverie. Harry checked his lane, merged, and got the hell out of there.

Board Selling Off "Low-Performing" Schools to Charter Operators Who Pay Rookies Peanuts

Displaced Veteran Teachers Hunting for Schools Willing to Take on Larger Salaries

Second installment of the adventures of Los Angeles public school teacher Harry Mills

The following is a work of fiction written by Mark J. Blocker.  Its sole purpose is to entertain the reader. Any similarities to real persons either living or dead is coincidental. It's a strict coincidence,  too.  We have rules around here.

"You're fired . . . kind of"
Last March the school board decided to "reconstitute" Missouri Compromise Middle School. They tossed everyone from the principal to the crossing guard because academically the place stunk. The kids, virtually all of them living below the poverty line and north of the 105 Freeway in South Central, flunked the State tests. At least the majority did every year Harry Mills was teaching 8th grade English.  How this was the janitor's fault, Harry didn't know--but he did know the next custodian cleaning the place wouldn't have medical benefits nor a retirement plan while working for Bright Spot charter schools.
So when school ended June 24 everyone was out on their cans--even the students, though Bright Spot won't admit that. While the teachers, principals and support staff were all simultaneously kicked out; the kids will be expelled one by one should they look at an administrator cross eyed or light up a blunt in the back of the class. Students have carte blanche, however, to physically and verbally abuse teachers dumb or desperate enough to work for minimum wage at a charter school. If their employers don't have any respect for them, why should the students?

Find another school
So here's the deal: All displaced staff are still employed by the the Big City School District, but they must secure a position at another school, or they will be placed at a site where there is a vacancy. The  BCSD serves every economic strata from Brentwood's coastal canyon estates to South Central's flop-house tenements in Watts.  "Good" schools fill up immediately. You don't want to wind up at a school that can't find teachers. That's actually just one of many issues upon which administrators and faculty agree. The school district also serves middle-class San Fernando Valley on the other side of the Hollywood Hills. The Valley was out of the question for Harry, though. To arrive at a school before 7 a.m. he'd need to fly from Long Beach to Burbank. It's a big district selling itself off piecemeal school-by-school to the highest bidder.

Willing to work in Watts
Harry's first interview was at Nickerson Gardens High School in Watts. NGHS was also reconstituted, but reformed as a charter that still allowed BCSD teachers to maintain their seniority and benefits. So Harry applied. The interviews were held at Track Star Elementary near 103rd & Wilmington. Mills didn't want to make a U-turn so instead he made three rights and a left on side streets. That was a mistake. Local gang members freely defaced exterior walls of dilapidated bungalows that seemed to lean one way or another.  Groups of sneering young men, each holding a 40-oz or blunt instead of a tool, loitered around junk cars in various states of disrepair. Harry, after giving a double take to a pile of rags thrown in the middle of the street, realized a wino was literally sleeping amongst the potholes. As he steered around the lifeless figure, Harry hoped the man was merely sleeping.
Harry shook his head and paid attention to the radio. KFI. That was another mistake. A pair of right-wing demagogues were complaining that unionized city teachers were "hogs at a trough" and should be "forced to take a 25% pay cut." The 6 furlough days already accepted by the union? Not really a pay cut, the pair maintained, since the teachers were working less hours. Soon the hosts' anger--real or fake--became palpable as they pounded their fists and screamed vindictive insults at local educators through the publicly owned airwaves. Virtually throbbing through the car speakers, the highly rated hate-mongers took a call from a teacher dumb enough to argue with them on their own turf. They cut her off and launched into another scripted, vitriolic dialogue with each other about evil public schools and collective bargaining. That segued into commercials hawking divorce lawyers, rat exterminators and cosmetic dentists.
The school locked its parking lot. Mills had to find a space on the street. He walked along the sidewalk while noting the 12-foot tall, steel-barred fence securing the school. A Crip in a do-rag, low-slung trousers, immaculate high top basketball shoes, and a Manny Ramirez jersey sized him up. Harry gripped his brief case tighter.
"Hello, sir, may I help you?" inquired the courteous gang banger.
"Yes sir," Harry replied, ashamed he had stereotyped the young Black man who graciously escorted him through the doors.  Harry signed in, applied a yellow "visitor" sticker on his snug suit coat, then proceeded.
The room doubled as a waiting room and office. Pristine books about various bullshit pedagogical theories no one believed in anymore lined the shelves. Motivational posters covered the walls. One showed a seagull soaring above a seascape at dawn. "Each day is a fresh beginning!" Pretty tableau, Harry thought. What a shame some kid wrote "48er Crip" by the tide's edge. A table offered nutritious snacks and room temperature bottles of water. Christmas music piped in through the speakers. It was mid-June.
Harry carefully sat down on a chair with casters and waited.
A perky, attractive brunette in her 30s entered and apologized for running late. "Are you in a hurry, do you have somewhere else to go?" she enthused more than queried.
Harry admitted he didn't have anywhere else to go. The lady assured him she would be back "in about 10 minutes" and encouraged him to help himself to a delicious snack in the mean time.
Another woman who looked like she had been seated in that room for 40 years was typing something in a computer. Her workstation was situated by the windows, but the windows had been painted over. She wore Coke-bottle-thick Malcolm X glasses and had graying hair pulled tightly back into a bun. Harry didn't know for sure, but he could've sworn she was eyeballing him.
"You know, I could've sworn a few minutes ago I heard "Silver Bells" over the intercom," Harry announced, trying to make small talk.
"Sir?"
"I said, I think Christmas carols were playing over the loudspeakers and it's almost summer, heh heh."
She cocked an eyebrow, frowned then returned to entering her data.
Harry, 53, and 10 years into teaching, thought about the road that brought him to Watts. He reminded himself, you didn't get into this business to teach The Brady Bunch. Mills wanted to teach poor kids living in the mean city because he went to school with them as a kid in Pasadena's integrated schools. Although he got in fist fights and name-calling contests regularly, Harry found kids from the other side of town interesting. Many adversaries and spectators became ironically friendly after the fights. Mills admired their fortitude growing up in a hostile, sometimes overtly racist town where nothing on the other side of Lake Avenue ever came up roses.

Harry the Humboldt liquor clerk
Harry thought about the jobs that led him here. His favorite: working as a night clerk in a liquor store up in Humboldt County. It was just him standing between a bunch of conniving hippies and $10,000 worth of liquor and food. What a game! At 24, 6'3" and 250 pounds, Harry knew why the red-haired and red-nosed proprietor Dan McCorkle hired him.
"Don't take any shit from those bastards or they'll steal you blind," McCorkle advised after about a week. "If you have to kick their ass, I'll back you up in court."
Luckily, fate never tested that promise. Reason one--Harry didn't believe McCorkle. Also, you never know who is a karate champion. Nonetheless Harry became quite adept at catching shoplifters. Most were his friends. So he learned long before entering a classroom that the world is full of desperate characters wanting something for nothing.

Sales skills come in handy for a teacher
Then, during his 30s, there was a stint editing, Pre-Fab World, a magazine for moguls who manufactured mobile homes. Harry traveled the nation writing stories about how trailers without wheels were going to be our homes of the future. He profiled the men leading the way. Harry's boss, a septuagenarian named Lonnie Cason, had a glass eye. It seemed to look right past Harry. Cason had a knack for telling people to fuck off while making it sound like a compliment. Cockeyed Cason was a great salesman, and Harry's family lived off that skill. The job lasted a quick 7 years. Each one earning Harry a 5% raise. Finally, Harry's price was too high for Cason. He called up Harry one Sunday morning and over the phone told him to fuck off. Cason would mail Harry's final check. It didn't feel like a compliment. The check and two weeks severance did eventually arrive. Two weeks severance pay after seven years. Harry was grateful he now had a union job.
He never forgot the main lesson he learned from Cason: Salesmanship. Earn people's trust by emulating them so they will like you. Avoid confrontation. Always use the pronoun, "we"; never, "you." This builds teamwork and cooperation. Harry rarely had trouble with parents, even when they came in angry. Over the years, he noticed even the most street-smart, resistant students responded positively to kindness and cajoling.

Harry the hard ass newspaperman
After Cason fired him, Harry got a job with the last remaining local newspaper. A few years back some big media conglomerate bought the Gold Coast Telegram, the biggest local daily serving the biggest local town an hour up the coast. It immediately expanded into adjacent towns by offering local businesses cheap ads, thus lowballing competing newspapers. After three years, the Telegram was the last daily newspaper in the county.  So the conglomerate's board of directors authorized the purchase of a city-block-long printing press which allowed a separate section for each town, while sharing sports, entertainment and classifieds. The conglomerate voted to move operations to what once was a strawberry field in the center of the county.
Harry's job was to make sure every ad ran in the correct edition. He also had to supervise three chicks hooked on speed. When Harry arrived, very few ads were running in the correct edition and the girls took turns calling in sick. Harry implemented procedures that corrected the flaws. Since these measures relied on deadlines and accountability, soon everyone but the publisher hated Harry's guts.

2001: Big City School District can't find enough teachers
At that time, a teacher shortage rendered the the BCSD desperate. It offered free credential classes and you could work at full pay the same time. Harry figured, if everyone was going to hate his guts, he might as well get summers off. The move also came with a 30% pay raise.

2011: too many teachers
Ten years later Harry sat twiddling his thumbs waiting for another interview. He knew for certain that working for the BCSD was the best job he ever had. Harry hoped his English instruction had benefited the students as much as their unbridled energy has infused his life with meaning.
"Mr. Mills? We can see you now."
Harry got up and followed the perky brunette down the hall, listening to her heels tap upon the freshly waxed linoleum floor. Harry's black sneakers made no sound at all, as he checked to make sure his dress shirt was still tucked in, his suit pants hadn't rolled over at his waist, and his fly was zipped.
There were three women in the room. All very ironed, bejeweled and studious. The questions, though, were all abstract bullshit and so were his forgettable answers. The key to this teaching business is how well a man or woman commands a room and builds a personal relationship with the students. They need to buy into the information--believe it is important, or "cool" to know. Regurgitation of theorem, pedagogical or otherwise, was never Harry's interest nor strength.  After leaving, he was startled about how little he could recall of the conversation.
Harry did remember how the principal, a voluptuous looking African-American woman dressed in colorful African attire and Rodeo Drive cosmetics, warmly cupped his hand inside both of hers and seemed to sincerely thank him for applying for the job.

Then, he never heard from her again.



Part 2: "Another Interview" to be posted in approximately 1 week