If you think you’re all that, step in front of a classroom and teach a room full of young people. Day one will humble you. Year one may tempt you to find a way to earn a paycheck that’s less costly to your ego. In my case, I was committed but woefully unprepared, to say the least. I transitioned from the scorched earth jungles of Paraguay to a makeshift bungalow classroom in a bursting-at-the-seams LA high school in a matter of weeks. And I hadn’t completed a single education class.
I got my wake-up call, all right. I knew my subject and could manage a classroom (I’d been a firefighter and could control a room), but other than that, everything was difficult. I didn’t know how to grade. I didn’t know how to deliver a history lesson without scripting every part out beforehand. And the kids were detached and disinterested.
I knew the classroom issues were not their fault. It was on me to make things better by becoming a better teacher. I learned about the cooperative tolerant classroom, which is built on the foundation of Howard Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences. The overall objective is to create an environment where trust can be built and curriculum can thrive. That training saved my ass. Me and my colleagues had no curriculum at school to support us and engage the students, no textbooks to help bring our subjects to life.
But training, theories, and textbooks could not teach me how to build classroom culture like a teen gangster and a Paraguayan farmer did. These two human beings showed me that teachers have more influence than we believe we do — and more power than we realize to create a safe, secure, and life-affirming classroom for our students.
My Introduction to “Sheltered” Students
When I got out of the Peace Corps, I wanted nothing more than to be a teacher. Lucky for me, everything seemed to fall in place. LAUSD provided me with an emergency teaching credential, and three schools contacted me immediately. The one I chose was the easiest commute, right up the 210 highway. I was offered a 10th and 11th grade history teacher/girls’ soccer coach job; I played soccer in college, so that sealed the deal for me.
Some of my 10th grade history classes were designated as “sheltered,” which was a term used to describe English Language Development (ELD) classes. I assure you, those students were anything but sheltered.
The school was built in the 1950’s in what was once orange groves. We had close to 4,000 students in a school designed to serve 1800, so temporary classrooms like mine covered the parking lot. 90% of our students qualified for free and reduced lunch, but that was likely an undercount as undocumented families often avoided Title I applications. The vast majority of my students spoke Spanish at home.
I dedicated myself to implementing the cooperative tolerant classroom strategies I was so enthusiastic about, beginning with greeting each student by name at the door. After weeks of saying hello and trying to elicit fist bumps, the kids were still not reciprocating. The hello at the door thing wasn’t working. Over time, I just stopped and busied myself at my desk or the overhead projector while they walked in the door. That is, until Gabriel literally darkened my doorway one day.
Gabriel Schools His History Teacher
Hey, Mr. Navarro, he said. It just sucks.
Gabriel was a big kid; about 6’2” with a shaved head and baggy jeans. He and his brother Hector were gangsters with reputations and parole officers. While Hector was charismatic, handsome, and brilliant (he kept the book he was reading in my room so as not to tarnish his image), Gabriel had special needs and never said a word.
What sucks, Gabriel? I asked.
Well, you don't say good morning no more.
Gabriel, no one cares. You guys don’t answer me. If I was lucky, I got a grunt from you, I answered.
I don't know about that, Mr. Navarro. I just know that when I wake up in the morning, my mom's on me about something. Then I run to school so I don't get jacked. Then when I get here, my PO is laying into me about something. They all yell at me or ignore me. You are the only old person saying anything nice to me all day.
I never really “talked” to Gabriel. All I ever said to him was good morning.
After years of neglect, abuse, and violence, Hector and Gabriel were hungry for hello from a caring adult who dared to look in their eyes each morning, for a safe place to sit, a place to keep their book. Toward the end of that school year, both Hector and Gabriel disappeared. I heard later that they were both shot, and Hector was killed.
Don Jose Meets Me In the Field: The Power of Showing Up
Gabriel reminded me of an experience I had in the Peace Corps in Paraguay.
I lived down a valley and across a river from Don Jose. Walking over to his property was treacherous; the mud clay was slippery as hell when it rained. And during the summer, it rained every day. Don Jose was planting corn vertically, causing rainwater to wash silt-filled soil down to the river, killing fish in the process. Soil erosion forced Don Jose to repeatedly cut down more rainforest to start over. I wanted to teach him contour planting to reduce the erosion.
He was understandably skeptical. If I was offered poor advice about his livelihood, his family would not eat.
Day after day, I trekked to Don Jose's field hoping to talk with him, and he was never there. I’d see him at church, and he’d say, Manana, tomorrow. I’ll meet you up there tomorrow. He didn’t. Growing frustrated, I consulted my supervisor. She told me that Don Jose could be hiding in the bushes, watching to see if I would keep my word. She encouraged me to keep showing up, and so I did.
After about a month, Don Jose was there. We started working. He didn't tell me where he was, and I didn’t ask. Later on, I learned he had been lied to by the Germans, by the Japanese, by other Peace Corps volunteers, by his own country’s engineers and foresters. He wanted to see if I would follow through.
Be the Thermostat in the Classroom, Not the Thermometer
Ultimately, it wasn't important that Don Jose showed up. It was important that I showed up. Similarly, Gabriel showed me that it wasn't important for the students to say hello to me. What mattered was that I said hello to them — that I had the courage to care in the face of absolute apathy.
Courageous teachers act as classroom thermostats, not thermometers; we are the leaders who set the temperature and tone. As thermostats, we actively create the classroom atmosphere, rather than passively reflecting the existing mood. We refuse to blame students for a bad vibe in the classroom, complain about them, or quit on them.
Parents are sending us the best they have — their children. And they're expecting us to do the best we can. We are the most significant educational resources our students have, so let’s act as such. Committing to showing up for our students models the persistence and dedication we hope to instill in them. Like Gabriel and Don Jose, they’re watching and waiting for us to prove we're committed to their success.
Let’s be worth watching.
Ready to transform your classroom culture and become a courageous teacher? Book me to speak at your next faculty assembly, professional development, or key note event!
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