Teach With Your Heart Lessons I Learned from the Freedom Writers

Chapter I "Why do we have to read books by dead white guys in tights?" asked Sharaud, a foulmouthed sixteenyearold, after he took one look at my syllabus. Sharaud had entered my class at Woodrow Wilson High School in Long Beach, California, wearing a football jersey from Polytechnic High School. He must have known that donningtherival jersey was bound to get a rise out of the other students. He arrogantly strutted around my class, taunting the other players that he was going to take their places on the field, then leisurely strolled to the back of the classroom and took a seat. As I started to discuss the curriculum, my students rocked in their seats and played percussion with their pencils. Some checked their pagers, while others reapplied their eyeliner. Some slouched, some laid their heads on the desks, and some actually took a nap. This was not the reception I was hoping for on my first day as a student teacher. I dodged a paper airplanemade out of my syllabus, I quickly realizedand tried to make myself heard over a string of "yo mama" jokes. I fidgeted with my pearls. I glanced at the polka-dot dress I was wearingit was similar to the one that Julia Roberts wore inPretty Womanand wondered if I had chosen the wrong profession. Why hadn't I gone to law school like I'd originally planned? In a courtroom, unlike this chaotic classroom, a judge would bang his gavel with gusto after the first projectile had flown across the room, and any innuendo about his mother's integrity would bring instant charges of contempt of court. I needed a daunting authority figure in a black robe to tell these kids that they were "out of order." I looked around the room, but an authority figure was nowhere to be found. Then came a panicked realizationI was the authority figure, armed only with a broken piece of chalk. As a student teacher, I should have been able to rely on my supervising teacher, but he had stepped out of the classroom. When I met with him over the summer, he suggested that it would be a good idea for me to begin teaching on the first day of school, rather than easing my way into it. "If you dive right in," he said, "you'll establish your authority from the getgo." From the comfort of his living room, this suggestion sounded great. I had visions of passing out my syllabus and having students stick out their hands like Oliver Twist and ask for "more." In reality, the only person requesting "more" was my supervising teacher, who conveniently snuck out to get "more" coffee and never returned. After nearly forty years of teaching, my supervising teacher planned to retire at the end of the school year. He had emotionally checked out and was now simply coasting on autopilot. I'd assumed student teachers were to be handled like timid student drivers, with someone ready to grab the wheel when changing lanes or parallel parking went awry. Since my socalled mentor wasn't there to put on the brakes or take control, I didn't know which direction to go except forward. To gain my composure, I tried to sound authoritative while reading my supervising teacher's "Guidelines for Student Behavior." I heard some students snickering. I stopped reading to see what they were laughing about. "You got chalk on your ass," yelled a student from the back. "Daaamn, girl! Can I have some fries with that shake?" said another. Somehow the "Guidelines" weren't sticking, because the class was completely out of control. Even though I haGruwell, Erin is the author of 'Teach With Your Heart Lessons I Learned from the Freedom Writers', published 2007 under ISBN 9780767915830 and ISBN 0767915836.