My first job in LA was as a behavioral therapist in an elementary school near Van Nuys. It was a small school, consisting of a few bungalows scattered on a concrete slab, along with a basketball hoop, a jungle gym, and a little grassy area we called a track. There was a gymnasium, although we rarely had a gym teacher so we walked the “track” every day to compensate. We had a puny library only containing a few books that have mostly been donated.
Students ate their microwaved lunches on picnic tables under a concrete awning. There was one guy who seemed to do everything from security to maintenance. After lunch he would “clean” the lunch area by spraying it down with a hose, washing the food and garbage down the gutter. Teachers were responsible for keeping their classrooms neat, which in our classroom was a big task. After a day of “teaching,” you would find broken crayons, pencil shavings, used tissues, food, and other fun surprises everywhere.
The teacher was a down to earth surfer, who used to work at an “upscale” school on the westside of LA. We both had freckles, long chestnut blonde hair, and a love for classical music. The students would ask if we were brother and sister, even though he was about twenty years older than me. I would joke, “We’re the only two white people he knows, so we must be related!”
We had to laugh to keep from going mad. During our lunch breaks, we would vent about the horror stories that took place in the classroom and reflected on tragedies in our own lives. We would listen to classical music or he would play guitar. He always kept his guitar and surfboard in the classroom, I think as a coping mechanism.
Someone at the school must have disliked him very much. They gave him a class of thirty-five fourth graders. As if nine years olds weren’t already the most awkward people you’ve ever met, throw in that they were almost all impoverished, first generation, English learners. One of them literally didn’t speak a word of English. Everyone knows there’s always one or two kids who act out in the classroom, but in this classroom, there were one or two students who could behave. I had to considerably lower my expectations. I pretty much threw the bar on the ground and gave myself a pat on the back for simply surviving a day in that classroom.
They threw us in a bungalow on the corner of the campus, far enough away from other classes to not disrupt them, but close enough to the road to listen to sirens and engines revving all day. The heat in our room was broken. (Yes I know it’s LA, but these kids would be bundled up in their parkas and hats and gloves on. Not going to lie, I was also bundled up after recently getting accustomed to LA summers.)
So many distractions, so many obstacles, and this is only the beginning. Most of them will be forced to carry the weight of inequality for the rest of their lives.
I was there to help one student who had severe aggression and defiance, but I ended up working with them all. They had no respect whatsoever for us. Why would they? We didn’t do anything for them. We couldn’t teach them anything. How could we possibly understand what they’re going through? We couldn’t help them at all. I felt so bad for the few students who wanted to learn. Once a student started crying, telling his peers, “Can you just stop? I’m trying to learn.”
A few kids were severely troubled. Many of them saw social workers regularly, they were abused and neglected. They lived in tiny apartments with several siblings. Many of them slept in living rooms on couches or floors.
They would come to school looking strung out, saying they haven’t slept because they were kept awake all night by their sister’s crying baby. They looked and acted so much like children sometimes, but they’ve experienced lifetimes of pain in their short lives. They were so pure and innocent, but too knowledgeable of the evils of the world.
The Los Angeles Police Department conducted an assembly about gun safety and not bringing guns to school. The officer was saying how you can go to jail if you do this. One student yelled out, “Cool!” So the officer asked to see a show of hands of everyone who know someone in jail. From the sea of black silky hair sitting cross-legged on the floor, a third of their little hands went up. My heart ached.
One boy in particular, so filled with rage, gave me chills whenever he was around. Because I love irony, I’ll call him Angel. He was about four feet tall with these black, dead eyes. All day long he would instigate his peers. He would throw erasers at my head and laugh maniacally. One day at “gym,” he picked up a stick, made a shiv out of it, and told me he wanted to stab someone in the heart with it. I thought it might have been me.
We were reading Miss Frisby and the Rats of Nihm to the students. We asked them to answer the question, “What was the plan the rats had for Miss Frisby?” I saw Angel writing something, which was immediately suspicious since he never did any work. When I walked by he hid the paper inside his desk. I tried to get the paper in a professional manner, but he kept laughing at me and hiding the paper deeper inside his desk. I may have lost my temper a bit and started pulling things out of his desk and throwing them on the floor. Eventually, I ripped the paper out of his clenched fist. For some reason, I felt that paper had something horrible on it, and I was right.
On the top of the torn and crumpled piece of paper, it said, “They are going to rape Ms. Frisby.” Underneath that, he drew a picture of Miss Frisby the mouse getting gang raped by multiple rats. I don’t know what was more disturbing, the illustration or the creepy, “HA HA HA” written under it. Not only did he know what rape was, but he thought it was funny! On a positive note, he answered the question and he even spelled everything correctly! I didn’t even know he could write until that point!
Recreation of the “Mousey Rape Illustration”
I took the note to the principal. I’m pretty sure they called his dad, he probably got his ass beat, but afterward, he was still the same unruly asshole. It’s like no one cares what happens to these kids. It’s like they don’t come to school to be taught anything, but to check off boxes, and keep them off the streets until they’re old enough to hurt someone and go to jail. No one cares if they live in poverty or get abused. It’s just an endless cycle of disadvantaged, “throwaway” kids.
If America is supposed to be land of the free, then why are chances being robbed of these children before they even finish elementary school? It is certainly the home of the brave though, they have to be brave to withstand what comes next.