Passionate Warrior: My Charter School Journey

1

First Impressions

I stood on the corner of Van Nuys Boulevard and Norris Avenue, in the Pacoima neighborhood, in October 1986 and shuddered as I looked at the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) school campus before me. Pacoima Elementary School, with a tall fence surrounding its stark cement buildings, reminded me of a penitentiary.

Van Nuys Boulevard was a major traffic artery through the San Fernando Valley. Directly across the street on Norris Avenue was a huge apartment complex that stretched for blocks. I would quickly learn that this was the San Fernando Gardens, a government-funded housing project notorious for drug dealing and occasional shootings.

In contrast, Fenton Elementary School, where I had started my teaching career 6 weeks prior, was located in a quiet residential pocket in Lakeview Terrace about three miles away. The school was surrounded by houses, and while some of them may have been a bit rundown, during the day the neighborhood was peaceful and quaint in its own way.

In front of the main building at Pacoima Elementary, an expanse of dirt with random patches of green, thin grass interspersed with dandelions, struggled to give the appearance of a lawn. Fenton Elementary School had trees and shrubbery, and it emitted the feeling of a neighborhood school. A wave of frustration and despair washed over me as I approached the cement stairs leading up to the entrance. I had been perfectly situated at Fenton: I was in a comfy school, with a lovely classroom, and I enjoyed perfect students and friendly colleagues. I had been displaced from Fenton and assigned here. Damn it, this was not how it was supposed to be!

I took a deep breath and entered the main office for my morning interview with Principal Owens. I immediately liked that the office had a good amount of natural light, but I also noted that the windows were covered on the outside with metal grills. I stepped up to the long counter that spanned the office from end to end.

One of the clerks approached on the other side of the counter and pleasantly asked if she could help me. I told her I was there to see Principal Owens, and she directed me to take a seat on the bench by the wall. I sat down, welcoming a few moments to gather my wits, calm myself, and organize my thoughts. I looked around, absorbing the office activities. Behind the counter, I saw half a dozen desks spaced equidistant from one another, occupied by young female clerks who appeared deeply immersed in paperwork.

A dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her early twenties entered the office, each hand linked with that of a small boy. A little girl who appeared to be slightly older than the two boys followed closely behind the trio. The woman spoke rapidly in Spanish to one of the clerks, as the two boys stared at me. I smiled broadly at them and they responded back with the same, their large dark eyes twinkling. The three children looked so close in age, maybe two to four years old. I thought the children were adorable, but this mom had her hands full! I wondered if she had planned to have three children in a row, a natural thought given my previous career in family planning.

My thoughts were interrupted as Principal Owens came out of his office to greet me. With a polite smile and a brief but firm handshake, he said, Hello, nice to meet you, and motioned for me to come into his office. I sized him up as I followed him. A short, white, bald man in his fifties, he looked fit. I found out later he was an ex-military man. He sat down behind his large wooden principal’s desk, and I sat across from him.

He began by crisply reciting a list of bleak facts about the school while staring intently into my face. I listened as he told me that the neighborhood was very tough, that a large number of the children were very far behind academically, that many of their fathers were in jail, that shootings sometimes occurred around the school, that many of the children were from single-parent homes, that many of the mothers were very young, that some of the parents were substance abusers, that many of the children lived in garages with multiple families or in the projects across the street, that many were recent immigrants, that most were poor, and that I would need to teach the majority of the day in Spanish because the position was for a bilingual teacher. I told him I only spoke a little bit of Spanish, mostly related to birth control pills and changing into a gown for the doctor, because of my previous work in family-planning clinics. He told me that if he hired me, I would just need to do my best.

Principal Owens asked me a few questions about my background and why I wanted to be a teacher. I told him about my fifteen-year career in public health, during which I had counseled many pregnant teens. I shared that the previous year I had worked for Northeast Valley Health Corporation, which was located in the same community as the school, making health education presentations in the local high schools.

I reminded him, or perhaps was informing him for the first time, that the rate of teen pregnancy in Pacoima was the highest per capita in the state of California. I told him how well I had connected with the students in the high schools and explained my intense desire to inspire our children with a love of learning so that they would set goals to graduate from high school and college, which I thought would help deter them from getting pregnant. He listened, nodded, and told me he would let me know shortly if I got the job. I left his office trying to focus on the positive statements he had made during our interview. Perhaps there had been some, but I could not recall any. I scurried to my car knowing I did not want the job.

I drove back to Fenton Elementary School for the afternoon, where my teaching career had been launched just six weeks before with so much optimism. I spent the rest of the day lamenting in my classroom. I was already deeply attached to my Fenton students, but the clock was ticking and I was on my way out.

Fenton was located about four miles away from Pacoima Elementary School, and I had spent the entire summer excitedly preparing my classroom for my new students. I had embraced my new job with great enthusiasm, purchasing books, posters, and how-to guides, and decorating, redecorating, arranging and rearranging my classroom umpteen times before my students set foot in my classroom for the first time.

The Fenton students were mostly Latino, with a small percentage of black students. The community was called Lake View Terrace, and the majority of the students qualified for federally funded free meals based on their family income.

I had interviewed for the Fenton position with Principal Pat Abney that spring, and despite my complete lack of experience as an elementary school teacher, I was immediately encouraged by her warm smile and positive attitude about my ability to be an excellent teacher. I was excited when she told me about the support I would receive, and she guaranteed she would do all that was necessary to make sure I would have a successful year, including providing me with a mentor teacher.

I had quickly made friends at Fenton, especially with another new teacher on staff, Jane Fung. Both of us had Emergency Teaching Permits, granted to us by LAUSD due to a teacher shortage.

I had entered my new profession optimistic about my ability to teach because of my experiences in my previous job at Northeast Valley Health Corporation. The tenth grade students in the local high schools had hung on to my every word when I explained to them how their reproductive anatomy and physiology worked, flipping through the chart with pictures of all the parts and showing them condoms, birth control pills, and other marketed methods that were available to them.

The truth was that I was clueless about how to teach first grade, but I was full of good intentions and a fierce determination to learn how to do it right. Jane and I ate lunch together and shared ideas, discussing what we were learning and cooing over our adorable students.

I had approximately thirteen boys and twelve girls in my class. Every one of them started first grade with great excitement, full of smiles, and eager to learn and to succeed. Beginning on day one, they stole my heart. They lined up each morning with an assortment of junior-sized backpacks strapped over their little shoulders, pink, blue, purple, green, and black, embossed with superheroes and Disney cartoon characters.

Most of the girls had their hair pulled back tightly into ponytails and braids, held together with colorful ribbons and barrettes. Most of the boys came in with neat, short haircuts, gelled and combed to the side or straight back. They did not wear school uniforms, and sometimes their clothes looked a bit too big or too small or over-worn, but they came to my classroom with big dreams of being doctors, teachers, actors, and scientists. In this way, they were no different than any other first grade student in every other neighborhood in Los Angeles, regardless of ethnicity, country of birth, or family income.

Some of my students did not speak English, but I had a fantastic bilingual teacher assistant. A young Latina in her mid-twenties who had grown up in the neighborhood, she had graduated from high school and was now taking two community college courses a year, a requirement by LAUSD to keep her job.

I spent the first three weeks of school in my own personal nirvana, knowing full well that I had tons to learn but enjoying every minute of it. Unfortunately, the enrollment at Fenton turned out to be less than expected, and the two teachers at the bottom of the totem pole—the lowest seniority—were being displaced. Jane Fung and I were about to become history at Fenton.

Being displaced meant that you had a couple of weeks to scramble for a job in a different school. After having basked in what turned out to be a false sense of security, overnight we were both thrown into a state of unknown.

Principal Abney had sent me to Pacoima Elementary School to interview for a position recently vacated by a teacher who had suffered a severe stroke. During the afternoon following the interview with Principal Owens, she called me into her office to congratulate me on my new job. The Pacoima principal had called her with the great news. He told her that even though I was teaching on an Emergency Teaching Permit, and he generally didn’t like hiring inexperienced teachers, there was something special about me. He liked my spunk.

I instantly told Principal Abney that I did not want the job. She responded that if I didn’t take it I could end up working 65 miles away, at the other end of the school district. In my mind, this equated to being sent off to Siberia! Not wanting to risk a long, miserable Los Angeles commute, I reluctantly accepted the job.

With Fenton Elementary and my interview with Principal Owens behind me, I gingerly stepped onto the yard of Pacoima Elementary School for the first time, squinting into the bright morning sunshine and instantly coming to a halt as I stared out across a seemingly endless expanse of black asphalt. Flat, black asphalt without a blade of grass or a tree in sight. My eyes widened, and I gasped. I had never seen so many children packed together in one space in my entire life! There were children of varying sizes and shapes as far as my eyes could see, about 1,140 of them, from kindergarten through sixth grade, five to eleven years old, some huddled in small groups deeply immersed in top-secret conversations, some chasing each other around in circles, some playing tetherball or foursquare, some running, some standing alone, some laughing, some crying, and some sitting on the ground hurriedly finishing what was probably last night’s homework. The huge expanse of land and the chaotic scene of such a large mass of humanity immediately made me feel invisible.

I did not expect a red-carpet welcome on my first day as a first grade teacher at Pacoima Elementary School, but it would have been nice if somebody had at least walked me across the yard to my classroom, making small talk and answering my questions.

Instead, I made my way into the building and into the front office, where a clerk looked up from her desk without a smile as I approached. Hello, I’m Mrs. Friedman, and I’m the new teacher for first grade. I chirped with a smile.

The clerk responded solemnly, Oh, yes, you’re the replacement. She handed me a key, a school schedule, and a roster, adding, You’re in room thirty-two in the one-story gray building on the right side of the yard. She then stood up and asked me to follow her. We walked into a small area behind the main office. Turning to the table in the corner, she opened a book filled with square pink cards that were alphabetically arranged. She flipped to F and I saw my name at the top of a card.

These are time cards, she sighed. Initial in and out here at the beginning and end of each day, she said, pointing to the row of boxes on the card dated for that week. Make sure you sign in no later than 7:30 am each morning, and be sure to sign on the correct dates, and oh yes, you have a mailbox over here and you should check it every day, she said, pointing to what appeared to be a hundred or more pigeon holes standing in neat rows against the cream-colored wall. The door to the yard is right behind you, she continued. Have a good day, she concluded, and she turned away and walked back into the main office.

For a fleeting moment, before proceeding across the yard, I contemplated turning around, walking back into the main office, dumping my new classroom key, roster, and schedule back on the clerk’s desk, and leaving with the parting words, This isn’t for me after all. Bye. I’m out of here! But I had a husband on a teacher’s salary, two young daughters, and a mortgage to pay. There was no denying I needed the job.

I had always taken pride in my stick–with-it-ness, and I always saw the cup half full. So, as I always did in stressful situations, I dug deep into my guts and connected with my toughness. Suck it up, I told myself, You’re here now, and this is it. In my typical I can handle anything style, I stood up straight, ran my hands over the front of my favorite black jacket to smooth the fabric, picked up my head, pasted a smile on my face, pushed my shoulders back, and began marching toward room thirty-two.

I was both excited and nervous to meet my new first-grade students. As I continued walking toward the one-story gray building, I tried to get rid of the nausea and butterflies in my stomach by firmly telling myself to calm down, that everything was going to be just fine.

I had never taken an education course, but the shortage of teachers in Los Angeles in 1986 had provided me with the opportunity to receive the Emergency Teaching Permit. I felt very confident that I would take to teaching like a duck to water when I applied for the teaching permit, but that first morning at Pacoima Elementary School, as I stared out at that profoundly impersonal institutional environment, I wondered what I had gotten into.

The sprawling San Fernando Valley is located in the northern part of Los Angeles, and it is large enough to be considered a city all by itself. In fact, with its current population of nearly two million people, it would be the fourth largest city in the country if it were, in fact, a city. In 1986, there were already more than one million residents in the Valley, and its Northeast portion, where my new school was located, was one of most socio-economically challenged areas in all of Los Angeles. As is typical in urban areas characterized by poverty, public school students in this community had been severely under-achieving for many years.

I approached my classroom, inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and went inside. The first thing I noticed was that all of the blue cabinets that lined the walls appeared to be secured with crisscrossed masking tape. I was a roving teacher, which meant that I was actually in somebody else’s classroom for three weeks, while that person was off. I would move again in another three weeks into another teacher’s classroom, and move yet again three weeks later before having my own three-week break. The schedule was nine weeks on and three weeks off. After my three weeks off, I would start the roving pattern all over again in the same three classrooms. Discovering one open cabinet with three empty shelves, I sighed with relief. In my short few weeks as a teacher, I had accumulated a little bit of my own stuff, and now I had a little bit of storage space for it.

I unpacked my bag with the day’s lesson plans. Having taught first grade at Fenton, I felt prepared. Out came two of my favorite children’s books, Where the Wild Things Are and Goodnight Moon. I would read both of them today. A square rug sat on the brown tile floor in one corner. It was worn and had a faded pattern of blues, reds, and oranges, but it would do the trick. That’s where my students would sit when I read my books.

Just as the bell rang, I noticed a low cabinet against one wall with open shelves. There sat stacks of paper and a box of pencils. Just in time, I thought. I was set to go but I realized I didn’t know how to find my students! Stepping outside my classroom, I saw that the sea of humanity was now scurrying in a multitude of directions. It appeared that everybody knew where they were going, with specific destinations in mind. As I viewed this new spectacle, tiny first graders started lining up in front of my room. Every one of them looked up at me curiously as they joined the line, wide-eyed and adorable, the little girls with the same tied-back hair styles with bows and barrettes that my little students at Fenton had worn. One by one, first graders joined the line. Good morning! I said enthusiastically. They looked me up and down in silence, seriously sizing me up. After a few minutes, I counted thirty-one students in line. Knowing I was to have thirty-four students, I assumed the other three were either absent or late, so I asked the students to come into class and sit on the rug. The line followed me in, and the adorable little students sat down quietly.

I pulled a chair in front of the rug and introduced myself, I’m Mrs. Friedman, and I’m so happy to meet you! I’m going to be your teacher for the remainder of the year and I know we are going to have a wonderful time this year as we learn and grow together! I couldn’t tell whether they understood me. For the most part, their faces still had the same expressions as they had when they first looked at me outside. It hit me! This was a bilingual class. I didn’t know what that exactly meant. Was it that they all spoke Spanish only, and I was the only one who spoke English, except for the one black girl who was sitting at the back on the left? Did it mean that some spoke some English? Regardless of the language skills of the group, I remembered that I was supposed to be speaking in Spanish to the students who only spoke Spanish.

My formal instruction in Spanish had been limited to one year of high school Spanish, when I learned how to say Hola, Paco. Como esta? and not much more. From my many years working in family planning clinics, many of which served a Latino population, I had learned enough Spanish to talk to my patients about birth control pills and other related topics, but it was a long shot for me to figure out how to say to my students, I know we are going to have a wonderful time this year as we learn and grow together! I took a deep breath and tried. Yo se que vamos a tener un buen tiempo este ano…ah…um…! I didn’t know if my words had been understood or if the children had picked up on my sincere effort to communicate a positive message to them, but, whatever it was, most of them broke into smiles and I was awarded with a few giggles and nods. Grinning back at them, I felt my heart begin to melt. I figured were off to a great start, and I was falling in love.

Figuring I was on a roll with them sitting still on the rug and obviously intrigued by this new adult in their lives, I grabbed Where the Wild Things Are, showed them the cover, and read the title aloud. I realized that the book was written in English and not in Spanish, but it was all I had that morning. Opening the book, I held the pages so they could see the pictures, and I read in my most animated voice. They hung on every word, eyes wide as they gazed upon the colorful, dramatic pictures of my favorite children’s book. I hoped they could figure out what I was saying because there was no way I knew how to translate this!

Bilingual education was in full implementation in 1986, and it was a great concept backed by solid research with a proven track record of success. Students who did not speak English received academic instruction in their native language while simultaneously learning English. As their English proficiency increased, they were taught for increasing amounts of time in English until they had fully transitioned to 100% English. When implemented with fidelity, this was a marvelous