Life & other problems: Alternative education - for the teacher

The last 16 years of my teaching career were spent working for Los Angeles and San Bernardino County schools which provided education for teens who were wards of their probation departments. My job involved three or four different teaching situations, some in small “camps” or “ranches” which served 40 or fewer boys who were ready for release from the system or who had no place to go. There were also large highly secure jails for juveniles. These housed hundreds of kids serving court-ordered sentences. I taught boys and girls ages 14 to 18. For a short time I also taught pregnant minors on the campus of a local community college. Each of these jobs was fascinating in its own way. This section of a larger narrative takes place in a small ranch setting that had two classrooms and a population of about 40. In some ways this was the saddest place for kids to be. These ranches or camps were privately owned, a situation that was changed after my day because the profit motive very much outweighed benefits for the residents.

Around 1990

When I arrived for my first day of teaching I found that this ranch was very much like Artesian Oaks Ranch, where I had previously taught. The boys, about 40 of them ages 14 to 18, were very familiar − different kids, same problems. They all needed everything: families, affection, attention, someone to listen to them, stability, academic skills, health care, and more. As a dorm counselor once said, “They all need to be number one with someone, a person who cares when it is their birthday and gives them the best Christmas gift. Everybody needs that.”

County school supervision was minimal. We were on our own, our administration miles away “down below” in the city of San Bernardino. We had a principal in the area, but they appeared infrequently. They played little or no part in supervision at our school.

I had been at the ranch only a few weeks when I entered the classroom one morning to find that it was much too quiet. The boys were already in their seats. No coaxing needed. What was this? Looking around I saw that they had decorated the room. Tied to each window latch was a cluster of . . . balloons? Odd color. No, not balloons. Condoms, inflated.
Talk about thinking on one=s feet! Taking a deep - very deep - breath, I said, “Wow! How thoughtful! You brought me little balloons! Aren’t they cute? Where ever did you get them?”

Their faces said it all. “Well, damn! She was supposed to have a great big screaming fit. Maybe she doesn’t know what they are. Damn.”

“What do you think, should take them down before Vicki gets here?” I said. Vicki was our aide, age 22. “She might not appreciate it. Whoever said that you guys aren’t creative was really, really wrong!”

They considered this and decided that, yes, taking them down was probably an okay idea.

I commented as they worked. “Hey! Be careful. Don’t puncture the little balloons. You worked so hard; did a great job. Imagine if you put all that energy into, say, reading. Want me to hold the chair for you? Come on, you can trust me. Maybe.” The kids on the chairs teetered, pretending to fall. By the time Vicki arrived, all was quiet as we pretended to be hard at work.

A succession of substitute teachers taught in the other room. Most lasted only a day or two. After a few months a Mr. Taylor arrived, announcing that he had a full-time position at the school. My first impression was that he seemed scary in an almost physical way. Too hearty and energetic, he boasted that he had ten kids, one wife. The family had just arrived from Utah. He was glad to have the job. No surprise there.

A few weeks later he arrived one Monday morning, furious about something that happened over the weekend. “We were driving up the mountain Sunday,” he fumed. “A cop stopped me on that winding road to Big Bear, ya know? He stopped me because - get this - because some of my kids were riding on the roof of the car! I couldn’t believe it. We have a station wagon for pete’s sake! In Utah we did that all the time and nobody cared. Now I have a ticket and a big ol’ fine. I’m going back to Utah, I can tell you that.”

Oh, I hoped so, but that wasn’t to be. Mr. Taylor stayed. He became increasingly aggressive and confrontational with the students, “You don’t wanna do it my way, let’s just step outside!” Sometimes he came dangerously near exchanging blows with them.

After a week or two of this I decided to blow the whistle. I called Ted, the administrator who hired me.

“This guy is out of control,” I said. One day we’re going to have a big fat lawsuit on our hands. I’m really worried.”

By the following Monday Mr. Taylor was gone. No one asked about him.

One student at the ranch has remained in my mind after all these years. His name was Jeffrey.

The class assignment was to complete ten statements. These are Jeffrey’s completions, with his original spelling and grammar:

1 ) The perfect car is . . . in my opinion is a Cobra. Despite the fact that they cost mass, and brake down like a pain in thee ass, I like em!
2 ) School should . . . be nice. some elephants in Asia are nice, so why can’t Mr. School? On the other hand, African elephants have bigger ears than Asian ones.
3 ) Field trips are . . . a drag. Family stuff is a drag. When your full of loneliness being by yourself is nice. Field trips are sponcered by institutions. Butterflies hate nets.
4 ) The best sport is . . . up in the air because people dig with different shovels ya know! Sports are nice. Personally I like skateboarding and you know that!
5 ) When I feel good, I . . . get really hyper. It turns out for the worst though.
6 ) My best friend is . . . probably doesn’t even breath. I don’t consider humans to be in a “best” stage. Water and sunsets is what I dig.
7 ) Sometimes people . . . suck. What they do is get all hot, open there mouth and breath in general! They don’t realize. All they do is look in the mirror before going to work. They suck!
8 ) The perfect girl friend is . . . something to leave alone! It’s much easier to live in extreme loneliness. I should know. I do.
9 ) When I feel bad, I . . . know it! I can’t share with the outside world this certain feeling, it would blow my cover. I still smile when bad is in effect though.
10 ) My best memory . . . is yet to come. So far I’ve lived in fear and hate as a child, now in loneliness. Water, and skateboards are nice, though. Can you say “spankings?”

In every free moment Jeffrey was on his skateboard. There, he had the animal grace and physical intensity of a young Steve McQueen. The boys knew he was king. They built increasingly challenging structures from anything at hand, old doors, warped plywood, perhaps a floor mat here and there, a nod to safety. When I arrived at dawn Jeffrey often was flying over piles of debris. When I drove past the ranch in the evening, he was a rushing blur, leaping, sailing. He was on a mission, whether toward something or away from something I didn’t know. Neither did Jeffrey, probably, but without skateboarding he would surely die. Everyone knew that.

Here’s a skateboard poem by Jeffrey:

I was grinding!
down a long-long crack,
You thought I=d fall
On my back.

No way!
I can handle that!
Money is what I lack.
Huh! scudy-scudy.

Apple Valley! Kiowa Road
Bailing out September,
What’s I been told.
Go ahead and fine me-
My parents will dine me.

Cause I got a home pass, ya know!
Huh!! scudy-scudy-ah-yah!

- Jump Rump Master Jeffrey

When I read about his home pass in the poem, I remembered his writing, “Can you say spankings?”

It’s been many years now and I still fear for wild, beautiful Jeffrey.