The parents and the administrators were worse, much worse.
The principal was an a—hole, a brown-noser with district staff who would then
rub the stuff in your face afterwards if you stepped out of line.
The kids were experts at lying about the teachers, and they could tell that
I was the type of teacher who meant business. Brea Olinda High School was never about
business, but more about babysitting, without a doubt.
I could not believe the nonsense that I was going to be putting up with.
This was a terrible mess of a school from the inside, even though everything
looked nice and pulled-together on the outside, much like a dysfunctional family
that smiles for the Sunday portrait, everyone wearing their nice clothes and
pretty smiles.
The nonsense that these kids would get away with was made all too plain to
me when the principal dressed me down after the first day on the job.
I had set up a little "theater game" called "Death by"
in which students would have to tell a story really fast, and the first person
who made a mistake would have to act out his "death".
This game is not macabre at all, but is a theater exercise to get students
out of their skin so that they can feel comfortable talking in front of other
people. Of course, some of the students tattled on me to their parents or to
the school staff right away. I could not believe that I was getting hit down
without a chance to sit up and make a stand for myself.
I called the parents of one young lady in the last period class, the worst
class ever. This girl would never be quiet, content to talk as much as she
pleased while I was simply trying to take role. The mother was a terrible
enabler, a frumpy lady who threatened to go to the principal. I was really
frustrated, with no support and already parents were circling the wagons
against me.
One kid insisted on doing her English work in my class, which I took and
ripped up. She then tattled on me to the principal and told her mother, who
pledged to come to conference with me. I was all shook up, to say the least!
When I told the assistant principal in charge of foreign languages what was
going on, he told me flatly:
"Arthur, you have to accept that it is not your class."
Such a telling indictment is the beginning of the end. If a teacher cannot
claim ownership of the class for himself, then what authority does he have?
This guy, like many teachers, parents, and administrators to follow, blamed the
victim time and again. I cannot believe that this administrator actually
believed that the kids had to have the first and last say, but that was the
case. I look back on that little conversation, replete with assents from the
administrator, much like a counselor or social worker who pretends to be
listening, but is filing through a bunch of paperwork, and thus barely
remembers what you said last.
Then the secretary got caught up in the drama. This lady loved to gossip,
although when I had first met the woman, I thought that she was on my side. She
reminded me of those warm and homely grandmother types, then I learned that she
was just a back-stabbing you-know-what who delighted on dishing on new staff.
Who could thrive in such an environment? Who could make the most of so
crappy a school, that the teacher was always going to lose, no matter how hard
the teacher tried?
I cannot thunder this indictment against public education enough: our
teachers get no respect, and the union representation that they have to pay for
does nothing to protect their rights and dignity on the job.