I Wanted to Be a Teacher — The Inspiration

 I did not want to be a teacher, as much as I wanted to be a lively
personality, like my English teacher Mr. M. I really liked him. He seemed to be
having so much fun doing what he was doing. Now that I consider it at length, I
could never stand to be a teacher, coming into the same classroom every day,
giving up my weekends to grade those essays written in a crimped and scrawling
scratch.

 He was a funny guy, a "funny guy" indeed in his own words, one who
was so at home in his way about the world. A tough instructor who expected a
lot from his students, who had no time for backtalk or low standards. He was
rough-hewn conservative. He offended the feminists. He talked down to
administrators who expected so little from students and parents alike. I started
pushing him to the wall, sometimes, because he was a provocative fellow.

 He was a mentor, one of my own choosing, incidentally enough. He called me
the "perfect student." Too bad that I did not have classrooms full of
perfect students when I braved the halls of public school macadam madness. I
went to a more elite school, perhaps, in that gang activity was hardly common,
where the middle-class sensibility of "put some work into it" was
pervasive. No one had a hard time being a "perfect student" in that
school. Anyone could succeed without fear of taunting or harassment. This
set-up is not the case in many schools throughout Southern California, today.

 But an English teacher I did not want to be. No way. Then again, essay
writing has become essential to any class, no matter what the subject, now that
standardized testing is playing such a looming role in public education today.
Still, I took my English Teacher's advice. No way was I going to be an English
teacher and slog through a bunch of essays every weekend.

 In the end, I took the subject exams for English, the Social Sciences, and
French. The State of California permits future teachers to demonstrate their
subject competence either through a course survey of ten classes, or by taking
a comprehensive state exam. I passed all three, since I was an adept test-taker
(not that it would indicate that I was a stellar or even a qualified teacher).
I was a humanities guy all the way, and I had no interest in teaching math or
science. I was not good at Algebra II or Trig, and I hated science, every year
that I took it. French was fun. I liked the paradigms of the different verbs,
regular and irregular. I liked singing French songs, but I was wrong to think
that the students would have the same passion and enthusiasm that I exuded.

 My mentor teacher was never too far away in my imagination. When I was struggling
to get by during the first few months of school, I sought out Mr. M. I had
taken an assignment in South Gate, three quarters of the year had already
passed by. The students had learned French from a long-term substitute who was
not schooled in French but had done an accomplished job, at least enough to get
the students through to that point.

 When I took over, I was a bundle of nerves. I could not sleep the first
night, so turned up was I that I would do poorly. I found myself facing a
number of compelling problems, not the least of which was a group of students
who were barely literate in Spanish or English, yet here I was trying to teach
them a third language. I was not their full-time teacher, and for the rest of
the year I faced nothing but challenges and conflicts. I was just not ready for
this transition.  I wanted to bring a
tough standard, but these schools, located in Southeast Los Angeles County, had
transformed into a culture of accommodation where very little was expected
beyond just enough to pass the kid.

I was a mess. I called Mr. M. the mentor. He took me to a Mexican restaurant,
where we had a nice meal. He trotted out a bunch of tactics which has guided
his curriculum at Torrance High. He loved talking up standardized tests. He
loved talking about community colleges. He loved telling students what they had
to do in order to go to college. Looking back on his advice, this man simply
did not realize that I was teaching a number of students who were not college
bound. They had no interest in higher education, as opposed to getting high. Of
course, I refer facetiously to a grueling minority of students, yet the greater
number of them were just as lost as I was.

 “Imprinting.” My saged mentor told me again and again. “Imprinting. Have you
ever seen little ducklings? When they see their mother, they start following
her wherever she goes. Think about it. Next year, you will have your own class.
They will be your kids entirely. They will do whatever you want.”

Yes, that was the grand dream, the hope of 
a grand and greater future. Even the site counselor told me the same
thing at the end of the summer that year. I would have my own class!

 Mr. M. loved higher education. Perhaps that was his destination. He would
have been a great professor, strolling about in his pristine navy blue suit and
stripped green and orange tie. But I was not wafting freely in the Ivy
Leagues.  I was trying to get by in
“Little TJ”, what the students called South Gate and neighboring Huntington
Park.

 His advice did very little to instill or inspire me with any confidence
beyond our little talk that night. I was facing growing and leering political
forces which threatened my every move. The changing demographics, the
horrendous standardized tests, the lack of support from administrators who were
more concerned about making payroll and keeping attendance up instead of
dealing with unruly students who threatened teachers, students, and themselves.
South Gate was not Torrance, but my mentor did not understand that, and I did
not understand that he did not understand this dynamic.