Teaching with Tim

When I go to work, I park my Taurus about a block from the school among the one-story, pastel-colored houses and duplexes that define residential South Gate.  It’s a working class neighborhood, complete with fences, fire hydrants, and over-zealous Chihuahuas.  Many of the residents work in the big industrial sector of Southeast L.A. that looms to the North.  The population is Latina/o almost without exception—Spanish is the home language for literally 99 percent of the students at Southeast Middle School. 

If I taught a mile or two to the West, in Watts, I might hear gunshots and sirens regularly.  Gang activity is present in South Gate, but it is quietly present.  The streets are peppered with red and white street signs that say “NO CRUISING ZONE.  $1,000 fine and 6 months in jail,” but I have never actually seen any activity in the neighborhood (besides tagging) that was clearly gang-related.  That said, I know that for my students, the presence of crime and gangs is a pressing daily reality; they write about being mugged, about being jumped in to gangs, and about witnessing robberies, kidnappings, and shootings.  A very small minority of my students consider themselves gangbangers.  Two days ago, after flashing a gang-sign at the wrong guy, one of my students was kicked out of school for fighting.  She’s thirteen years old. 

As you might imagine, a blond-haired gringo in a tie driving a car with Washington plates isn’t exactly inconspicuous in South Gate.  I get a lot of weird looks walking to and from school.  But it was not until yesterday that I was actually confronted by a local resident. 

      It was 4:15, and I was returning to my car after work.  I was on the South side of Nebraska Street walking West, and on the other side of the street, walking the opposite direction, was a big bald guy with a goatee.  Maybe forty years old, 275 pounds.  He had a bottle of booze in his right hand. 

“Hey,” he said.  He waved for me to come over to him.

I kept walking and said something awkward in that I can’t remember.  Something like, “Oh, I’m just heading this way.”  I was in a hurry and didn’t want to deal with it.  But he was insistent.

“Hey,” he said again.  This time he gestured more forcefully, and he took a step towards me into the parking strip.

I stopped.  He continued to wave me across the street, insisting that I come to him.  Reluctantly, I complied. 

“How’s it going,” I said.

He stood very close to me. “What you doin’ round here?” 

“Just walking to my car,” I said.

“What you doin’ round here?” he said, this time more loudly.  He was drunk.  It was clear that by “you,” he meant, “you, white boy.”   

I explained that I was a teacher at Southeast Middle School and unzipped my jacket to show him my shirt and tie as proof.

“You a teacher?” he said.  He was still hostile, but this information softened him a little. I was naïve and pathetic in his eyes, but I no longer deserved to have my face smashed in on the spot.

“Tim Schlosser,” I said.  I offered him my hand, and he shook it for a long, long time. 

“You don’ need to know my name,” he said.  He paused for a moment, still absently shaking my hand.  “Don’t come around here no more.”

“Why not?” I asked.  I knew exactly what he was getting at, but for some reason I wanted him to say it. 

“It’s dangerous,” he slurred.  Then, “It’s very concerning for me.  Yes, it’s very concerning for me.”  Suddenly he was my big brother or something.  “Where do you park?” 

He finally released my hand.  I turned around and waved vaguely behind me, not wanting him to know which car was mine.  Luckily, he didn’t press the point. 

“It’s very concerning for me,” he said for the third time.

“Be more specific,” I said.  If I weren’t just as naïve as the guy probably supposed me to be, I would have been more afraid of him.  But for some reason I was just annoyed, and I wanted to go home.

“I can’ be more specific,” he said.  “It’s just very concerning for me.  Don’ park your car around here no more.  Park somewhere else.” 

I told him that I would continue to park there, and he continued to tell me how concerning for him that was. 

The conversation ended when his cell started ringing.  He took it out of his jacket and started talking in Spanish.  His eyes were still on me, like he still had more to say and wanted me to stick around until his phone call was over, but I said “Nice meeting you,” and walked away.  I went about one hundred feet past my car, then doubled back when satisfied that he was no longer watching. 

This little incident had no effect on where I park my car, but it did have an effect on me in another way.  I realized that this character I had encountered—a menacing, inebriated, middle-aged gang member—is not just someone my students sometimes see on the street.  For some of my students, this man is a brother, an uncle, or a father.  The realization was humbling.  It was something I already knew, in theory, but seeing it in this way was a new experience, and I hope it will give me an improved sense of perspective when I work with behavior problem students.  I still have so much to learn. 

Student Art, Period 1:

 

I’m writing on a sum total of 8 hours of sleep in the past 48, so please forgive the brevity of this update.  I’ve been teaching again for three days, and I must say that things are looking better… after carpet-bombing all of my classes with a three-page handout on discipline and procedures on the first day, then proceeding to coldly enforce each and every new rule and consequence, silence is making a comeback in Room 319.  The next step?  Actually teaching them something, I guess.  We’re getting there…

Seeing family and friends over break provided me with a desperately needed opportunity to reflect on my practices as a teacher and as a human being.  I saw that my life was out of balance, that I was letting the waves of change toss me around instead of navigating them strategically.  In failing to take care of myself and maintain a sense of self in the face of all the changes in my life, I started to let things slip to the point where all I wanted to do was survive and sleep.  Mostly the latter. 

If I now see things more clearly and have a more positive view of the possibilities the future might hold, I owe it entirely to time spent with family and friends who recharged and realigned my internal navigation systems.  So, thank you.

More to come.