Saturday, February 27, 2016
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Training Day
The recruiter for the agency that's
hired me to substitute teach in local charter schools warns me that
the other participants in the training I'm to attend will be
inexperienced. I sign in at the big Woodland Hills office complex
and am issued a name tag and sent to a big conference room. There
are about fifteen of us. With the exception of a woman whom I will
refer to as Stacy, who is either close to me in age or has had a hard
life, the other perspective subs are in their twenties. Colored
markers and paper are passed out. We are to make five drawings. The
first is to represent a saying that is meaningful, the second is to
portray our own unique gift to the world, the third is a symbol that
would best represent us, the fourth is to illustrate our retirement
plans and finally, we are to make a picture of how we spend our spare
time.
My petulance is equal to the groups'
enthusiasm. I can't draw (or sing.) I don't get the point of
illustrating a meaningful adage or asking anyone younger than myself
about retirement plans but I get it that he's showing us that some
sort of creative, introspective activity might distract a class for a
few minutes from terrorizing a sub. My colleagues however are into
it and most go on at length describing their artwork. I note that,
except for one very loud and weird guy who I can't imagine lasting
for more than a minute in a high school class, whose saying is in
German, most of the quotes are derived from Dr. Seuss and Disney
films. I riff on William Golding and say that as a citizen of the
world I am an optimist and by virtue of having a brain I am a
pessimist. I am many years removed from Cat in the Hat and Disney
princesses. For my gift to the world, I draw a smiling picture of
myself. Instead of going on about running a bible camp for
handicapped children I simply state that I'm chill, which
counterproductive towards my aim of just getting the damn thing over
with, elicits a big laugh. My symbol of an apron for my mom-ishness
also amuses. This is an easy crowd.
Even more odious than sharing, for the
next project we are divided into groups and given an article to read.
Our article describes setting up an efficient classroom. It is not
really germane to a day to day sub except for the over arching notion
that order prevents chaos. We are assigned to create a poster to
represent the article. I am grouped with Stacy and two very young
girls. Two large shopping bags are under Stacy's desk. She exudes
body odor and foul breath. Her blouse is short enough to reveal a
stretch marked gut stuffed into safety pinned jeans. When I say
“kids” she corrects me. “students!” The facilitator gives me
a nod when I reiterate what is expected of us for the poster thing.
Stacy has her own agenda though and grabs the Sharpies. She starts
in on the poster, disregarding the instructions. The two young girls
are passive and unless their miens magically transform it will take
thirty seconds for thirty kids to induce barrels of tears. Stacy is
determined to spell out RESPECT and have each letter represent
something that the article stressed. The article is actually about
collecting lunch money and organizing a cloak room but Stacy soldiers
on. The C gets “cooperation” but then she changes it to
“control.” T gets “time management.” S is for “schedule.”
P is for “patience.” The R is for respect and I just let it
slide, not giving a rat's ass about the doubling of respect. Stacy
still hasn't figured out either of the Es when time is called. The
other two girls beg me to make the presentation to the group and I do
a Bartleby the Scrivener “I would prefer not to.” Stacy is
chosen by default and blathers on, revealing that she's already
working in classrooms, until the facilitator cuts her off to move on
a task even more repugnant than sharing our drawings or working in a
group. We are to role play.
The only solace is that I am not
grouped this time with Stacy. I am elected immediately to play the
teacher. Having stood my ground on the poster and not wanting to
seem totally bad assed, I agree. We are to demonstrate an example of
how to diffuse a potentially volatile classroom situation. My group
decides that our scenario should consist of a student ,who as been
sent to the office for disciplinary reasons, returning to the
classroom. I don't feel particularly genius for figuring out that
whatever was happening that led to the kid, er, student, to be
deported wasn't working. I suggest that the returning student be
presented with a choice of alternative activities to occupy him or
herself. I simply smile and offer up a magazine, crossword puzzle or
computer time and I am that bastard child of Einstein and Gandhi.
Stacy's group opts for a teacher trying
to get the attention of two girls engaged in gossip. Playing one of
the girls, Stacy is dead on, ignoring the teacher and going on about
a boy in the cafeteria. Her depiction of a teenage girl, body
language and all, is flawless. Unfortunately, the girl playing the
teacher doesn't stand a chance and again, the facilitator has to step
in. Too bad. It is a captivating performance.
A number of the young ones will last
only a few days as a sub and others will figure it out. I assume
that some of my fellows will become full time teachers. The German
speaking guy however is so obnoxious I rather enjoy thinking about
his inevitable Lord of the Flies outcome. Most of the potential subs
are around the same age I was when I began to teach. I didn't even
have a five hour training session like this one but eventually I
made it work. Even Stacy, if she does an hour of improv will
likely survive. The preparation course demonstrates a few ways to
keep a class occupied and quite helpfully, provides some practical
suggests for avoiding bedlam. I suspect that a lot of the practical
instruction will serve adequately until instinct kicks in.
The agency is private and for profit
but lacks the efficiency I'd expect from a real business. I've
submitted all of the required documents but I continue to receive
e-mails indicating that they aren't on file. My references, I am
notified have not responded to e-mail but according to my references
they've yet to be contacted. Eventually I assume they'll get it
together and I'll be called to sub one or two days a week.
LAUSD is another story. I was told
back in early December that I'd be processed. I leave a number of
messages for the assistant principal who's made the offer and my
calls aren't returned. I discover that I've been offered a regular
evening job at a different school but they've forgotten to notify me.
An hour is spent with the school secretary trying to arrange my
processing. Everything is done by telephone, not e-mail. Finally
she reaches someone who indicates the woman who processes new
teachers is “too busy” and that I shouldn't contact her for two
weeks. I send her an email. The response is terse. No salutation
or signature. Just “call the office.” I make a number of
attempts to call. There is no voice mail. Finally I am able to
leave a message. My call is returned. The woman is brusque and asks
me if I'd completed a physical exam. She is particularly ticked off
when I admit that I'd had not idea this was required. When I was
originally processed nearly thirty years ago, the physical was
performed at LAUSD. Unfortunately, I can't schedule an exam for
another week so it might well be months before I'm actually able to
teach in an adult classroom.
I have started collecting teaching
materials and planning lessons in my head. There's this endorphin
rush that kicks in when a class is going well and a feeling of
hopeless desperation when it is not. A teacher, after all, is a
performer and I look forward to keeping the class engaged and working
the room.
The lag time between applying to teach
and actually entering a classroom though reminds me of other facets
the educational system that I have no patience with. While the sub
agency is a private business, I've had indicators that there are some
efficiency issues. I'll be working in charter schools, and having
been the parent of charter school students my experience has been
that administratively they tend not to function as well oiled
machines. My biggest concern though is the behemoth LAUSD. After
having run a business for decades, the communication breakdown and
lack of urgency is maddening. Undoubtedly the decidedly
unbusinesslike way of doing things will continue to incense me, but
still, I can't wait to shut up and teach.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Back to School Week
When
I was in my early twenties I bottomed out. I'd had a depressing job
at a methadone clinic and was desperately trying to salvage a
relationship which provided no satisfaction, save being able to say
that I had a relationship. I cracked and bridges were decimated. I
spent a summer getting provisional teaching credentials and in the
fall began as a day-to-day sub at a Compton middle school and an
evening ESL teacher for L.A. Unified Schools. I remember the
exhaustion and Sundays collapsed on the couch drinking tea and
watching Masterpiece Theater while my mother helped me grade papers.
Drifting off there on the sofa was the most satisfying sleep I've
ever had. I started in Compton as a sub and by the year's end I was
department chair. This was the first year that all teachers were
required to pass the Cbest test, which at the time was written at
about a 5th grade level. Teachers were given three
opportunities to pass the test and after three failures, were removed
from the classroom. I showed up to teach in Compton on a Monday
morning and two-thirds of the other teachers were gone. They never
returned. The few remaining teachers and I tried to keep some
semblance of learning going in the auditorium but mostly we just ran
movies, which fortunately I was able to provide.
One
year in Compton was enough, although they called and begged me to
return for several years after I quit. I loved the adult school
teaching job and ended up working for my dad during the day and
teaching at night. As I began to really take over the business,
Number One Son was born. I taught for about another year and then
retired. A number of my former students worked for me and many remain
in touch. This was something I loved doing and seemed to have an
aptitude for.
For
over two years I send out resumes all over trying to get an adult
school gig. I really love the classroom and a bit of extra income
could make a dent in some student loans. I get a ton of form
rejection letters. There is one interview which I think goes well but
I never hear a word. In early January I send out another stack of
resumes. Again, there is a stack of “thanks but no thanks”
letters. I am called in for an interview at the same school where
I've interviewed before. Again, I have what I think is a good
interview and am even introduced to the principal who is very
impressed by my stellar letters of recommendation. This second
interview also results in radio silence and I accept that I am simply
not destined to return to adult education.
There
is sub work in charter schools, which I am also credentialed for. I
submit an application and am surprised, but not optimistic, when I'm
called in for an interview. The morning before the interview I rush
over to Richard's cottage for a pick up from Out of the Closet.
Except for the few pieces of furniture designated for donation the
place is bare. I survey the pile. Desk. Dresser, Nightstand. The
chair that he died in. This is all that is left. He's been gone now
nearly two months and I'd expect to be less raw but his presence is
etched on my psyche for nearly forty years. Now that I don't have the
memorial to fuss over there seems like there is nothing left to feel
but his absence. I stand waiting for the funky furniture to be hauled
away. I don't think I've ever felt more bereft.
I
rush home and use nearly a whole bottle of Visine to make myself
presentable for the interview. I drive all the way to Woodland Hills
although I know myself that I would unlikely hire someone who hasn't
taught since mimeograph machines and chalkboards. I'm 59, the kids
are grown, my best friend is dead and I have no more clue about what
to do with my life than I did when I was in my twenties.
The
interview is conducted by a former teacher. He asks me a lot of
questions about handling discipline. I respond pretty consistently
that if a teacher is engaging students, discipline shouldn't be an
issue. I describe a couple of teaching activities I'd have up my
sleeve in the event there is no lesson plan. His list of questions is
complete and he notes that I am one of the most pedagogically
qualified candidates he's interviewed. Plus, impressed by my usage of
the words “genial” an “verboten” he digs my vocabulary. We
keep talking. I ask about how the classroom has changed and how cell
phones are managed and lessons are presented. We segue into
educational philosophy and the politics of charter schools. I am
hired on the spot, provided that I am not incubating tuberculosis and
there is no Interpol match on my fingerprints. There is a training
session next week. I will likely know way more than the facilitators
and the other newly hired teachers, I am warned, might seem extremely
green but perhaps I will benefit at least by the discussion about the
classroom in the digital age. Plus there's free food.
The
interview's emphasis on discipline makes me wonder if I'm getting in
over my head. I know that kids are practically hardwired to act like
assholes in the presence of a sub. But I do have a decade, albeit not
recent, of experience and perhaps more salient is that I survived my
two teenage sons. Plus, I genuinely like kids and I'm banking that
this goes a long way. No matter, it's been a long time since I felt
any sort of success so even if the subbing is unbearable, after all
those resumes, it's nice to get a bit of good feedback.
I
am buoyant after the successful interview. I am enormously grateful
for this one good thing. I pick up my friend and neighbor Laura.
While I'm sure that I will never go a day without thinking about
Richard, as I begin to crawl out of my hole, and socialize a bit, I
am reminded that there are other committed friends who advocate for
me and comfort me when my spirits are low. Laura is thrilled to hear
about the substitute teaching job. While I am gushing about it, the
phone rings. The call is from the adult school that blew me off after
two interviews.
The
caller asks if I'd been processed yet and I am totally befuddled and
blather inanely for a few seconds. It turns out though that I did get
exactly the adult school job that I wanted, teaching ESL at Roosevelt
High. I taught there twenty five years ago and it was one of the best
teaching experiences that I had. The principal has requested that the
district process me for employment, but as is typical of LAUSD, that
ball is dropped and I am never contacted. I stop by the school this
morning and after making about twenty phone calls trying to get me
processed I am finally given the number of someone I can call in two
weeks to arrange to start the hiring procedure.
I
know that there have been other sub-optimal times in my life but the
year before I started teaching when everything blew up and the last
few months are periods I will likely remember as the lowest of the
low. When I was in my twenties, teaching gave me a sense of purpose
and accomplishment. Now, over thirty years later, the prospect of the
classroom feels like another karmic life preserver.
Friday, February 5, 2016
White Like Me
I
am asked to make a presentation about stock footage licensing for a
group of black Documentary Filmmakers. I want to screen some samples
of material from my library and decide to provide something other
than the usual Jim Crow/lunch counter/fire hose materials that are
generally associated with projects created by black filmmakers. I
have a lot of home movies and other historical footage that
represents the African American community in a state of normalcy
rather than strife. There are birthday parties, executive managers in
boardrooms, teachers,physicians military officers and other wonderful
lifestyle footage from the twenties through the sixties. I think that
this will be a refreshing change from the usual focus on racism and
civil rights. Wednesday I am working on assembling the more unusual
footage and I receive a note to remind me about the presentation. I'd
noted the day incorrectly in my diary. The presentation is scheduled
in five hours so I have to go with material that's already at hand.
We have a reel that has not only African American civil rights
materials but feminist, gay and Mexican American rallies and leaders
as well. We also have some unusual footage about the black music
industry which I throw on too.
The
event is at the Writer's Guild. I leave home about two hours before
it's scheduled to begin, thinking I'll be able to grab a bite first.
The traffic is so dense however that I arrive at the guild with only
about ten minutes to spare. As I approach, I see an upper floor
conference room that is jammed black people. The lot is crowded and
black people are parking and boarding the elevator. I've packed some
swag and am expecting a dozen people or fewer. It looks however that
there might be over a hundred in attendance and my heart starts to
pound. I can forgo my meager promotional items but freak out at the
prospect of facing a huge audience without a formal, carefully
prepared presentation.
The
Guild is buzzing. Starving, I am grateful when I see a huge cart of
catered food being wheeled into the elevator. It becomes apparent
quickly though that there are a number of activities scheduled at the
Guild. There's a writing workshop for military veterans and an NAACP
event. The good thing is that it turns out that only a dozen or so of
the black people are documentarians. The bad thing is that there's no
food.
My
presentation is preceded by a professor from the Pan-African Studies
Dept. at Cal State L.A. discussing the history of black documentary
production. Apparently she's already addressed the group about early
history. This evening is devoted to more modern works and the gist of
her discussion is that for the most part, black filmmakers are
largely ignored by distributors of high production value content. HBO
President in Charge of Documentaries, Sheila Nevins is criticized for
ordering a documentary about the Black Lives Matter Movement. The
group notes that most documentaries about black issues are produced
by white people. I know that I'm expected to be a fly on the wall so
I don't pipe up and mention two black filmmakers Henry Hampton and
Marlon Riggs who both created seminal documentaries about the black
American experience. Someone mentions Spike Lee but he is quickly
dismissed for reasons that elude me. The sentiment is that the white
hegemony attempts to demonstrate to black people how they are
supposed to feel about themselves. As far as I can ascertain, a
director for the Black Lives Matter project has yet to be named. I
wonder that if a person of color is selected to direct the
documentary if this group will still take umbrage because it is still
coming to fruition under the aegis of a white woman.
There
were some good points in the discussion about documentaries and I
agree very much that to a large extent, black American filmmakers
(particularly women) are underrepresented. Despite the Oscar
brouhaha I think that black people have made giant inroads in other
television genres and certainly theatrical films. A fascinating
digression was a conversation about reality shows. The lion's share
of the black reality shows are indeed the spawn of white creators.
The participants are egged on to behave in a fashion that's truly
repulsive. There aren't, to my knowledge, any reality shows about
Jews. If there were one that exploited all of the stereotypical
attributes of my people it would piss me off. Off course I'd watch it
and laugh my head off but it wouldn't be anything I'd want non-Jews
to enjoy.
Jews
in America generally have had a better shake than African Americans.
Still, while we have actually voted in a black president, sorry
Bernie, but I would be very surprised if a Jew was elected to the
highest office. I wonder, if by some miracle, there is actually a
President Sanders, how this will bode for the Jews. No one predicted
that Obama's election would complicate, and to some extent prove a
setback, to the America's conversation about race.
Being
the only white person in the room is an unusual experience. I have
often been the only woman or the only Jew with little self
consciousness but meeting with the filmmakers makes me anxious.
Jewish discourse frequently has a different tone when there are no
gentiles around. Women often speak far more candidly when there are
no men present. I feel I am privy to a lot of resentments that I'd
never even considered but I also feel, just by the simple virtue of
being white, complicit in the co-opting and exploitation of black
culture.
Then
it's my turn. “Hi, here's the white lady to screen for you a bunch
of images to show you what you're supposed to think of yourselves.”
I do note that it is the birthday of filmmaker Marlon Riggs and that
he was born in the same year that I was. I think I score some points
with my mention of Riggs. The year of my own birth, not so much. I
show my hastily thrown together demo. They patiently watch Martin
Luther King Jr. Malcolm X. Cesar Chavez. Gloria Steinem. As there's a
nod to other marginalized groups besides African Americans it's not
100% pandering but there is a disproportionate amount of 60s southern
civil rights materials. The demo finishes and I steel myself to be
confronted about profiteering on black history.
The
lights go on and there are a flurry of questions about licensing and
fair use. I make suggestions about negotiating favorable deals with
footage libraries. I explain the ramifications of fair use and
provide some clues for determining public domain. There are so many
eager questions we run way over the schedule. Despite the earlier
portion of the evening's theme of white people keeping black
documentarians down, there is no confrontation. After, we pose, arm
in arm for pictures. It is a handsome crowd. The women sport
elaborate braids and interesting fades. Plus and maybe it's wrong in
some way to make such a blanket statement, black women dress way
better than white women. My swag is well received. A girl with
spectacular bronze braids whispers, “I love your hair.” I wish
though that I'd dressed a little better.
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