This morning, I was trying to think of topics for my journalism students to write about. That was a huge mistake, much like praying for patience. I got an idea, all right, but it sure wasn't what I'd had in mind.
Let me back up ... approximately one-and-a-half of the 30 students in my journalism class don't mind being there (Ana waffles a bit). The other 28-ish pretty much hate it and loudly offer their views with frequent honesty. A typical evaluation of the course : "Miss, why does this class have to suck so much?"
In my defense, my journalism class doesn't have the actual responsiblity of producing the school newspaper. Or the yearbook. Those honors go to other classes on campus. No, my journalism class is a thinly disguised attempt to help struggling readers and writers improve their scores on standardized tests. At the beginning of the year, when I was bright-eyed and idealistic, I thought this a fine idea. Now, I join my seventh period students in their indignation. In the world of education speak, the course lacks relevance and authenticity.
Nonetheless, I gotta teach it, and I sincerely want the kids to learn. So I slave over lessons that go largely unappreciated. I've stopped taking that personally. Now, at the end of the 90 minute block on Mondays and Thursdays, I feel pretty good if I have any voice left, and my students were the only peeps in the room cussing. I've entirely given up on enforcing school rules such as no headphones or gum; instead, I think the day was a success if I don't want to quit my job immediately after the last student bangs a table into the wall as he sprints out the door.
So, imagine my shock when, just three days ago, well over half the class completed an assignment to write a personality profile. That may not seem all that stellar, but seriously? Two weeks ago, I could not get the class to sit down. I attribute this success entirely to snacks and trips to the toy basket. Judge if you will, but keep in mind ... over half the class just wrote a newspaper story.
All of this is to say, I realized with no small amount of panic, that if my students were actually going to write newspaper stories, they'd need something to write about. And for a school with exactly two sports teams (neither of which are season), disaster was looming.
Fast forward to today at 11:35 a.m. I was helping keep order in the lunch line (my school is so minimalist, there is no cafeteria, but only a portable awning where 500 kids queue up to get their plate of food and then find a spot of shade). Suddenly the kids got very quiet, which is not typical of Camino students, and they stared out our heavy, chain-linked fence that separates our campus from a busy street. I turned around to check it out. Not 30 feet away, six police officers had a guy spread-eagled and face-down in the middle of the street, and additional cops were closing the road. That didn't rattle me -- but the rifles and helicopters that suddenly appeared did. Administrators and the handful of teachers outside began screaming to get kids into classrooms for a lockdown.
We got the all-clear about 10 minutes later. The kids queued back up to get their hotdogs and carrot sticks. By the end of lunch, our principal was in the work room regaling us with stories of the time he break danced at a school talent show.
But this old lady was still ruffled. And more than a little scared.
I realize I haven't had a lot of wonderful to say about Los Angeles recently. I really like Pasadena. And living in a city with world-class museums and entertainment pretty much rocks. Our church makes me happy. And I can picture being here for a quite some time. Most days.
The upside of what I later discovered was a drug bust? My journalism students had something to write about. And they all completed the assignment.
The downside? Marlo, one of my boys, told me he didn't understand why I was upset about what had happened. He said, "It's only scary, Miss, when they start shooting."
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