Classroom Confidential

I returned home from my trip to Mexico just a week before school started, having heard that San Francisco Unified School District really didn’t start hiring until the last few days before classes began. I put on my only suit and headed out to the school of my dreams, walked in with a portfolio of my best lesson plans and letters of recommendation, and asked the secretary if they were in need of a science teacher. She said they could interview me in twenty minutes, if I didn’t mind waiting. I was called back that afternoon with a job offer.

On the morning of my first day, I arrived early to give myself time to pick up my rosters and get my room in order. The most obvious problem was that there weren’t enough chairs and desks for the 36 students I was expecting. I was excited and really looking forward to meeting my first students, not just because they were my first students, but also because it was an ESL biology class, an opportunity to really apply what I had learned over the summer. So I scrambled and scrounged to get my room in order, to make a good impression, and with the help of one of my colleagues, I managed to find just enough extra chairs. However, when I received my rosters I was horrified to see that my first period class had 38 students on it, two more than the contractual limit and two more than the number of chairs I had worked so hard to acquire.

My ESL biology class had students from India, Pakistan, the Philippines, Macao, China, Viet Nam, Cambodia and Burma, and one from Mexico. Half the kids had names that were so new to me that I had no idea what their genders were, let alone how to pronounce them, names like Haripreet, Bao Yu, Cheng-gong, Dao-Ming, Enlai, Hui-Fang, An-Tuan, Huynh, Ngoc, Dalisay, Diwata, Htai, Kyaw, Bounthieng, and Mrinmayee. And then they arrived, not 38, but 45. I had students sitting on milk crates and lab benches, standing in the back, leaning against walls. I apologized profusely and they thanked me profusely and, despite the logistical problems on day one, we developed the most wonderful classroom culture.

I remember one Vietnamese student who had just arrived in the country. He could not speak a word of English. When I asked him his name, he looked up at me with such confusion and fear that I felt terrible for having asked him such a thing. Students such as he were supposed to be sent to Newcomer High School, where they received intensive English language development. Eventually they would trickle into the mainstream schools where they took ESL classes until they knew enough English to be in mainstream classes. Fortunately there was another Vietnamese student who helped translate for him.

While my first period ESL students were polite, on time, and eager to do well, my second period class was a conceptual chemistry course for native born students. Most of these students had flunked at least one previous science class. And many came to school only because it was better than being at home or on the streets, or because it was a requirement of their probation. Half of my second period students sauntered in late, some by as much as 30 minutes, as if their being in class at all was sufficient. And this was not just a problem on opening day. Throughout the year it was rare to see more than 50% of these students in their seats by the time the tardy bell rang.

That first week I tried to call the parents of every one of my 170 students. I hoped that I could temper the unpleasant interactions with some nice words for those who were doing well. I spent four hours per day on the phone that first week, most of which was spent talking to answering machines or listening to the operator telling me that the number had been disconnected. I think I managed to reach the parents of only 30 of my students, and most of these were kids who were doing well.

I also encountered a few parents who were hostile to me. Some screamed that I should be glad their child showed up at all, or argued that being on time wasn’t important. There were others who broke down sobbing that their child was out of control and wasn’t there something I could do to reign them in? One parent told me that the next time I should call her and she would come right over and sock him in front of his friends. Another told me that I had his permission to hit his son. In many cases the parents simply weren’t available to monitor their child’s homework or behavior because they were working two or three jobs or because they were in and out of jail or on drugs. This was just the tip of the iceberg.

During my first few years I got a real serious lesson from the school of hard knocks. I had an epileptic student whose seizures grew in quantity and intensity whenever her mother was on a crack binge. I’ve had numerous pregnant students, most of whom stopped coming to school. One student had post traumatic stress disorder and panic attacks so severe she couldn’t be at school. I’ve had students who stopped coming to school because they had been raped or molested or harassed over their sexual orientation. I’ve had several students who couldn’t do their homework because they were turning tricks all night, including a male-to-female transgender youth. There have been others who continued to come to school but sat in class sobbing, incapable of participating.

I’ve had students miss class to attend drug rehab, physical therapy or counseling. Others stopped attending because they had been arrested. Several have stopped coming because they run away from home. Many stopped attending because of threats by gangs or bullies. One of my students watched his father murder his mother in front of him.

I’ve had students with depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and anti-social personality disorder. I’ve had others with such severe emotional disorders that they couldn’t communicate with me, stay seated for more than a minute, or comprehend why other students looked at them so strangely. There was one boy who had such acute anorexia that he was hospitalized twice in one school year and another, with sickle cell, who was absent far more often than he was present.

I’ve had students who were homeless, living on the streets. Many students shift between two homes as a result of divorce, complicating the problems of where and when to do homework and where or how to store text books and other educational resources. Many live in crowded, noisy homes, with no quiet space for doing homework. Some are required to work to help the family meet its financial needs or to care for siblings or elderly family members, either of which may take priority over homework. Some are treated like indentured servants by extended “family” members or sponsors.

A Rural Education in Mexico

Prior to my first teaching job I spent the summer in Mexico, in Zinacantan, a Tzotzil village in the Chiapan highlands. I was there to study bilingual education among Mayan middle school children as part of a course I was taking through San Francisco State and the Autonomous University of Chiapas. In reality, the teachers at this school were monolingual Spanish speakers and the majority of students had limited Spanish proficiency. Teachers used the standard lecture format, with no modifications for the Mayan children. There were no visual aids, videos, computers, or even books in the room. The school library had exactly three books that had been translated into Tzotzil.

The classrooms were minute, filled with rows of broken down wooden desks, with a chalkboard in the front. On several of the days I was there, the principal asked if I would teach the class because the regular teacher had not shown up. Like their regular teacher, I was unable to communicate with students in their native language. Like the students, Spanish was my second language and I was not fluent. This put us all on more equal footing.

Zinacantan, like many villages in the area, maintains a strong traditional culture. Most of the men, women and children wore the traditional bright red clothing of their village. Most of the men farmed corn. There was also a small ornamental flower industry that gave Zinacantan a modest economic edge over its neighbors. Nevertheless, it was not uncommon for boys to drop out before they had reached middle school to help their fathers in the fields. In many villages, it was also typical for the girls to quit school at this age to start families or to help at home. Perhaps because of their relative “prosperity,” girls in Zinacantan were marrying later and staying in school longer. In my school, girls were in the majority, and many aspired to get out of the village and become doctors or go into business.

I did not teach these students anything new. I had not come prepared to teach and the school had no resources on hand to help me. Instead, I spent a lot of time getting to know the kids and reviewing basic biology with them. Despite the fact that their regular teachers seemed to take a lot of mid-week vacations, these students knew more biology than many of the students I encountered on my first teaching job in San Francisco. This was probably due, in part, to the fact that the Mayan students were at school because they wanted to be there. Anyone who didn’t want to be there was at home or in the fields. But it was also a small, tight-knit community with rigid mores. It was not a place that tolerated laziness, arrogance or selfishness, nor a place where students could develop bad academic or behavior pattern.

It was several years after the Zapatista uprising had begun. Zinacantan village had not been particularly affected by the uprising. Nevertheless, there was considerable graffiti throughout the area, around San Cristobal, Chamula, and Zinacantan, on walls and fences, not only in support of the Zapatistas, but in support of teachers, students and unions. A common slogan was, “Books and Scholarships, Not Repression.” I had been in Chiapas a few years earlier, just prior to the uprising, and don’t remember any graffiti in support of popular causes. The movement had inspired and emboldened people, even the majority who had not taken up arms. In 1995, the Zinacantan region kicked out the corrupt bosses of the PRI who had ruled the country since the revolution. They voted in the PRD who later violently attacked a peaceful rally of 4000 Zapatista supporters in 2004.

One reason why the Zapatistas were so popular among the Maya was that they were primarily Tzotzil and Tzeltal Maya themselves. There was probably a sense of ethnic pride. There had been a long history of institutionalized racism against the Maya and profound economic and political marginalization. The racism and marginalization continue to this day, not only by other Mexicans, but by foreign tourists, too. People visit from all over the world, eager to see the beautiful textiles, pottery and other handicrafts. They romanticize Mayan resistance and rebellion and indigenous “harmony” with the Earth. Yet, in my experience, many tourists treat local people like living museum pieces, taking snapshots without permission, or invading their villages in tour buses during festivals or rituals.

One day I traveled by horseback from San Cristobal to Chamula, a nearby Mayan village, along with a group of eight other gringos and a mestizo guide. Because I had been living in San Cristobal all summer, some U.S. ex-patriot neighbors asked if I would chaperone their two tween-age boys. The guide was a local language instructor who I knew. We had visited Chamula together the week before. He drank too much in their cantina and had to get off the bus on the way back to puke. The others in the group were strangers.

The ride up the mountain was rugged, scenic and lovely in every way imaginable, much of it through dense pine forest. Once we arrived in Chamula, however, I realized we were in trouble. Our guide immediately disappeared into a cantina. It was the end of a village festival. There were a lot of extremely inebriated local people. Many were unconscious. A group of men gathered around us as we rode into the central square. They started to stare and point. There was a tall, blond-haired woman in our group. The locals were clearly interested in her and started to touch her hair. This, of course, terrified her, and she started to scream. This, in turn, either scared or angered the men, and they became more aggressive.

The situation was extremely volatile. We need to leave quickly, but the others were catatonic. I suggested we head out. They didn’t want to leave without our guide. “Forget our guide,” I said. “He’s in the cantina getting drunk. He’s no help to us now. When I say go, follow me.”

I have no experience with horses whatsoever. I suspect none of us did. It didn’t matter. We had to act quickly and decisively or things would get dangerous. I shouted at the men to let go of her and told everyone to ride. I pushed the men’s hands away from her and screamed at her to ride away. The rest of us followed.

Amazingly, it worked. We escaped Chamula without further incident. The trip back was much slower. It was raining. The horses were more cautious and tentative as they made their way down the steep mountain trail, but they knew the way back. My saddle was the wrong size and the dampness was causing me to slip and slide. By the end of the three hour trip, I felt like a Hollywood cowboy, with my legs bowed out, and the worst saddle rash imaginable. But we survived. The boys’ parents were very appreciative. I took a long nap, on my belly.