Diary of a Rookie Teacher Part 4

Stubborn Teacher Lines Up Against Willful Student, Failure Wins

This post is the fourth installment of a series that examines journal entries recorded by the author of Blocker's Blog, Mark Blocker, during his first year teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District at now-defunct Henry Clay Middle School. These entries were written 12 years ago in 2001 and appear below with no editing or revisions. They are accompanied by his commentary written now after more than a decade planning and writing lessons, interacting with students from the mean streets of LA and the rural farms and ranches of California's central coast--and observing teachers and administrators with varying degrees of social and educational skills.

SEPTEMBER 20, 2001

Andrew Baxter (not his real name) is in my fifth period class--right after lunch. He is rather unkempt at that time from playing football: grass stains on his clothes, dead grass shards in his Afro. He arrives late. When he didn't have his materials I called his mother who told me he got jumped the previous afternoon.
He complains constantly and never does his work. I've sent him off twice to the counselor. (He likes that--it gets him out of the room and back outside for a while.) Today, I took the class to the school library where they were giving away discarded books for free. He stuffed many in his backpack. He pretended he was stealing some in front of me by concealing them under his shirt with great aplomb. (Other students giggled at his daring stealth, I smiled at rolled my eyes. Andrew enjoyed the attention.)
I watched him while he thought I wasn't looking. (Not because I wanted to prevent him from stealing. Hell, the books were free. I may have been a rookie, but I wasn't that bad of a jerk.) He was moving down the table looking at books. His face was that of wonder. It was relaxed. He was smiling and his eyes were bright, receptive. I hope life gives him opportunities to feel like this more often. He wasn't acting. He wasn't hard. He was Andrew Baxter the kid, and life wasn't so bad after all.

LOOKING BACK:
I remember Andrew. He was defiant and non-productive all year, largely due to my lack of professionalism. I was the adult, the professional, so it was up to me to reach out to this defiant kid growing up in the mean streets of South Central LA. I, the king of nonsense to my friends and family, was trying to develop a reputation as a no-nonsense teacher; meanwhile, Andrew was trying to develop a bad-ass reputation that might enable him to walk down the block without getting beat up or shot.
During the year's first open house in October, a distressed, 30-something woman hurried into the room pleading, "I'm sorry...I am so sorry...I'm sorry..." Huh? I puzzled until I saw who was trailing her--a tearful Andrew who glared at me through narrowed eyes, his lower lip trembling. Obviously Andrew wasn't just blowing it in my class. This auspicious annual event where parents and teachers meet for the first time was no pleasant occasion for mother and son.
Andrew collapsed at a desk and buried his face while I proudly apprised mother of her young man's offenses: willful defiance, constantly wandering the room, talking over my instructions, foul language, sexual comments to girls, to name just a few. It felt good back then, but it should've felt like shit. Then, with great aplomb, I showed her the staccato tardy marks that followed her son's name in my attendance book, and the blank squares or zeroes in my grade book that led to an FUU in the final columns. Revenge, I thought. An experienced teacher learns it's a dish that leaves a bad taste and seldom satisfies.
"I'm so sorry," Andrew's mother whispered. She wiped a tear with a balled up tissue. Her voice grew agitated, "How can you explain this Andrew?"
"He's lying mama!"
"All your other teacher's are lying too?" Her response was met with silence and sporadic sniffing.
Andrew was busted. I wonder if he was banking on his mother not coming to open house, or if he lacked the foresight to see this inevitable outcome. I considered my own stupidity at that age, and mused about what must have been going through his mind as they drove to open house, wide-eyed and silent, Andrew searching the windshield in a frantic, fruitless search for alibis. Maybe he thought the teachers wouldn't remember the frustration he caused every day--after all they have more than 125 students. How did the pit of his stomach surge when he realized the bills for bad behavior would be payable tonight?
Exacerbating the problem was this: I was an asshole, too. Andrew was only 12, but I was a 43-year-old teacher albeit a rookie. I failed to reach out to Andrew as a man, and instead engaged in a standoff to see who would win this contest of will. This was my class. I was boss. He was the dumb kid. It was up to Andrew to knuckle under to my authority, I thought at the time. Well, he never did. My stubbornness wasted one living student's 8th-grade academic year.
I saw Alexander's potential that day in the library when he was enjoying himself browsing tables of books without having to put up a hard-ass act to impress fellow students. Sure, he joked about pilfering free books, but that was just an attempt at being funny. He hated the machinations of my classroom because he was In the last year of middle school and busy preparing to enter high school. Andrew was more interested in developing his "street cred" to survive the older, tougher kids at Washington Preparatory High School than he was in developing any scholarly prowess to ensure academic success. He just wanted to survive first; passing classes could come later. Many young people coming of age in the 'hood make that choice. Experienced teachers figure out ways to build channels to interact with difficult but bright students. Head-strong authority figures in urban classrooms are trees that bear rotten fruit.
Teachers working in schools serving tough areas need to be cognizant that they are competing with the streets: the surrounding underground economy and the organizations formed to run that system, and those organizations' consistent recruiting efforts to replace personnel temporarily imprisoned and off the streets or murdered.
I probably could have won a little cooperation from Andrew by pulling my ass away from the table at the staff cafeteria/lounge and venturing out to the PE field to watch him play football. He obviously enjoyed football and worked hard at it as evidence by the grass stains on his clothes and shards in his hair. I could have hollered a few whoops and clapped a little at his endeavors. Kids like to perform for their teachers outside of the stuffy classroom. They remember teachers who go out of their way to watch them do things they enjoy and do well. I could have eliminated those tardies by hanging around while Andrew and the other kids gathered themselves after the bell rang signaling it was time to head to class.
As a kid his age I collected football cards. I still do today. They don't cost a lot. I could have slipped him a Topps 2001 pack of 15 cards for a little more than a buck--a bargain when buying a student's allegiance. I suppose I could have presented him with a duplicate card from my extensive 1968 collection. Of course, that would only happen once I could ensure he was responsible and could sustain long-term cooperation. These simple, affordable gestures would have gone a long way toward letting Andrew know that the big, loud, graying white guy who yelled a lot wasn't such a prick after all.
So, unfortunately, the year ended with no change in Andrew's behavior. Did it mean a death sentence for his chances of graduating four years later? Not necessarily. Contrary to what you read in the newspapers, a lot of kids can have bad years and still pick up at grade level the next year. It depends on their ability to read and encode the words into information they can regurgitate on tests or preferably compare to their own experiences and remember as a truth. Success in school outside of math also depends on a student's ability to develop logical thoughts and describe them in coherent, academic paragraphs. Odds are, Andrew was a proficient reader or else he would not have been so interested in the free books he scooped up that day.
As I recall he selected biographies on professional athletes. It's interesting to note that he ignored the old, over-taught-in-the-ghetto novel, Sounder, set in the Great Depression when a young black boy wanders Alabama searching for his imprisoned father--and learns that a nice English teacher is his best friend. He probably scanned the teaser on the cover and figured it was all bullshit.

Diary of a Rookie Teacher Part 3

This post is the third installment of a new series that examines journal entries recorded by the author of Blocker's Blog, Mark Blocker, during his first year teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District at now-defunct Henry Clay Middle School. These entries were written 12 years ago in 2001 and appear below with no editing or revisions. They are accompanied by his commentary written now after more than a decade planning and writing lessons, interacting with students from the mean streets of LA and the laborious-but-beautiful farms and ranches of California's central coast, and observing teachers and administrators with varying degrees of social and educational skills.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2001

Writing Prompt: "How are your problems this week different than last week? What insights on your teaching did you notice this week?"

My "challenges" or "issues" (politically correct)that are different this week seems to be that some of the kids who started out quiet are now starting to become a pain in the ass. (Imagine that! They've studied you for a week and figured out what they can get away with.) Then there's Reginald Loans. (Not his real name for obvious reasons. I remember him vividly for reasons now that cause me regret.) He started out rather loathsome (shameful choice of words for a teacher)--failure to bring materials, do work, displaying an indifferent countenance, but this week he seems like he could be engaged. (It was temporary.)
As for insights on my teaching style, I called myself a World War I machine-gun tower earlier this week. I tend to shout down my 4th, 5th & 6th period classes. (Yelling: worst trap for a teacher because it only increases the volume and chaos. Angry shouting destroys the learning environment and turns the room into a punitive cell. Ironically, many kids from tough neighborhoods prefer a jail atmosphere over a scholarly ambiance --especially when they are struggling readers. Who pays the price? Scholarly kids forced by fate to attend tough schools.) I don't think that's good. (At least I was aware of that then.) I could develop an adversarial relationship with my classes. (No kidding. You challenge economically and socially disadvantaged, street-wise students to defy you, and they will gladly take you up on the offer.) Besides, the kids already have enough abuse/noise in their lives.(Again, glad you are aware of the negative forces with which they must deal everyday outside of school. Just don't turn your class into another daily gauntlet they must cross.) But pal, I gotta get control of that class by just about any means necessary. Then we can get work done, learn and have some fun.("Any means necessary"--dude thinks he's Malcolm X.)
LOOKING BACK:
The writing prompt means I wrote this journal entry as an opening dispatch in a class for district interns held Thursday nights. The instructors apparently wanted to know whether emergency-credentialed, rookie teachers were adjusting their methods. It's common knowledge that students will usually behave politely the first few days as they study their new teacher trying to figure out what his/her rules "really are." Also, going back to school in the fall is a change of pace for them. After a few days the novelty wears off so it's time to raise some hell to avoid the boring monotony of classroom drills. It is the teacher's challenge to know this and develop management skills that minimize disruptions. This involves limiting activities to 20 minutes, allowing students to briefly interact, encouraging them to responsibly share their thoughts, and providing exercises that address different learning "styles"--visual, linguistic, physical and more.
I'm ashamed that I called "Reginald Loans" "loathsome." I was mean to him, so of course he was mean to me. Looking back, this African-American youngster was dealt a bad hand by fate, society, God--whomever you want to blame. He showed up unwashed, clothes dirty, grass shards in his uncombed hair, continually scratched his itches--and never seemed to have money or meal-tickets for food--all tell-tale signs that he had no parenting or supervision at home. If I would've had the pleasure of Reginald in a class later in my career, I would've had him remain after class, utilizing the "detention" as a vehicle for becoming better acquainted with this distrustful loner who kept to himself even in the halls and communal areas. I would've slipped him a few bucks now and then. Veteran teachers know there's nothing wrong with a well timed bribe. But I wasn't a veteran teacher. I was a stinking, clueless rookie who never taught nor had been in the 'hood for an extended time in decades. Unfortunately it was just more bad luck for young Reginald Loans. Let's hope that big, mean-teacher-in-the-sky has smiled down on Reginald by now.

Diary of a Rookie Teacher (Part II)

This post is the second installment of a new series that examines journal entries recorded by the author of Blocker's Blog, Mark Blocker, during his first year teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District at now-defunct Henry Clay Middle School. These entries were written 12 years ago in 2001 and appear below with no editing or revisions. They are accompanied by his commentary written now after more than a decade planning and writing lessons, interacting with students from the mean streets of LA and the laborious-but-beautiful farms and ranches of California's central coast, and observing teachers and administrators with varying degrees of social and educational skills.

SEPTEMBER 13, 2001
I started using my textbook today (received and ordered them yesterday) and compared to generating handouts--it made life easy. Heck, it was like getting free money. I even had Dire Straights's "Money for Nothing," going on in my head after lunch. (Yeah? How long did that last?)
The story we're reading is "The Treasure of Lemon Brown." The teacher's edition contains wonderful exercises and insights.(Good God, I sound like a lobotomy patient.)
Even my discipline cases seemed interested. (Reading out of a real book was new to this class. Students enjoy a change of pace.) Several times I had to remind myself to back off and let them slouch at their desks and mutter among themselves once in a while. (Loosening the reins...can't read if you're uptight. Good.)
Yesterday, on the other hand, was awful. Rough drafts of first assignment letters were due. (I assigned them to write me a letter about themselves explaining their interests, goals in life, highlights of their past 12 years, etc. This helps a teacher learn more about the students. It "humanizes" them.) I wanted to work one-on-one with some students. While I did, four started shooting spitballs. (What were they doing, filming an episode of "Little Rascals"?) I went ballistic and made them pick them up with their bare hands. (Oh, tough guy, eh?) Young McKellar (a teacher who helped me quite a bit at first) happened by and gladly escorted them away. He made them write me letters of apologies. DeJuan and Marcus complied. (Marcus was a budding comedian--and likable. His charisma and sense of timing let him get away with a lot of shenanigans.) Lonnel didn't. (Lonnel was a sullen kid. I don't think I heard his voice all year. Never got anything out of him other than crumpled candy wrappers and balled up papers tossed on the floor--his idea of turning in an assignment.) Luciano was absent. (Don't remember that kid.) They are all good kids--just prone to mistakes when they push each other like lemmings. (The image of students running off a cliff is a little strong, here, rook.)

LOOKING BACK:
The 8th-grade English textbooks, (Prentice-Hall "Timeless Voices, Timeless Themes" Silver Level) were indeed a God-send. At that time, and for a year or so afterward, I taught the contents in the order in which they appeared in the book. Unfortunately, that meant I was not hitting all the required "power standards"--what the state wants the kids to know in order for them to score high on the mandated tests each year. Instead, I was concentrating on my favorite subject, literary interpretation, while ignoring other 8th-grade content standards such as identifying the traits of different genres of expository writing.
The spitball incident occurred in 5th period. That class soon captured my heart. Eigth-grade students will not listen to a teacher unless he is saying something of interest to a 12-13 year old. But, do they observe! When things are going well, I have a habit of reclining in my chair, fingers laced behind my head, elbows out, and a satisfied smile on my face. One day while the class was quietly writing down answers to a few questions in the book, I was thinking about how teaching wasn't so damned bad after all, and that the kids actually were better daily company than the many smug know-it-all adults in the newspaper biz. I guess I had assumed my favorite posture. When my mind returned to the present I gazed at the class and every single student was leaning back, fingers laced elbows out, smiling back at me. They were jokingly imitating their teacher. It was late September and we had already bonded into a class. They apparently liked me, and I knew I was falling in love with them. We were now ready to learn. Or at least I was. The kids, meanwhile, were going to do a lot of "testing"--of me. 

Diary of a Teacher's Rookie Year

NEW SERIES!

This post marks the start of a new series that examines journal entries recorded by the author of Blocker's Blog, Mark Blocker, during his first year teaching for the Los Angeles Unified School District at now-defunct Henry Clay Middle School. These entries were written 12 years ago in 2001 and appear below with no editing or revisions. They are accompanied by his commentary written now after more than a decade planning and writing lessons, interacting with students from the mean streets of LA and the laborious-but-beautiful farms and ranches of California's central coast, and observing teachers and administrators with varying degrees of social and educational skills.

Teacher shortage frees college grads from dull cubicles
This journal you're about to read was required by the LAUSD District Intern program which Blocker  entered at the ripe age of 43. At the time LAUSD had a terrible shortage of teachers, and it was offering a free, two-year program where "interns" were paid to teach while receiving free district classes at night, and some Saturdays, to earn credits toward a California single-subject or multi-subject credential. To qualify, potential teachers had to hold a BA in their subject or pass the California Single-Subject Aptitude Test SSAT (or MSAT for elementary school teachers.) These tests measure whether an applicant's knowledge of a subject is equal to that of someone holding a bachelor's degree.
In 2000, the state's teacher shortage was so severe that the LAUSD even offered classes to "pre-interns." These classes helped people with college credits--and a passing grade on the California Basic Educational Skills Test (CBEST which all substitutes must pass)--gain enough knowledge to pass the SSAT or MSAT. It wasn't an easy route, but many brave individuals wanted to help society--and get a free ticket out of dead-end cubicle jobs.
After 20 years in publishing and the newspaper business, Blocker decided to try his hand at teaching. He had never done anything exceptionally brave in his life, except for entering some tough bars back in his 20s and maybe romancing a few estranged girlfriends of jilted bikers. Still alive despite his youthful follies, he was getting older and wanted to do something better than make rich people richer and poor people poorer. His last private sector job was running the "dummy room," or supervising a staff of four producing page templates for five editions comprising Ventura County's largest daily newspapers all owned by media behemoth Scripps-Howard. It sucked. Newspapers were being bought up and condensed by corporations utilizing new technology to automate many jobs. The days of walking into a building rumbling from an exciting, muckraking newsroom and a giant, independent printing press were limping to an electronic close. Blocker couldn't tell the difference between the paid ads and the news anymore. He was surrounded by yuppie blow and meth addicts; hypochondriacs faking Carpal Tunnel Syndrome; old alcoholics; hacking chain smokers; and fading cardiac patients. Their linking trait: they complained well.
So Blocker answered the call of the nation's second largest school district, LAUSD. Thanks to the amazing book, Understanding Poetry, by Cleanth Brooks and Robert Penn Warren (Holt, Rinehart & Winston 1976) he passed the SSAT English on his first try despite not studying great literature for 20 years; instead writing bullshit about mobile home dealers, and frantically laying out newspaper pages past deadline.  In May 2001 Blocker moved his family from Ventura County down to LA. Soon all hell broke loose, professionally and personally.

Teacher shortage turns into teacher surplus
Twelve years later the dust has settled. Blocker's Blog previously published the downfall of Harry Mills, so you know how this LAUSD career collapsed when the teacher shortage turned into a surplus four years ago. The LAUSD and the state declared war on teachers and their organizations, so top LAUSD brass--answering to their contributors and benefactors in the burgeoning, well moneyed charter sector--began instructing administrative thugs to harass educators out of the industry and give right-wing media misinformation to hasten the impotence of a wilting United Teachers of Los Angeles.
Mark Twain said about numbers used for purposes of deliberately fooling the public: "There are lies, damned lies, and statistics." Today, asshole politicians and pundits often cite test scores and drop out rates while deliberately leaving out any context. Their quotes obfuscate the truth but feed the LA Times's and KFI's insatiable appetite to bash and defame the LAUSD teachers and their students. Rest assured, thousands of LAUSD teachers and students arrive at work every day making the best of a very challenging and often unfriendly situation for both groups. Today, Blocker regrets quitting LAUSD and wants back inside. Memories earned during 10 years in rooms 37, 2 and 11 at Clay Middle School run the gamut from elation to disappointment.
Lets look back now at Blocker's journal. It will be posted here in weekly installments with no editing whatsoever. Blocker's comments and thoughts,after reading it--for the first time in 12 years--appear in bold. Readers are encourage to share their comments.

WEEK ONE: SEPTEMBER 6, 2001
The first three days of teaching saw some interesting peaks and valleys. I believe I have good delivery and rapport with some students. I should have prepared more instructional handouts and decor for the room. (Uh oh: handouts and worksheets--funny money printed by a teacher to buy some time from students.) My 4th and 5th periods contain some potentially massive discipline problems that are forcing me to implement discipline procedures very rapidly. (No shit, huh?) It would be nice to have more guidance from administrators on resources/tools available for instruction: overheads, TV, consumable workbooks. (Those went to the teachers that knew where to find them.) It would be nice to have more cooperation from the kids, (Dreamer) but ironically, and sadly, that won't be the case (See students' job description, rookie.) All in all, the true test in the coming days will be how I can generate quality worksheets, handouts, quizzes and tests both economically and professionally. (You should engage and teach them an interesting concept or useful skill first before you start throwing paperwork and tests at everybody.) It looks like I need a secretary or a cat burglar to accomplish that goal. (You'll soon learn you're loaded with those.) Today the assistant principal visited 4th period after I mentioned the problem. She stayed for half the period then departed. Ten seconds later, the two antagonists started in--but not so bad. They were held reasonably in check the rest of the period.

LOOKING BACK TODAY: 
I remember those two kids. One shares first and last names with a famous comedian who once prided himself on intellectual humor, but now the chickenshit shill competes with Rush Limbaugh for the hearts and minds of xenophobes and sycophants.
Anyhow, this kid, Dennis, was funnier than the famous comedian despite my attempts to suppress him in class. By October, I knew Dennis had a gift that could never be measured in a standardized state test. I still vividly recall the time I was reading to the class Walter Dean Myers's short story, "The Treasure of Lemon Brown." The opening passage describing the setting and bleak tone has the main character, a mixed-up kid, climbing the stairwell of a ramshackle housing tenement. As I read this Dennis got on all fours atop his desk, and started pumping his pelvis up and down while making the sounds of a box-spring mattress coiling and recoiling. Simultaneously he cooed to his invisible lover "oooh, baby, heah it come mama, heah it come..." As vulgar as it was, Dennis was merely providing an appropriate sound effect--if Dean had written an R-rated movie.
I sent him to the back of the room and eventually recovered enough to resume reading. Within minutes Dennis arranged various boxes into a makeshift lunch counter. He had made signs, "Dennis's Wiener Dogs" on scratch paper and taped them to the boxes. He folded more paper into a chef's hat. Dennis was an entrepreneur ready to serve. There also may have been some double entendre on the menu or on his front sign. He turned his detention into a creative endeavor more fulfilling than listening to old man Blocker recite a hackneyed tome about a black kid who learns a wino has painful memories.
The bell rang and the kids left. I had learned a valuable lesson myself that period: These kids needed me like Ray Manzarek's bile duct needed cancer.

Harry Mills Takes His Last Load of Bullshit, Jumps Ship Out of Sinking District, Kids Bid Farewell (In Their Own Way)

The following story is the final installment of the 12-part fictional series depicting a teacher's final months with the Los Angeles Unified School District. It is written solely for the purpose of entertaining the reader. Characters depicted are not intended to represent any living or dead persons.

By Mark J. Blocker

October 7, 2011--a little more than four months after the Big City School District board voted to hand over Missouri Compromise Middle School to charter operator Bright Spot, displaced teacher Harry Mills was enduring his fifth summons within nine days to the drab office of his new principal, Wanda Sharperson, within the confines of grimy Darwin Middle School that excreted an API so low it made Missouri Compromise look like a think tank. Darwin MS is located so deep in the unforgiving urban core of Los Angeles that burly trash men routinely skip their routes and their supervisors forgive them.
Here, in the Beatrice-Burnwood section of the city students at 12 and 13 years of age are busy dutifully preparing for their impending initiations into the Mara Salvatrucha 13 or rival Crips, unfortunately blowing off earnest or indifferent instruction of rookie or burned out teachers. The ‘hood is loaded with contradictions and choices. Darwin is a microcosm of the surrounding environment, so is the former Missouri Compromise MS, as shocked educators for Bright Spot are beginning to learn at the campus now renamed Animus South MS.

Be that as it may, Mr. Harry Mills, two-weeks into his stint at Darwin MS sat across the scratched laminated-oak desk from Ms. Sharperson. Both held copies of his Mills’s Stull Performance Evaluation—a formal assessment of a teacher’s practices and professionalism.

There was no love in the room; nevertheless, Mills knew he was going to get fucked. First off, no teacher gets “Stulled” in October let alone just two weeks onto the job.  Stulls are usually done in December at the earliest. Sharperson made no secret of her disdain for 53-year-old Mills—a nine year veteran of the district and of the classroom, who left the publishing industry 10 years ago when the BCSD was urgently recruiting qualified professionals to teach in its crowded, under-performing and violent schools. Now there was a surplus of teachers, the State was broke, the BCDS was selling off schools to the highest bidder so Mills was out of a job.
He thought he hit the jackpot when the BCSD had sent him to posh Gibson MS in Green Tree Estates. But two weeks later they moved him again, this time to the district’s toilet—Darwin MS--and Principal Wanda Sharperson whose job it appeared was to snake out the sewer line. Congratulations, Mr. Mills, the BCSD has designated you a turd stopping up the drain of a school district with a nearly 50% dropout rate.
Perhaps Sharperson merely hated Mills because he was forced upon her. Harry didn’t know nor gave a shit. All he knew was that he vowed never to be intimidated by Sharperson’s glare, curt hellos or icy silence when they passed in the corridors. He just grinned and figured other pissants had it worse. Like the Black man who two years ago sued Sharperson for racial discrimination. That wouldn’t have been noteworthy if Sharperson wasn’t of African heritage herself. Adding to this indictment of the bitch’s abusive management style was that although the plaintiff lost the lawsuit one judge dissented.

But none of that would help Harry now as he sat reading the “unsatisfactory” notations in every area of his formal Stull Evaluation. This panning of Mills’s professionalism contrasted with six excellent Stulls he received from four principals who praised his work at Missouri Compromise. The only area in which Mills received “needs improvement” was attendance. It seems his absences were higher than average for district teachers. As Mills would quickly tell you, he didn’t mind teaching in a tough school with low performing students as long as one of the perks was a few extra Mondays on the golf course or cruising Pacific Coast Highway. Now it looked like Mills was going to be purchasing a one-way ticket north on PCH.

A piss-poor review

“Do you have any questions, sir?” Sharperson sneered, glaring at Harry from behind her gold-framed aviator lenses.

Mills looked up from his evaluation. She may have been turning into his archenemy, but damn, she was pleasant to look at. “What’s this note about security always having to come to my room to assist with controlling students?”

“They’ve been there five times in 10 days, Mr. Mills. That’s unacceptable. It shows you have no con . . .”

“I was calling during my conference period so they could escort truant students who were raising hell in the halls!”

“Oh . . . well, couldn’t you handle that yourself?”

“I didn’t know them. Didn’t know any of their names. And they just told me to ‘fuck off’.”

“How dare you use profanity in my office!”

“No! Ms. Sharperson, I’m quoting the students directly.”

Holding down her dog-eared yellow legal pad, Sharperson scribbled a note detailing the date and time of Harry’s profane outburst.

“What’s this about me, quote, demoralizing the students, unquote?”

“You told the students that the school doesn’t have any money for supplies and, I now quote your words—‘the whole place is going broke’. Mr. Mills, these are just children. You can’t scare them by . . .”

“I was simply explaining to them why they must take care of their textbooks--cover them, don’t tag or trash them--because the state doesn’t have money to replace them!”

“The children don’t need to hear that.”

“Yes, they do! We need to explain why there’s a limited amount of resources with which to finance their education, and we need to protect and value what we have.”

Sharperson sat frowning, shifting her eyes from left to right and back again. It was a movement to which Harry had grown accustomed. It meant she was thinking about what to say next.

“So, Mr. Mills, sir, you’re saying you control the purse strings around here? You decide what we buy and what we don’t buy?”

“Huh?” Harry stared incredulously, seeing her less as principal now and more of just another crazy bitch in over her head or angry about her lot in life getting kicked out of the fancy district headquarters, sent back down to the shit-hole ghetto to captain a sinking school that would be offered up for grabs to Bright Spot at the end of the year. Only Bright Spot didn’t want it. Nobody did. Sharperson tried to organize a group of faculty and administrators to write a charter proposal to independently operate the school, just as they did last year to no avail at Missouri Compromise, but no one who knew her wanted to work with Sharperson. Besides, the place is depressing. The teachers at Darwin are waiting for the next opportunity anywhere else--or for their retirement date.

“Well, then,” Harry continued, “how about this 'makes poor use of instructional time’?”

“While you were collecting homework, students were disengaged.”

“They know they’re supposed to copy down the day’s agenda and standard that we will be working on during the hour.”

“Not all students were doing that.”

“What they hell you want me to do?” he shrieked. Harry thought about adding, Beat them? but decided not. She would have written on her note pad that he advocates beating children.

“You can collect the homework at the door while students enter.”

“I’d rather the children were inside the room at their desks as soon as possible getting ready for the class.”

“They don’t look like they’re getting ready for anything in your class, Mr. Mills, other than maybe doing whatever they want or fighting—like young Mr. Jackson and Mr. Rodriguez yesterday.”

Harry countered, “You’ve already had four fights on this campus this morning. Are you going to blame those on me, too?”

“Well,” Sharperson sighed, “I see now we’re getting smart. I see no reason to continue this meeting. This is your Stull, sir, we have reviewed it, now please sign.

Mills thought about refusing. He took a deep breath, and wrote in a cursive comparable to his signature, Kiss My Ass. Then he slid the paper across the desk to Sharperson who inserted it into a large envelope—the kind they call “manila.”

The union schlep

Harry walked back to his room thinking about the Philippines. Maybe Europe. How about Mexico?

He quietly finished out the day. After the three o’ clock bell he went to the union representative to give her the Stull Evaluation and to see if she could help out. She shrugged, “Nobody likes her. Did you read about the lawsuit?”

“What lawsuit?”

“It’s on the internet. Google her name, it’s all there.” Then she turned her back and walked toward her car. That was all the union rep offered. He never even got her name. Mills only knew who she was because he recognized her red wig featuring thick, shoulder-length hair and bangs. Even from across the room during his first Darwin faculty meeting Harry was shocked at the contrast between the woman's sagging, aged face and the wig that looked like something a young pop star would wear on stage. Now, two weeks later standing in the corridor outside the women's faculty restroom, she said she would get back to him, but she never did. Harry wasn’t surprised, either. She was probably too tired to deal with it, or the situation slipped her mind by the time she got to her ’79 Cadillac with all the key scratches marring its fading turquoise finish.

He did appreciate her tip to Google Sharperson’s name. That evening he learned she and the district had been sued for racial discrimination by an African-American man who wanted to become a principal but was rejected by Sharperson during what he claimed was a pattern of “abuse and unwarranted reprimands and criticism.” The BCSD and Sharperson argued that the case could not be racial discrimination because Sharperson is black, too. The court agreed, but one judge did write a dissenting opinion, citing the hostility in Sharperson’s actions had exceeded the boundaries of her duties as a supervisor. Amazing, Harry thought.

He continued thinking about all that crap while calling in sick the next morning. And the morning after that.

Harry looked around his small condominium that he had bought four years ago. Located in the middle of Long Beach, the 800-square-foot place was now worth less than half of what he paid.

So he walked away from it as well as from the BCSD. Harry knew it was time to roll the dice just as he had 10 years earlier. It wasn’t his style to hang around where he wasn’t wanted. He’d find a job someplace else. The bad job market? Harry didn’t pay attention to unemployment statistics. He always said, statistics are for losers. This time he may be one of the losers. He wouldn’t know unless he took the gamble. His days at the BCSD and paying dues to its impotent teachers union were over.

Goodbye to all that

One week later after dropping off his classroom key to the front office, Harry was strolling up Payton Avenue toward his car. Harry paused in front of “Rodriguez Tramision” the garishly painted auto shop he liked to admire across the street from the doorway to his classroom. Before disappearing into the sunset, Harry wanted to say so long to his friend the old German Shepherd who everyday returned Harry’s gaze. Harry liked the way the old dog always followed the sun—even if it was only back up the driveway as the day wore on.

While Harry stooped and fondly scratched his pal under that water-rusty whiskered chin, a gaggle of kids broke out of the classroom and clambered onto the reinforced security fence that cordoned off the school.

His former students began to shout,“Hey! It’s Mr. Mills!” “Where have you been Mills?” “Hey, Mr. Mills, when you comin’ back? The sub sucks!” “Mills, you muthafuckaaaaaaaaahhh!”

Through the cacophony Harry heard the squeaking voice of a young lady feebly commanding, “Children! Get back in here right now!” The kids continued shouting. The loudest was Raye-Raye Jackson, “Ey Mills, getcho ass ovah here suckah!”

Rodriguez slid out from underneath a dented Aerostar, quizzically gazing up at Harry, before remarking, “Those kids, man, they’re craaazy!”

“Yeah, I used to be their teacher.”

“I know! I always see you over there. Why you no there now? They make you quit?”

“No not them--the loco principal. The kids are easy, they’re predictable. It’s adults you have to watch out for.”

“Man you got that right. But the kids are nuts too. In fact everybody around here is loco. When I make enough money I’m selling this place and going back to Mejico. You can have it!”

“I know, brother. Take care of yourself, Rodriguez. And take care of my friend here.”

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about him. He’s been around for nine years, and he’s gonna be around for another 10 years.”

What a coincidence. Mills had been teaching nine years and wanted to give it another 10 before calling it a career. With that, Mills resumed his stroll up Payton listening to the chorus of students chanting “Mills! Mills! Mills! Mills!” as security guards rolling up in golf carts closed in from opposite ends of the corridor.

THE END

Need the rest of the story? Read the past 12 posts! Thank you for visiting Blocker's Blog.

Harry Mills will return this spring in "Goldfinger" or "Gold Coast Finger." Either way, Harry says, "I'll be back."

Principal Turns Up the Heat on Weary English Teacher While Across the Street a Dog Lies Down in the Sun

Weekly Vocabulary Words Spell Trouble As Do the Bare Walls of His Drab Classroom Inside Low-Performing, Demoralized School

The following is the 10^th installment of a series of “fictional” stories detailing the final days of a teacher’s employment within the Los Angeles Unified School District. The names of the characters and locales have been changed because when the series started, the author was still employed by the LAUSD and thought it wise to cover his ass in case somebody with power read this blog and decided to fire him despite what would, of course, be disapointingly futile intervention by his expensive union that is always too busy anyway resisting sensible change. Now, after resigning and enjoying gainful employment in another, highly functioning public school district 200 miles away, the author is considering naming names and identifying the fouled-up schools. Until then, enjoy the story which is written more to amuse the reader than promote a political agenda.

By Mark J. Blocker

So called “experts” in the field of contemporary education advocate doing away with weekly vocabulary words. Instead, they recommend teaching vocabulary solely within the context of what the students read. Meaning—no weekly vocabulary words pulled out of a teacher's ass. Teach words gleaned from the literature surveyed during the course.

Harry Mills, a nine-year veteran teacher and refugee from the publishing business only partly agrees. By all means, study selected words from reading materials, but also instruct students on how to identify patterns in words. Do this by employing a systematic, weekly vocabulary program stressing spelling and usage of words with common structure.

Some would agree

It was early in the 2009 academic year when Mills was sitting in the office of Ms. Moon, his principal at the now-defunct Missouri Compromise Middle School asking her permission to continue augmenting his curriculum with weekly vocabulary words—in addition to vocabulary from that year's literature.

She answered, “Although the (Big City School District) prefers you teach vocabulary in the context of literature, I’m not going to dissuade you from continuing your vocabulary program, Mr. Mills. It seems you’ve thought this over well and have planned out a rigorous course of study with high expectations for your students. It also adheres to California content standards for language arts in your grade level. So I’m fine with it.”
“Thank you, Ms. Moon.”

Getting up from her desk she smiled, “Besides, I had weekly vocabulary words as a child. So did you. And we turned out fairly literate and educated.”

Mills liked and respected his principal Ms. Moon. He admired the way she administered a tough urban school despite her diminutive stature and quiet demeanor. She was the opposite of Harry, who used his big size, loud voice and bombastic instructional style—and a lot of self deprecating humor—to disarm his ghetto born-and-bred students—plus the ESL children secreted across the border sometime during the not-too-distant past.

It was a shame the BCSD Board handed over Missouri Compromise to a private charter operator, despite the retiring superintendent’s recommendation that Ms. Moon and her faculty be awarded stewardship of the school.

A study later released by the University of California suggested schools operated independently by district staff outperformed charters. Furthering the insult, crooked charters were getting popped left and right for doctoring scores and giving students the answers to State standardized tests that measure a school's performance. Furthermore, members of the public and some staff were complaining about the School Board’s collusion with charter operators. The relationship was so fraught with illegalities that, after conferring with the teacher’s union, the new superintendent issued an edict declaring that proposals from current BCSD employees “should be strongly considered” before bids from private, for-profit charter school companies. To avert yet another lawsuit in an otherwise unending series, the Board agreed via a unanimous vote conducted out of the public eye. That's about as much consolation now to Mills as a low-tar cigarette and cure for cancer are to a cooling corpse.

Back in the principal’s office

So there he sat, now late September 2011, in the office of Wanda Sharperson, his new principal at his new, low-performng school--defending his vocabulary lessons once again. But this time it was to no avail.

“Please understand that I also teach vocabulary in the context of the literature," Mills pleaded. "It’s just that I believe students need a program where they are taught patterns of words. I start out with long and short vowel sounds, then cover singular versus plurals, then we go on to Greek and Latin roots and so forth,” Harry explained while Sharperson closed her eyes and shook her head side to side.

She bared her teeth. “You must teach vocabulary in the context of the literature, sir. It’s a mandate from the district. It’s a mandate from me.”

“But these kids need . . .”

“These kid,” she interrupted, “They are our students, our children, sir!”

Mills momentarily imagined he was married to Sharperson, and they were fruitfully multiplying, producing offspring. Little Mills-Sharpersons running around greater LA. She wasn’t bad looking, but God, was she turning out to be a bitch. Mills, now wizened in his mid 50s, chuckled to himself trying to calculate how many young dopes eventually end up with a similar mantra.

“Is there something amusing, sir?"

“No ma’am”

“Well, I don’t need you here dumbing down my curriculum and laughing about it,” she snarled.

Deployed to a dying school

Mills absorbed the reality of Sharperson’s hostility. He also contemplated the irony of dumbing down a school which the previous year had an even lower API than the school from which he came. Yep. The BCSD had displaced Mills from one abandoned sinking ship, Missouri Compromise, to another that was in the final year of “program improvement.” Only this one was so demoralized that the staff wasn’t even bothering to write a proposal to operate it. What’s worse, no private charter operator wanted it. And here was Sharperson, a raving lunatic of a captain, waving her verbal sword at Harry while he considered his options: 1) Kiss the bitch’s ass and suck up the shit; or 2) Roll the dice like he did 10 years ago at the shrinking newspaper and switch careers in mid-life.

Your room is ugly, too

Then Sharperson raised the ante higher. “And what about your room? You’ve been here two weeks now, and except for those posters your kids made the first day the walls are still bare! May I remind you, Mr. Mills, that State standards for the teaching profession require you to create a text-rich environment conducive to learning? A pleasant, culturally inclusive environment for your students.”

“I know, I know,” Mills stammered. “It’s just that I spent two weeks and over two hundred dollars of my own money at the start of this academic year to get my former classroom at Gibson prepared, and then I was abruptly transferred here.”

“I had nothing to do with that! You could’ve brought your materials along with you.”

“I suppose so, but it seemed a shame to rip apart the room after the children seemed to enjoy it. Those materials were geared toward 6^th graders anyway. I’m now teaching 7^th.” Harry thought about the 10 years worth of class decor and supplies he left behind at Missouri Compromise.

Mills assured Sharperson he'd set up the room, then he walked out of her office about as pissed as he had been in years. He placed his hand over his heart to check if it was pounding. It wasn’t. He slid his tongue over the top and bottom molars on his right side to see if they were grinded down to nubs. They weren’t.

Life beyond school

As he walked along the grimy, hock and gum-stained halls of Darwin MS toward his unprofessional classroom, Harry gazed though the 10-foot-tall, fortified-iron fence and across Payton Avenue toward the business across the street. There was the garishly painted “Rodriguez Tranmisones” in hand-rendered red letters across high-gloss blue enamel on cinderblock walls. Ol’ Rodriguez was there, legs sticking out from under a 32-year-old, root-beer-brown dented Toyota Corona. Lounging in the sun was Rodriguez’s German Shepherd who, despite his apparent freedom from chains and fences, seldom ventured far from the patch of sunlight that moved back down the driveway as the workday wore on.

Harry unlocked his classroom door. Despite the summer sun, the hall and room were cold and dark thanks to overgrown fichus trees planted years ago along the parkway and now lifting up chunks of sidewalk and street causing tires to loudly slap as they rolled over the ripples and cracks all day.

Harry turned back to the dog he nicknamed Sunshine. Miraculously their eyes met despite the ongoing traffic between them. The prostrate dog’s tail lazily lifted up then fell back down. He slowly gathered himself and sat up to look at the strange teacher across the street. It was almost like he wanted to come over. Then he lied back down again. Harry observed the dog's deep sigh, and took a nice deep breath himself.

There was about 20 more minutes until his first batch of students would arrive, so Mills went over to the Title 1 room to see if there were any available materials with which to decorate the room.

Ms. Jefferson, who reminded Harry of Red Fox's antagonistic sister in law on Sanford & Son, sternly stared back at Harry. She listened to Mills, frowned, and shook her head no. “You need to go to a teachers supply store. We don’t have anything like that.”

“OK, thanks.” Mills muttered before returning to his room. Back inside he sat down and surveyed the drab walls. Sharperson was right, the room is ugly. This whole school is ugly. My entire career is now fucked up and ugly as all hell, Mills fumed.

He shrugged, went back outside and gazed across the street back at Rodriguez and his decrepit cars and satisfied dog. Then the bell rang, and soon the students would arrive. They'd make Mills feel better. They were they reason why he got into this business in the first place.

First to arrive was Aaron Rodriguez, a big boy with a tousled mop of black hair who kind of reminded Mills of himself when he was a kid.

“Hey Rodriguez," Mills asked, "is that your dad’s shop over there across the street?”

“No. My Dad’s in jail, mister.”

“Oh, ho! His Daddy be locked up,”taunted Ray-Ray Jackson. Ray-Ray was the kid in the previous story with a fist full of Red Vine licorice who was the first student to introduce himself when Harry arrived at Darwin three weeks ago.

“Shut yo ass, Ray-Ray! Yo’ daddy a muthahfuckin dead nikka cuz he . . .” With that, the two lads tore at each other and commenced fighting like a pair of bucks trying to sharpen sprouting horns.

“Here we go,” Mills said while thrusting his arms between the two.

It was going to be a trying day at Darwin MS—where only the strong survive.

Is This New Principal an Insufferable Bitch or Does Harry Mills Have a Red Ass After Getting Jerked Around ?

Read and Decide for Yourself!

The following story is written by a teacher who recently quit the Los Angeles Unified School District figuring LAUSD is a conflicted, rudderless sinking ship captained by fools clueless about public education. The following are fictional characters intended to resemble actual people. Thank you for visiting Blocker’s Blog after its hiatus during which the author was busy relocating halfway to San Francisco. Happy reading!

By Mark J. Blocker

Harry Mills’s classroom at Darwin MS in the Beatrice-Burnwood section of Big City faced east toward the rising sun, but thanks to a row of overgrown fichus trees the place is in perpetual darkness.

His first period conference over, Harry was standing outside his door to greet the arriving parade of 7^th-grade students for second period. They all paused before entering to eye their new teacher--his long ponytail, gray goatee, western style shirt with snap pearl buttons, khaki cargo pants and sneakers.

“Who da fuck are you?” It was an honest but vulgar inquiry shouted by a short, wiry lad with caramel skin and matching hair. He bit off another chunk of his Red Vine licorice rope and chewed with his mouth open waiting for an answer.

Harry slumped his shoulders and shook his head to display disappointment at the boy’s selection of words.

“I am Mr. Mills, and you are . . .”

The boy interrupted, “You a sub?”

“Nope. I am here for good.”

“Damn,” he muttered before entering the room.

Harry thought about calling him back to discuss proper classroom vocabulary, but he let the inquisitive student walk since virtually every passing child in the hall was insulting each other using profanities and epithets describing genitalia and excrement.

“Don’t get too comfortable. We will have assigned seats,” Harry warned students milling about the room. They responded with groans and a chorus of cursing. He knew it would take days to screw down pupils running amuck after a parade of indifferent substitute teachers mostly concerned with surviving til the day’s final bell.

Harry tried to log on the school’s aged computer to scan his roster and build a seating chart. Access Denied—Username and Password Terminated. Nobody at Darwin had yet set up his account. His prior school, high-performing Gibson MS in posh Green Tree Estates, wasted no time in shutting down his access when he was transferred back into the ghetto. Mills thought it would be nice if the district were equally as responsive in setting teachers up as it was at shutting them down.

Mills told the class the seating chart would have to wait for another day. The kids cheered like it was New Years Eve1999. The kid who previously interacted with Harry at the door pulled out a fist of Red Vines, bit off the end of one and began offering the remainder to surrounding colleagues. Harry admired his generosity while frowning at the inconspicuous flouting of a common classroom rule.

“Hey! No eating in cla . . .” Harry quit. No kid could hear him anyway, and he didn’t want to yell above the din. It would only increase the volume and raise his blood pressure. Instead, he folded his arms and silently frowned at the bedlam. In less than a minute the kids sheepishly returned to their desks.

“This shouldn’t surprise you, but just like all your other teachers I’d prefer you refrain from eating in class.”

“What the fuck ‘re-frain’ mean?”

The rest of the day unfolded with no surprises. Mills was pleased that each class eventually settled down enabling him to launch a discussion of class procedures, rules and consequences. Afterward, he assigned each class their first project—in groups of four construct cause-and-effect charts detailing reasons for each rule. While the students were busy in groups of four planning and drawing their posters, Mills surveyed each class confident he could establish reasonable control and in a few days begin the business of teaching what the State wanted 7^th-graders to learn.

Waiting 45 minutes for a 3-minute meeting

Two days passed. On Wednesday during his first period conference Harry was planning curriculum when the classroom phone rang.

“Mr. Mills? Ms. Sharperson, our principal, wants to see you in her office immediately.”

Harry went down to the front. Her office door was closed. A tall woman who seldom looked up from her computer told Mills, “Have a seat, Ms. Sharperson is in a meeting.”

Harry turned to a bank of plastic chairs along the back wall. All were marred with nauseating stains; pressed gum; and threatening graffiti scrawled with thick, felt-tipped pens. Harry found a reasonably clean chair and carefully sat down. It was missing a screw. He nearly fell on his ass. He hoisted himself back onto his feet, clasped his hands and began perusing flyers tacked on a cork bulletin board.

Several notices warned against discriminating, sexually harassing, and leaving early. One listed names and phone numbers of staff charged with fielding complaints about offensive behavior. The rest promoted events that occurred last year.

Harry also watched the clock. Its second hand fell down then began climbing up again signaling a half hour had passed. Harry started wondering what Sharperson’s closed-door meeting was about. Maybe she was getting ready to fire his ass. Had he discriminated against a student? Alarmed, he was soon internally fretting over whether he sexually harassed a child. Sweet bearded Jesus, I could be a racist pervert! Inside that shut office a sheriff’s deputy could be writing down charges while Sharperson nodded, a parent fumed and a child shed tears.

Harry was relieved when the door opened and three testosterone-drenched, crew-cut PE teachers--one of them male—exited and strode out toward the gymnasium. Sharperson, after glancing at Mills, shut her door leaving him outside. Realizing his new boss was wasting his time Harry’s relief morphed into anger. He mutely tried to make eye contact with the office lady, but she remained focused on her screen.  So Harry approached, and she quickly tapped her keyboard before springing off her chair. She smoothed her skirt before walking over to Sharperson’s solid oak door. Harry noticed she had long legs wrapped in lacy stockings. Stiletto heels of her glistening black shoes echoed off the worn, beige linoleum. Harry calmed down a little.

“Yes?” the principal replied to light rapping upon the door.

“Mr. Mills is here.”

Sharperson let silence fulminate before she answered, “I’m aware, thanks.”

The office lady shrugged before strutting back to her computer.

Five minutes later Sharperson opened her door again. “Come in, sir.”

Harry wondered whether he was overreacting. Never in nine years at Missouri Compromise had any of the six rotating principals kept him waiting. They usually dropped by his classroom, affably smiling and unnecessarily apologetic. Harry assured visiting administrators that they were always welcome in his classroom. This odd environment at Darwin MS offered a stark contrast to his prior working conditions.

“Sit down,” Sharperson said from behind her desk while scratching the tip of her expensive looking pen against a stack of papers. “I wanted to ask you why you thought you had to call . . .uh . . . Ashley Gracia’s house.”

“You mean Monica Garcia,” Harry corrected.

“Yes, that’s it. I apologize.”

“She’s been tardy every day.”

“I looked at your attendance forms and saw you were always marking her tardy. By the way, why are you submitting your attendance manually? We’re on an automated system here.”

“I can’t log on.”

“And you contacted Mr. Nerlman to set up your account?"

“Everyday I go by the attendance office asking when I can get on.”

“It’s not the attendance office’s responsibility to get you on.”

“I thought they could point me in the right direction.”

Sharperson sighed, picked up her phone and pressed a couple buttons. “Mister Nerlman, this is Wanda Sharperson, principal at Darwin Middle School.”

Sharperson held the receiver away from her ear. Harry gazed at her long red fingernails and the large golden hoop earring that swung behind corkscrew curls that reflected light from the bare incandescent bulb dangling from the ceiling of yellowed acoustic tiles.

She hung up and announced, “That took all of two minutes. I’d really appreciate if you could take care of things like that on your own Mr. Mills. I’m very busy.”

Harry didn’t respond. He furrowed his brow. He spent a few moments trying to read the spreadsheets she was signing. Harry looked up and Sharperson was staring at him over her lenses. They locked eyes. Sharperson leaned back in her creaking wooden armchair.

To-do list: 128 phone calls

“How are your other calls coming along?” she asked.

“What calls?” Harry answered, knowing full well she was inquiring about. During their initial meeting Sharperson apprised Harry that she required all teachers to telephone their students’ parents to introduce themselves. She even made Mills sign a form agreeing to perform the calls. Harry figured it was forgettable bureaucratic bullshit no one really expected to get done. Wrong.

“I’ve made several calls. Mostly about behavior and attendance.”

“You’re supposed to call every parent and introduce yourself. Have you accomplished this yet, sir?”

“I’m unclear on the process. Is there an office and school telephone I can use to make these calls? The phone in my room only connects to campus phones. I also need to know when I’m supposed to do this--during my conference period? After school?”

“To answer your first question, most teachers prefer to use their own phones and make the calls from their home during the evenings or on weekends. May I remind you your conference periods are for just that—conferences, so yes, you may call parents during that time. But you need to get this accomplished soon, sir, or you will be subject to punitive measures. You signed a binding agreement that you would make these calls. Would you like to review it?” With that Sharperson slid the form across her desk toward Harry.

He stared back at her. She was going to be a hostile boss.

By the time she let Harry get back to his classroom, the tardy bell already rang. His unsupervised kids were chasing each other around the empty corridor, tossing candy wrappers, conducting loogie contests and slamming their fists into rusty lockers. Mills unlocked his door so the kids could shove each other inside.

The “secret” solution

At lunch, Mills saw Ms. Simpson, a 30-year-teacher also displaced out Missouri Compromise when the school board handed the place over to a charter operator. But unlike Harry, Ms. Simpson was personally hired by Sharperson months earlier. Ms. Simpson was friendly, but she let it known she didn’t like bullshit. Harry heard she once verbally bit the head off a condescending assistant principal at Missouri Compromise who had blamed her for an incident where a student hid behind in her classroom and while she was gone for a few minutes ransacked her purse and trashed the room. Harry never did ask her about that, but he did inquire about her relationship with Sharperson.

“I’ve never had any problems with her, “ Ms. Simpson shrugged, “but nobody better mess with me or I’ll walk out. I have loads of sick time in the bank and enough years to retire right now.”

“What about these phone calls we have to make to parents?”

“Use Ed-Connect. Don’t waste your time dialing every number! Half of them won’t answer, and if they do they’re drunk or crazy or something.”

Harry had forgotten about Ed-Connect. Back at Missouri Compromise he used the automated system all the time. To phone a student’s house, a teacher simply clicked a name and selected the appropriate message from a long menu that offered a variety of common teacher-parent missives for both good news and bad. Harry remembered that one available selection was an introductory call to welcome the parent’s child to class.

The million-dollar price tag of Ed-Connect garnered the attention of the city’s newspaper, which soon began a series of articles examining all Big City School District expenditures. This generated letters from readers complaining that the teachers’ union was controlling the budget and wasting taxpayers’ money on unnecessary luxuries instead of investing in the children. Why couldn’t these lazy communist teachers who are ruining our country dial a telephone like their predecessors?

But Harry had another big question. Why didn’t Sharperson suggest he use Ed-Connect instead of demanding he personally dial each parent? He asked around and sure enough every teacher used the system. None used their own phone. Sharperson was apparently trying to make Harry’s job more difficult than it already was.

Two days later, Sharperson and some suit from downtown visited Mills class and turned the heat up even higher.

Harry Meets the New Boss, and She's Not the Same as the Old Boss--Any of Them

First Hour at New Campus Brings Gaffes, Sharp Reprimands

Part 9 in the fictional story of Harry Mills, a teacher displaced when his employer, the Big City School District, voted to hand over his formerly public school to a private charter operator. For earlier chapters click the archives to the right. DISCLAIMER: the following characters and situations are made up. They shouldn’t remind you of anyone you know, unless you know somebody like this. Good fiction mirrors real life. Hopefully, this is good fiction.

By Mark J. Blocker

The first morning at his new school deep within Big City’s impoverished urban core Harry Mills parked his car, pulled out his briefcase and clicked the “lock” button on his high-tech key. Then he clicked it again.

Harry tried to make eye contact with everyone--fellow adults striding purposely or shuffling regretfully into the day; several dormant students dropped off in the pre-dawn hours by overburdened parents obeying early work schedules.

At 6:50 a.m. the brightly lit front office was a conspicuous beacon within the fog-shrouded campus.

“Hello, I’m Harry Mills.”

“Mr. Mills! Glad to meet you,” enthused a lady who doubled as the textbook coordinator. Budget cuts are forcing schools to require support staff to work dual jobs. “Let me get you your room key, you can sign in here,” she pointed to a familiar looking folder that contained all personnel time cards on the counter top. “You’re in Room 5. Classrooms are numbered on the buildings. You shouldn’t have trouble finding it, “ she smiled. “But Ms. Sharperson will be here any minute. Perhaps you should wait. She can show you to your room”

“Oh, I’ll meet her over there. I want to get inside and see what I have.”

“Actually, I think it would be better if you waited. Ms. Sharperson appreciates that. Have a seat. Relax.” Her tone downshifted into a mumbled warning.

So Harry did as told and waited in a chairs backed up against the wall by the double door. Several teachers whom Harry recognized from his old school entered, signed in and quickly left.

Eventually a short woman with Medusa-like, lengthy coils of pitch-black oily corkscrew curls cascading out her head toward her shoulders barged in like she owned the place. Must be Ms. Sharperson, Harry surmised. Everyone ceased their conversations, sat up straighter and busied themselves straightening any stack of paper within arm’s reach or staring into a nearby computer screen. Out of the corners of their eye, they cast furtive glances at the short woman upon stiletto heels who, with her hands on her hips, surveyed them all. She had long nails, the kind painted and glued down by Asian artisans toiling behind masks under fluorescent lights in malls on the better side of town. She was boxy with a pillow ass bulging out polyester pants. It contrasted sharply with unremarkable breasts. Her skin was color of caramel; hair the texture of rich licorice. Harry momentarily chided himself for sexually assessing his new boss. But, a man is a man, and a woman is a woman. This woman seemed intense. Angry. Oddly, this middle-aged black woman reminded Harry of the late British heavy-metal rock star Ronnie James Dio. He wasn’t so attracted anymore.

She turned to Mills and announced, “I’m Wanda Sharperson, principal of Darwin Middle School.”

Harry stuck out his hand. She ignored it.

“Follow me and I will show you to your room.” The 7:30 bell had already rang so classes were in session. The lady at the front told Harry he had first period conference, which meant that he was free during first period--sort of. Teachers with first period conference often found themselves covering for colleagues who had either slept late or were stuck in traffic.

Without a word, Sharperson and Mills walked together down the hall, passing rooms 1, 2, 3, but stopping at 4. She stuck her key into the door and opened it while Harry looked over at darkened Room 5. She silently motioned for Mills to enter. Immediately the teacher, a tall, lanky fellow who reminded Harry of an elongated Morgan Freeman began stuffing items into his briefcase for a quick exit.  Ms. Sharperson frowned. There were numbers and equations all over the white board. Posters promoted the fun, and value, of learning algebra. Others offered a hard sell on the merits of being polite and demonstrating good citizenship.

“Hey,” Harry asked the kids in the front row, “is this an English class?”

They enthusiastically nodded yes turning to each other with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, yeah?” Harry countered, “then what are all these numbers doing all over the place?” He pointed at the numbers and problems on their papers. “These don’t look like paragraphs to me! This ain’t no English class,” Harry declared with mock indignation.

A bossy looking girl, quite a bit larger than the nearby boys, intoned, “Well, for your information, these aren’t math problems; they’re algebra,” She added while wagging her finger, “and you aren’t supposed to say ain’t when you an English teacher.”

“Well,” Harry winked, “you got me there, sweetheart.”

She immediately smiled revealing a row of gleaming braces. Harry was making a mental note of the child’s leadership ability when Sharperson barked, “Excuse me, young lady, but what kind of way is that to talk to an adult? You keep yourself quiet in a classroom unless your teacher calls on you to speak!”

The girl’s victorious smile collapsed, and she cast her eyes down on her paper. Harry regretted setting up the gregarious child for a fall. It was his fault.

Then Sharperson turned on the teacher who was now clutching his briefcase while standing halfway out the door. “Leaving so soon?” she asked.

He quietly replied, “No m’am, but I’m a sub. I thought y’all were the regular teachers.”

“How long have you been here?” Sharperson demanded.

“Since Monday.”

“Well, by now you ought to know I’m not a ‘regular teacher.’ I’m Wanda Sharperson, the principal of Darwin Middle School.”

Sharperson turned to Harry, “Exactly what room are you supposed to be in Mr. Mills?”

“Five, I guess.”

She repeated slowly, “Five. You guess.” Then she tilted her head back and cocked an eyebrow. It was threaded—tapered, too. Her credit card bills must be astronomical Harry thought. The more money you make; the more you spend, Mills remembered hearing his grandfather complain years and years ago.

He had been here at Darwin MS for less than an hour, and knew his new principal for only a matter of minutes; nonetheless, Harry longed for the fast lane of the southbound Long Beach Freeway.

Sharperson stiffly apologized for intruding, she grabbed Harry’s arm, and together they backed out the door. Oddly the physical contact comforted Mills indicating she didn’t find him repulsive. Without a word, she unlocked Room 5 and motioned for him to step inside. The lights went on, and he heard the door shut behind. He turned expecting to see Sharperson, but she was gone.

Harry sighed and surveyed his new classroom. The color a nondescript beige favored by the Big City School District for all its thousands of classrooms from the mountains to the sea. A white board graced the south wall, while an antiquated, heavily marred chalkboard stared back from west. All bulletin boards were adorned with a single strip of colored paper that failed to reach the top or bottom, exposing pocked corkboard. Scalloped borders stapled along the edge emphasized the gap. There was nothing else on the walls.

During the previous week while temporarily parked at high-performing Gibson MS, Harry, hoping to the last the year, spent several days and nearly $100 of his own money decorating his classroom only to be transferred out Friday. He couldn’t justify tearing down all the new décor he dutifully hung to create a print-rich academic atmosphere for the students. Now, pone week later in a bare classroom, he wished he did because he would have to repeat the entire process and expense. Harry knew he wouldn’t be transferred away from this dreary, low-performing school--unless a charter operator put in a bid to run the place. And that wasn't going to happen until the end of this academic year.
At least the room was relatively clean. The exterior campus was coated in the grime of relentless urban traffic. Countless cars, delivery trucks and busses rolled forever to individual destinations. Overhead, an endless parade of behemoth, lumbering passenger jets arriving from around the world loudly descended into the international airport a few miles west.

Harry shut the door and in the welcomed ensuing quiet considered the clock on the wall. It was wrong. He checked his watch. The school’s block schedule meant there was less than a half hour left before his first students arrived. He walked over to the Title 1 room, where he would find government-funded supplies for teaching in a school serving poor people. Harry was one. He got some white butcher paper and marking pens, plus some chalk.

It was the first day for Mills, so he needed to set the kids straight on procedures, rules, and consequences. Rather than stand in front dictating, he figured he would let them vote on what rules they preferred. Of course, he would discreetly steer the discussion to his five favorites: bring your own paper and pens, get there on time, immediately write down the agenda, raise your hand to leave your seat, and complete all assignments

Once that was clear and the students thought it was all their ideas, Harry would break them into groups where they would create poster-sized cause-and effect charts describing each rule’s contribution to a pleasant academic environment. Then he would hang the kids’ posters on the wall. Viola: instant student-produced décor, which would also serve as reminders of proper conduct! Harry had learned a few tricks in the previous decade teaching middle school. It was now minutes before his first students arrived. He took comfort in knowing that soon they would all be one big happy family.
Or so he thought. Principal Wanda Sharperson’s abrasive, in-your-face management style was unbearable—even if it was gussied up in stylish clothes and multi-hundred-dollar spa treatments performed by stoic Korean women who stood over the supine, naked Sharperson slathering her with expensive mud while wishing they were back working in seedy massage parlors/whorehouses of Gardena and North Hollywood--because the tips are more generous.

Look for Part 10 in a few days!

Harry Mills's Free Fall Through the Big City School District Takes Him From Heaven to Hell

Actually, School Kids are All the Same. It's the Principals That Will Devil You

Part 8 in a series of fictional stories depicting one teacher’s experience working in the nation’s second largest school district. Once again, the characters are made up and should not resemble anyone you know. This story is meant to entertain; not piss off.

By Mark J. Blocker

Teacher Harry Mills was living a dream. His students were raising their hands before they spoke. Without exception, their utterances were reasonable and offered the class discussion insights well beyond their 12 years. Former newspaperman Mr. Mills stood before his journalism class at high-performing Gibson Middle School marveling at his pupils—and his luck.

What a turn of events from the malaise seen three months earlier when he—along with the rest of the faculty—were sent packing out of perennially low-performing Missouri Compromise Middle School when the school board voted to hand the place over to a charter operator under the Public School Choice program.

Making this current situation at Gibson MS even more surprising: numerous interviews during the summer failed to provide any job offers, so the Big City School District placed Mills at this school where the API score was an impressive 850. Mills was also enjoying the picturesque, 10-mile commute to posh Green Tree Farms Peninsula.

Perhaps the BCSD figured it was his reward for his 9 years of tough service at his former school. Receding far back into his mind’s rear view mirror were the memories of shaking hands good-bye to colleagues at the Gold Coast Star when he embarked on this new challenge teaching in the beleaguered BCSD which was desperately recruiting teachers willing to serve in public schools operating inside the nation’s worst crime-ridden and gang-infested shit holes. Mills was proud he had the balls, because the students and the job put new energy and meaning into his 44-year-old life.

About six years later inner-city public school teachers weren’t heroes anymore. Media complained. These teachers are parasites . . . no wait, they’re union thugs stealing money from taxpayers. Teachers secretly hate children and buy off corrupt politicians who rubberstamp exorbitant pay and benefits. Fire all lazy and inept veteran teachers. Look at dismal test scores and high dropout rates. Bring in some young blood with fresh ideas, and pay them less. Strip away retirement and medical benefits. No one in the private sector gets summers off. In fact private sector workers never get two weeks off at Christmas nor a whole week at Easter. Mills read editorials written by unionized journalists hoping the State would go bankrupt so all public-employee contracts could be voided. Radio talk show hosts were even more repugnant and hateful in their effort to pander to their frustrated, exploited audience. Media had changed for the worse in the past decade. So had the public's perception about education.

On that sunny day at Gibson MS, Mills couldn’t care less. Ho ho.

As big, burly Mills was striding comfortably to his car after the three o’clock bell, the new principal called him into his office. The young principal was a pale, diminutive fellow. He was also the son of the local school board representative. Informing Harry of the inevitable news, the impeccably dressed and coiffed man-boy smiled while apologizing profusely. Harry listened, but he had heard it all a week before from the former principal Mr. Dooley.

“What school am I being transferred to?”

“Drawn Middle School,” answered the kid. Harry gazed around the young man’s office. The last time he was in there, Dooley was moving out and the place was bare. Now all sorts of military aircraft adorned the walls and shelves—even the desktop.

“Were you in the Air Force?”

“Oh, no,” the principal replied. “I just thought it would go well considering our proximity to the harbor. You know, maintain a maritime type of motif, heh, heh.” Harry scratched his head over that before the kid queried, “What branch of the service were you in?”

“None. When I turned 18 Carter called off the draft. We had just lost Vietnam. It was all a big mess. I just went to college,” Harry shrugged. In his younger days drinking in bars he would test potential adversaries by telling them all about his aversion to taking orders from assholes. There was no point in doing that today.  Besides, such a proclamation would require a segue into Harry bragging that he never played a down of high school football because he hated the idea of reporting to school early and having to run around in Pasadena’s August heat and smog while some burr-headed prick screamed at him. Shit, he hoped that fucker lost all his games. When young Mills thought about football, he always fantasized he was the one throwing touchdown passes, kicking game-winning field goals from 50 yards out, or delivering a bone-crunching tackle to an arrogant back who coughed up the ball recovered by, of course, Harry, who would run it back for a touchdown. But big, slow Harry Mills knew damn well that his destiny on a gridiron was anonymously blocking for every glorified jock who demanded—and received—the ball.

Fuck that. In fact, that expletive is Harry’s motto about a lot of things in life--but not about teaching ghetto kids. Harry wanted to teach kids born into disenfranchisement how to beat The Man at his own game. It was why he worked at the BCSD. So perhaps it was only fitting he was being sent back to the 'hood. But he didn’t relish the idea. He was 53 now.

Mills failed to report to Drawn MS the next day, and nobody noticed. He did, however, case the joint. He drove west along Burnrock Boulevard, past the town of Southwood, a working class burg boasting warehouses, trucking companies, factories and 2X1 tract homes built right after World War II. Many of the houses had been expanded, often without concern for maintaining architectural integrity. Oh well, if the code enforcers didn’t mind, neither did Harry.

The road curved slightly and Harry entered the area called Burnrock Gardens. The houses became old bungalows and a few two-stories with the wood siding replaced by stucco. The larger homes were long ago converted into apartments. Every window, even the vents, had bars. Storefronts became vacant or peddled second-hand junk. Mechanics hand painted their signage with misspelled words. Within a few blocks, Harry couldn’t differentiate between business signs and spray-painted graffiti.

The next day, rather than report, he phoned Drawn MS to introduce himself to the principal. She wasn’t available. The lady who answered had Mills repeat his name and took his phone number.

A half hour later his cell phone rang, and the words shot out like a barrage of gunfire. It was the first of what would be many salvos aimed at destroying his will to teach.

“This is Wanda Sharperson, principal at Drawn Middle School. I have a few questions to ask just to be sure were on the same page.”

“Ok.”

“First off, are you a problem identifier or a problem solver?”

Mills figured she wanted to know if he bitched a lot.

“I pretty much mind my own business,” he said.

“How do you get along with parents?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good, because if you come to work here you will have to sign a memorandum of understanding that you will call each and every one of them to introduce yourself.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“Sir?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What is your attendance like?”

“Well, average, I guess.”

“You need to be here before 7:20. Classes start at 7:30 sharp, and I don’t like it when teachers come rushing in at 7:29. I will dock your pay.”

Harry got there at 6:40, but the gates were locked. He parked on Burnrock and waited. At 6:45, a custodian drove up in a golf cart and unlocked the gate. Mills drove in, and things went down hill from there.