From the Boredroom to the Classroom

Surprises in the Classroom

2010-07-15T08:58:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest things about teaching is that no day is predictable. Surprises- good and bad- inevitably await. Just when everything is “going to plan,” a surprise pops up in the most unexpected ways.

When I think about surprises in my classroom, I always think about Jasmine, a student from my first full year of teaching in 2003-04.

Everyone at Fairfax knew Jasmine. From the time she came to Fairfax as a freshman, Jasmine was every teacher's and administrator’s nightmare. Jasmine always dressed in short, skintight yellow shorts with a skimpy top exposing just about everything. She, and five other similarly-dressed friends, paraded around school with absolutely no regard for classes or bell schedules. They also had the foulest mouths I have ever heard. “Fuck that. I’m going to shit on your daddy’s grave,” I once heard them say to each other as I passed by.

Over the four years, her friends dropped out of high school- probably having failed to earn a single credit in high school. But not Jasmine. Somehow, despite Jasmine’s ditching, foul language, rudeness to teachers, and constant violations of the “dress code,” she had managed to stay in school- much to the disgust of fellow teachers. One of the teachers had enough. “I can’t take her anymore. I’ll do anything to get her out of my class.” Out of compassion (or just plain stupidity), I offered to take her. Often, moving students to a new environment with a new teacher can do wonders. But my colleague was skeptical, to say the least. “Thanks a lot. If you can handle her, you’re a miracle worker.”

A few days passed, yet Jasmine failed to show up- despite her having being officially assigned to my class.. About a week later, Jasmine finally came to my class- about 15 minutes late. She sauntered in wearing those tight, bright yellow shorts and a white shirt with black speckles spelling “Princess” across the front. 6 inch high heels provided the finishing touch. She plunked down her transfer slip on my desk and then jiggled her was to the back of the room where there was an empty seat. The rest of the class looked at her with a combination of amazement and horror- realizing that they would have to put up with Jasmine for the rest of the semester.

She sat down. It couldn’t have been more than 20 seconds when she raised her hand. With everything I knew about Jasmine, I was genuinely surprised by her even having the courtesy to raise her hand. “Mr. Stryer, I don’t want to be called Jasmine. I’m Princess Diana, OK?”

Here it was. Twenty seconds in my class and she was already testing me. If I said “no,” I would bring on a confrontational relationship. If I say “yes,” I’d be seen as a pushover and would be condemned to calling her “Princess Diana” for the rest of the year. Also, calling her “Princess Diana” was clearly inappropriate and disrespectful, All of the other students’ eyes were on me.

“Princess, was a World History book given to you in the other class?” I asked her. She pulled out a book from her backpack, rolled her eyes slightly, and waved her book. She never asked me again to call her Princess Diana, but “Princess” would remain her name in my classroom. I never called her Jasmine again.

The next few classes were surprisingly uneventful. Princess came to class on time and remained quiet in the corner. “So far, so good,” I said to my colleague when he asked about whether Jasmine had turned the class upside down yet. “God Bless you,” he muttered as he walked down the hall shaking his head. Still, something told me that I was in for some major surprises with Jasmine. I would not be disappointed

At the beginning of one class, I asked the students to talk about the major tenets of several Enlightenment philosophers. It was a subject that I had covered a few months before, so I wasn’t exactly expecting detailed answers. Princess raised her hand. I was standing up at the front of the class near the whiteboard and called immediately on her. I was expecting something like, “we didn’t do that in my other class,” or perhaps her first of many sarcastic answers. Instead, she asked, “So, who do ya want me to talk about? Voltaire, Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu or Rousseau?” “All of them,” I replied.

Princess cleared her throat. You could have heard a pin drop in the class- as every student was fixated on Princess. “Well,” Princess began with a smirk and an exaggerated, slightly mocking emphasis on proper grammar and pronunciation, “let’s start with Voltaire. As you know, the philosophy of Voltaire forms the basis for important parts of the Bill or Rights. As a outspoken critic of the French Government, Voltaire was a champion of freedom of speech and freedom of religion. He is supposed to have said, “I may disagree with what you say, but I will defend to death your right to say it.” This philosophy is expressed in our First Amendment, which provides for freedom of speech and protects the rights of everyone to express themselves- even if their views are fucked up. Voltaire also supported freedom of religion. We also see this in our First Amendment, which provides for free expression of religion and freedom from the Government telling us which religion or practices to follow.”

I quietly took a seat as Princess continued. For the next 15 minutes, Princess went through all of the Enlightenment philosophers, talking about their main beliefs and relating them to our world today. After initially proving her ability to speak in queen’s English, she switched back to her everyday conversation style “And Hobbes, like he said that we like need a strong government cuz without a strong government it’s like a jungle out there. Like only a strong government can really have our backs, ya know…” And on she went through Rousseau, Locke, and Montesquieu- beautifully interweaving their philosophies with our contemporary world with teenage slang.

At the end, there was only stunned silence. For whatever reason, Princess had provided a crystal-clear window into who she really was- a brilliant student who had successful hid her intelligence and talent from teachers, other students, probably her friends, and even herself. After an extended silence, there was just muttering from other students, “Are you fucking kidding?,” and “puta madre.” I, too, was at a loss for words. “Outstanding,” or something like it, was all I could manage to say.

For the next couple of months, Princess showed up to every class, on time, with homework completed- maintaining something like a 99.5% in the class. Then suddenly, sometime after Spring Break, her attendance and homework were sporadic and her grade starting plummeting. I spoke privately with Princess about it. She responded politely, but evasively. I had no idea what was going on. I persisted, but without any success or understanding. Over time, I came to know the many daunting obstacles she faced just in making it to school.

In the final weeks of semester, Princess seemed to pull it together- attending class regularly and showing her astounding potential. On the final exam, she received the highest grade I have ever given in my 7 years of teaching. By passing my class and her other required classes, Princess fulfilled her graduation requirements.

As Princess walked across the stage and received her diploma, I was in awe of the obstacles that she had overcome to graduate and her amazing tenacity. After the ceremony, Princess made it a point to find me.

“You was one fucking pain in my ass,” Princess said to me with a smile. “You’re welcome, Princess.” I said, “I expect great things from you.”

Talking Benches for an Impoverished School District

2010-07-14T17:18:00.000-07:00

On the inside part of the door in every L.A. Unified classroom, there should be a sign that reads “Warning: You are about to leave the sanity of your classroom and enter the Alice in Wonderland world of L.A. Unified.

Any time a L.A. Unified teacher leaves his or her classroom, he or she risks immediate exposure to the District’s highly illogical, twisted, maddening world. LA Unified teachers have become adept in devising coping strategies in response. Many teachers, especially veteran teachers, stay 100% focused on the classroom and ignore all of the District’s dealings- believing that meaningful change can only happen inside the classroom. Others, like those who slow down to watch roadside wrecks, relish seeing the District repeatedly fail and usually trip all over itself. And a few attempt to play an activist role (or some say Sisyphean) and try to change the system in any number of ways. I fall into the last category- not yet ready to concede that the District is beyond hope.

And then I read an article like I saw this morning in the Daily News. And I really wonder…

The gist of the article was that the L.A. Unified School Board had approved an additional $6 million needed to complete the new Robert F. Kennedy Community Schools complex built at the site of the old Ambassador Hotel, where Robert Kennedy was assassinated. The project had already cost the District an astounding $572 million- equating to $135,000 per seat for each of the 4,200 students. An alert Daily News reader noted that the $572 million was more than the GNP of each of 24 countries around the world.

The article also stated that the complex was extraordinarily costly because of expensive add-ons- including “talking benches.” For those not familiar with this indispensable item, I can pass along what I learned today about these benches. Basically, a talking bench is an “informative” bench that has multiple recorded messages. These recorded messages can change according to the positioning of the bench. Some benches have MP3 players, powered by miniature solar panels, so that bench users can “plug in” their headphones and listen to stories, poems, music, etc.

I’m not sure about the exact level of sophistication of the talking benches at the District’s newest complex. What I am sure about is that the $572 million and the talking benches represent yet another example of the upside-down priorities of L.A. Unified. We really have fallen into the rabbit hole.

There are so many things wrong here that it’s hard to know where to begin:

1) Why are we building more schools at a time of sharply declining enrollment? Over the past five years, enrollment in L.A. Unified has dropped by about 100,000 students, or about 15%. Yet we continue to add more and more schools at enormous costs. The last three major schools built by the District cost a whopping $1 billion in total. This has resulted in the paradoxical situation of “crowded classrooms, empty schools.” Classrooms become more and more crowded because of decreases in state funding, as well as more expenditures needed to maintain the fixed costs of the burgeoning number of schools. Schools become more and more empty as enrollment continues to drop at a time when literally dozens of new schools see construction completed. Granted, some of the construction began before the burst of the demographic bubble. But the District has done little to effectively manage the situation.

2) Spending $572 million (or $135,000 per seated student) is obscene: At a time when so many LA Unified schools are in disrepair, the idea of spending this much money is simply incredible. At Fairfax High School, where I teach, we have so many basic physical problems associated with the aging facility: lack of heating in winter, lack of air conditioning and overheated classrooms during the early Fall and Spring, broken communication systems, 15 year old desks trashed with graffiti, etc. Where are the priorities when we fail to address basic needs of our schools? We just need classrooms where we can teach, not hyper-modern architectural wonders costing half a billion $$.

And then I read later in the article that Board Member Steve Zimmer , in discussing the newest complex, says, “if the true cost were $250,000 a seat, it would be worth every penny.” Worth every penny? Doesn’t the Board realize the opportunity cost of spending money? Every dollar spent on a certain project is a dollar not spent on something else. I have a hard time believing that anyone could credibly argue that the $572 million spent on a new educational complex is the very best use of taxpayer money. Yes, there often are separate pots of money that cannot be comingled. But at the end of the day, the District is certainly not spending precious taxpayer money on the highest priority items.

3) How does a talking bench help our students? While the talking benches may be a drop in the bucket of total spending, they are a metaphor for the way our District operates. When the District plans its spending, does it really ask the critical questions: “Is this the best use of money to support our students’ education?” “What are we sacrificing by spending money in this way?” “How exactly will students benefit from this spending?” I doubt it.

4) What message does the School District send when it spends $572 million on a new facility and allows for spending on talking benches? Recently, L.A. voters failed to approve a parcel tax that would have provided about $92 million a year to L.A. Unified. While the money would not have been spent on construction or talking benches, how is voter perception shaped with this kind of excessive and frivolous spending? L.A. voters are savvy. L.A. Unified can forget about any further parcel taxes until it gets its own financial house in order.

Final note: As it turned out, talking benches have some tough competition for frivolous spending. Later in the Daily News article, we find that L.A. Unified spends $74,000 a year on carwashes (i.e., taking District vehicles to commercial car wash facilities). The good news is that L.A. Unified expects to have a plan in place by Sept. 1, 2010 on how to reduce car washing expenses going forward.

Talking benches. Crowded classrooms, empty schools. $572 million for just one school complex. $74,000 for car washes.

I can only think of Alice’s pleading after she fell into the rabbit hole: “It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.”

"Parcel Tax Defeat a Call for Reform"

2010-07-14T09:56:00.000-07:00

Why would I, a public school teacher in Los Angeles, oppose a tax increase that would have provided an additional $92 million to our school district each year?

Here's my answer printed as an Op-Ed in the Daily News...

Parcel Tax Defeat a Call for Reform

"Playing with Fire:" My First Day of Teaching

2010-07-12T14:36:00.000-07:00

“Here are the keys to your classroom. Good luck.” Without exaggeration, those were the only words of the Assistant Principal at Fairfax High School three days before my first day of teaching high school. I took the keys, opened Rm. 115 and entered the completely empty classroom. 45 used, graffiti-sprayed desks were scattered haphazardly around the room. The white walls were completely blank, other than a couple of old, torn posters of civil rights leaders. I stared at the three windows, which were barred with a strong metal gate from bottom to top. The clock behind my desk clicked loudly once a minute as the large hand moved inexorably towards my first day of teaching. I looked at the metal, emergency call switch- wondering if and when I would have to use it. I can honestly say that I never felt so alone in my life.

In just three days, 180 students would be walking through the classroom door and checking me out. I had these sudden waves of panic. I had these visions of the students clearly recognizing me as a 1st year teacher and being merciless in testing me on the first day. What if a student blurted out, “I’ve always hated history, it’s boring and it has nothing to do with my life?” It didn’t matter that I had a thoughtful answer all prepared.. I was still freaked out. What if all the students didn’t like the class and decided to walk out at the same time and complain to the Administration? Highly unlikely, maybe. But it didn’t matter. The thought gave me a pit in my stomach.

But what most worried me was the possibility that the students would quickly uncover my deficiencies in World History, asking me a detailed question about the specific events during the Crimean War or something like that. It didn’t matter that I had an answer planned out that went something like, “Great question. What I do know is that… Why don’t we find out …?” It didn’t matter that I knew that teachers aren’t supposed to know everything and that showing opportunities for self-learning to students was valuable. It didn’t matter. Just the thought that I possessed imperfect historical knowledge was particularly nauseating.

I had to come across as a seasoned professional. It was that simple, I thought. Planning was the key. Prepare a professional Powerpoint presentation filled with all of the wonderful things that we would be doing, the classroom policies, my background and then practice it to death. Or at least until they wouldn’t know that I was a first year teacher. But what if they asked if this was my first year teaching? Then what? I had an answer ready. I would say (truthfully) that I came from another school (i.e., the one where I had done my student teaching). And what if they asked where I did my student teaching? Or why I left that school? Then what? This was a possibility too horrible to contemplate.

Three days before school began, I spent my time worrying about these issues and decorating the room with all kinds of materials that I thought would pique the students’ interest. But I spent the most time on literally rearranging the desks (or would that be the deck chairs on the Titanic?) I visited dozens of classrooms and inspected their configurations. I settled on a horseshoe configuration- with the hopes of increasing student participation and discussion. But how close should the desks be to my desk at the front of the room? Pull them too close and the students would feel suffocated. Put them too far away and I would lose control. So went my thinking. I must have rearranged the positioning of the chairs at least sixty times- something highly atypical for me, as I rarely obsess about my decisions.

But this was my first day as a “real” teacher. Things would not follow normal patterns for my first day of teaching. As the day of reckoning approached, I grew more and more panicked. I even bought a couple of books on teenage behavior so that I could do some last minute “cramming.” I eventually nailed down the activities for the first day, but had absolutely no idea what I was going to do on Day 2… or Day 3 through Day 180 for that matter. But that wasn’t important now. I just had to get through the first day. The pit in my stomach now was far worse than the pit I previously experienced during fits of severe existential angst.

In retrospect, there were a couple of things that I didn’t realize about the first day of school. First, from 8:00-10:00, the students are absolutely dazed- completely unused to having to be awake during a time that they have probably been sleeping during for the past 75 days. Second, from 10:00 until the end of the day, the students are too busy looking at each other and “their new looks” to pay the slightest bit of attention to anything that the teacher is saying. Either way, my carefully-prepared comments are heard as “blah, blah, blah, blah.” At most, students pick up on a few non-verbal clues and make quick judgments about whether the teacher is “cool.”

But I was painfully unaware of the reality of the first day. On the morning of the first day of school, I awoke at 4:00 A.M. and quickly calculated that within 3 hours and 50 minutes, dozens of students would be walking through my classroom door. I arrived at school quite early and continued to reposition the chairs, chalk, posters, and anything else I could find that needed tweaking. At 7:50 A.M., I was ready to greet students at my doorway.

The warning bell rang at 7:50 and I opened my door. “Good morning,” I said as they filed in. The more outgoing students grunted something unintelligible. The less outgoing ones averted any eye contact and proceeded to the seat farthest from my desk.

The first day was a total blur. Everything seemed to go smoothly- thanks, I naively thought, to my preparation and rehearsals. The reality was that the first days almost always go smoothly- as students are too tired or distracted to cause problems. Or that the troublemakers are just lying in wait, scoping out the territory, and stalking their prey- before they go in for the kill.

My third period class seemed to be the exception to the typical first day class environment. They asked lots of questions. Usually, I love questions- but not on my very first day of teaching when the questions seemed to hone in on the fact that this was my first day of teaching. In any case, I narrowly avoided the “nuclear” scenario where students found out the truth about my status. Brianna, a student in my third period class, asked “Where’d you teach before?” and “How come you would leave Pali (my “training” school) to come to this ghetto school?” I gave some truthful, but evasive answer about enjoying the diversity at Fairfax. After answering, she gave a knowing smile. I am still grateful that Brianna was polite enough to not proceed to the logical third question.

The rest of the day went uneventfully. After I dismissed the last class, I felt waves of relief come over me. I had made it through the first day. No one walked out of my class. No one asked questions I didn’t know about the Crimean War. And no one publicly declared that I was a total rookie first-year teacher who didn’t know the first thing about History. It didn’t matter that I had absolutely no idea what I was going to teach the next day. I had made it.

I left my room and walked around the hallways in a bit of a daze. A couple of veteran teachers passed by and asked about my first day of classes. “Congratulations. You made it through the toughest day of your career. Welcome to teaching.” I walked back to my classroom. The loneliness was gone. The panic was gone. I had made the right choice to go into teaching. The certainty provided an unmatched sense of calm.

Still in Rm. 115, 5,000 classes later....

2010-07-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

It is now seven years after that first day of teaching. I have now taught about 5,000+ classes to nearly 1,200 different students. I am back in the same classroom preparing for another year. The graffiti-sprayed desks have not been changed. The bars remain over the windows. The clock continues to tick loudly once a minute. The emergency switch, which I never used, has been replaced by a supposedly modern communication system. Little is changed in the appearance of my classroom.

But the panic is gone. I no longer worry about any question that students may throw my way. I’ve learned enough about the Crimean War to give somewhat intelligent answers if students manage to ask even an arcane question about it. And I don’t worry if I can’t answer a question- even a question that I should be able to answer. I know what I will be doing the next day and, to some extent, within the next week and month. Yet the butterflies of the first day of school remain. When I no longer have butterflies on the first day of school, it would be time to move on from teaching.

As I sit at my desk and envision the next group of 175 students with whom I’ll spend the year, I close my eyes and think about everything that’s happened inside this same classroom for the past several years. All the minor frustrations and difficulties seem to fade away for the moment. I think only about the wonderful things I have been lucky enough to experience in this classroom and in the school.

I think about when my only brother passed away towards the end of a school year. I returned to school a couple of days after the memorial service. Word had spread about my brother- to both the faculty and staff. As I came to school, dozens of teachers hugged me and gave their condolences. The Principal did the same and shared the simplest and perhaps most meaningful words, “there are no words for this.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect from my students. While I usually avoid getting my students involved in my personal life, I felt that a few words were necessary- as I had been unexpectedly away for a week. Word had apparently gotten around about my brother’s death, but I still felt that something more was needed- particularly with a student population which has suffered so many losses in gang-related violence.

I prepared a few thoughts to share with each class- focusing on realizing the precariousness of life, our mortality, living for the moment, and spending time with friends and relatives. Nothing terribly profound- but a message that was heard loud and clear by students who have been through too much in just 15 or 16 years. For the first time in my teaching career, there was absolute, complete, attentive, and sustained silence- with each student quietly reflecting on my comments.

The depth of the students’ understanding and compassion would become clear during my first class- my AP World History class. After I briefly had shared my thoughts, a petite Southeast Asian girl, said, “Mr. Stryer. There is something we would like to give you.” And she brought out a large, hand-made condolence card with something written by everyone in the class. I began to read some of the comments as the class worked on a project.

“Hola, Mr. Stryer. I know you’re probably going through tough times right now, but I wanted to take the time to let you know how much I appreciate you as a teacher. Thank you so much for keeping me in this class, though at times I lacked determination, you kept me at it and as of now I’m glad that I’ve succeeded without having a nervous breakdown. I’m extremely sorry to hear about your loss, but you are a strong person and I know that you’ll get through it. Just like you helped me get through this class.” - Ebony

“I’m very sorry to hear about your recent loss. I wish your family the very best. I know you’ll continue to be a wonderful teacher, as you have been this year. Your attitude toward teaching is well-appreciated and has brought us to the AP test with a great deal of knowledge. Thank you for your wisdom and I hope you feel better soon.” - Blanca

I’m really sorry to hear about your brother. I hope you and your family recovers from this terrible loss soon. It’s a very difficult thing to do, I know. But I know that you will do just fine and come back to us with your usual professional, yet quite energetic, attitude.” -Liliana

When I finished reading a few of the wishes, I was speechless. I stepped outside into the hallway to avoid flooding my desk with tears. As I read more, I realized a few things. Above all, a teacher has the potential to make an enormous impact on students. The impact will almost never be expressed quite as directly as on the condolence card. My brother’s death strangely provided a unique window on my impact as a teacher on my students. The Hollywood ending rarely, if ever, occurs- when a student comes up to a teacher on the last day of school and says, “You don’t know what a difference you’ve made. Thanks to you, I stayed away from gangs, didn’t become pregnant, learned to love history, and will be entering college in the fall. I couldn’t have done it without you.” It just doesn’t happen that way.

Sometimes, a teacher’s impact on students will be expressed in subtle, almost unrecognizable ways. Improved attendance. More eye contact. A student volunteering to write something on the board. Or letting you know that they heard about a recently-studied concept on the news.

Occasionally, it will be expressed many years later when a student comes back for a visit. But usually, it will never be expressed or even be visible. Students will come in your class in September and leave in June and you won’t have the slightest clue whether they have retained anything or have been changed by their time in your classroom. For teachers who say that they “want to make a difference,” the caveat had better be that “I need to be prepared for the fact that I may never know if I’ve actually made a difference with almost all of my students.”

From my reading the condolence card in the hallway, I fast-forward two years. The three sophomores who wrote the card are now seniors- awaiting admission news from colleges. One morning, Ebony walks by my room with a big smile. Ebony had struggled in my AP World History class two years before. At the start of the year, her writing was very weak. She had trouble with abstract concepts. She was used to simply memorizing facts in previous history classes. She was enormously frustrated that she was receiving a “C” even though she worked 1-2 hours per night on the material in my class. On about ten occasions, she approached me after class and begged to be transferred into a regular history class. On each occasion, I encouraged her to stay, to continue to improve, and to challenge herself. After a while, her pleas became more of a way of asking me whether I still believed in her. By the middle of the year, she stopped asking. Now, two years later, she beams, holding an acceptance letter from UCLA. I have no doubt that we will soon see Ebony in some type of prominent leadership role.

On the same day, I heard from Liliana and Blanca. They, too, had struggled in my class. They, together with two other students, had formed a AP World History study group that met for hours on the weekends and, often, during the week. Their preparation was excellent and brought them from decent AP students to outstanding ones. The study group continued through their remaining high school years. It helped carry Liliana and Blanca into UC Berkeley- making both of them the first of their families to attend college.

As I prepare for the next school year, I walk around the room and think about the other things I’ve been fortunate enough to experience as a teacher. Most gratifying, perhaps, is thinking about my truly “at-risk” students who somehow managed to graduate from high school. Overcoming obstacles that many of us cannot fully comprehend- sexual abuse, other forms of child abuse, broken homes, drug addictions of family members, unknown mothers and fathers, excessively crowded living conditions (with ten people living in a one bedroom apartment), the need to care for younger siblings, extreme poverty, gang involvement, and the list goes on and on. Not that these issues should provide a “get-out-of-school pass” for at-risk students. But they certainly make the voyage towards graduating from high school a whole lot harder.

As I walk around the room, I am suddenly marching with cap and gown a few months earlier in our graduation ceremony. Pomp and Circumstance plays, as many of my students file onto the football field with a look of complete fulfillment that I never saw in the classroom. As the Principal calls the names, I think of the journey of some of my students. I also think of the 55% of the original Freshman class that is not on stage- having given up on themselves (or by others) years ago. But today is for those who did not give up.

Pablo

2008-09-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

Then there was my student, Pablo. Until Pablo’s senior year, I never had him as a student. I came to know Pablo just from his ubiquitous presence in the hallways- before class, during class, and after class. Wherever I went in Fairfax during my conference periods (non-class preparation period for teachers), I seemed to run into Pablo and his girlfriend. Pablo wore the usual tagger clothing- white t-shirt, baggy pants- while sporting a closely shaved head. Yet I never got any hint that he actually tagged at school. Rather, Pablo and his girlfriend sauntered aimlessly in the hallways for hours at a time. When I approached them and asked them to get to class, I invariably encountered a polite, even pleasant response: “I would go to class but Mr./Ms. XXX is so boring that I start crying when I sit down,” he would say with a laugh. Or “Mr./Ms. XXX hates me and I know that I won’t pass no matter what.” I would launch into my canned response about having to deal with all types of authority figures (teachers, bosses) and that you’d better get used to the good, the bad, and the ugly. Pablo would smile pleasantly and continue to meander. When I brought Pablo’s truancy up with our Deans, I would get a shrug and some response like “We can’t kick him out for ditching. And he doesn’t seem to cause any major problems. So I wouldn’t worry too much.” But I persisted.

Anytime I encountered Pablo, I would try to provide some reason for him to attend classes more regularly (importance of graduation, ability to make good money, whatever). My efforts failed miserably. For at least two years, Pablo continued to walk

On the first day of school last year, Pablo walked into my room- as a student in my senior Government class. Before class even began, I asked to speak with him in the hallway. “Pablo, I need you to come to class every day. It’s important. I’m going to be at graduation in June and I want to see you on-stage. It’s a day you will remember the rest of your life.” This time, Pablo did not smile or laugh. He nodded and headed back into class. I wondered how many of my classes he actually would attend.

I was pleasantly surprised. Pablo attended all of my classes the first week. I discreetly complimented him on this, just saying “You’re on a roll. Keep it up.” Keep it up he did. Over the course of the year, Pablo missed just a handful of days. The last day of the year he told me that he had ditched my class only once.

As Pablo had made up all of the classes he failed while ditching in previous years, he actually was in a position to graduate. .While Pablo did reasonably well in my class, this was not the case in one of his classes. He hovered between a “D and a “F.” Just before the end of the semester, Pablo received a “F’ on a project he supposedly worked hard on. “I’m gonna yell at that bitch,” Pablo screamed as he walked into my class. His pleasant demeanor had evaporated. “That’s it. I can’t do it. I’m done.”

I again asked Pablo to go outside in the hallway. “Pablo. If you’re going to let Ms. XXXX stop you from graduating, everything that you’ve done this year will have gone to waste. If someone had told me at the beginning of the year that you’d come to 80% of my classes, I would have been thrilled. And you’ve come to just about every class. Don’t let Ms. XXX screw it up for you. Go talk to her and find out what you need to do to pass the class. And if it’s OK, I’ll do the same.” Pablo had calmed a bit, although he continued to seethe for the rest of class.

Over the next week, Pablo did talk to Ms. XXX, as did I. With a strong performance on his final, Pablo could pass. Studying like he had never studied before, Pablo took the final. The next day, he came to my room- shaking.

“I did it,” he said pounding his fist on my desk. “Not by much, but I did it. I’m gonna get my diploma. I’m gonna get my diploma.”

He said down and exhaled deeply several times. He could hardly speak. I asked him if his family and friends were going to the graduation. “Hell yes. I’m gonna buy a whole bunch of tickets. No one in my family has ever graduated from high school. All my homies from the 'hood dropped out. I’m the first of my homies to graduate. Some are in jail. Some have jobs. At graduation, you’re gonna see a whole lot of shaved head guys shouting when I get on stage.” And with that, Pablo walked out, still finding something to punch in celebration.

The last day of school (the day after graduation), I was cleaning my room. In walked Pablo holding his official diploma- thanking me for all I had done. “I want a picture of the two of us with my diploma.” A friend snapped a couple pictures of us sandwiching his diploma. I can’t say that either of us had dry eyes.