Alternative to What?

ALTERNATIVE to What?

The true story of a principal's first assignment at an Alternative Magnet School in the nation's 2nd largest school districtBy Jeanne E. Hon Roy Hon Jr. Ken Easum Ron Klemp

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Dr. Jeanne E. Hon
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-0140-7

Contents

Chapter 1 Alternative to What?................................................................................................1Chapter 2 I Can Just See The Parents Sitting On Her Lap!......................................................................5Chapter 3 My-My, My Dear, You Do Have A Challenge, Don't You?.................................................................16Chapter 4 Black One Year and White the Next...................................................................................21Chapter 5 I guess it is true that the hand is quicker than the eye............................................................25Chapter 6 What Do You Mean, Godzilla?.........................................................................................37Chapter 7 Why Is That Patch of Fuzz a Different Color?........................................................................50Chapter 8 Pomp and Circumstance on a Kazoo!...................................................................................59Chapter 9 You Just Sit There and You Suck It In...............................................................................68Chapter 10 My, You Are a Big Boy, Aren't You?.................................................................................94Chapter 11 I May Not Have A College Education, But I Can Tell The Difference Between Privates And Fingers.....................99Chapter 12 The Grand Adventure................................................................................................126Glossary/Index of Terms ~ In Case You Want to Know ~..........................................................................134

Chapter One

Alternative to What?

Sometimes life has an odd way of playing out. Feeling a combination of butterflies and excitement, I sat in front of the empty classroom, waiting for my graduate students. The previous Friday I had retired as Principal of Hollywood High School, (yes, the Hollywood High School), and here it was—Monday night—and I was now a university professor, beginning to teach the last class students needed to take before receiving their Master's Degree and credential in School Administration. I had all kinds of ideas and illusions about what my first class would be like. I was correct in having anticipated that as they came into the classroom, some would sit in the back row, deliberately not making eye contact, and some would sit in the front row, pen in hand, eyes twinkling, ready for the "wisdom of the ages." What I really hadn't comprehended was the fact that these were not young students living at home and enjoying school. They were adults who had worked all day, had mates, babies, responsibilities, and often the flu, and after teaching reluctant students all day had rushed from their schools to become my reluctant students at night.

I had only two firm rules that I felt very strongly about: there would be no tardies (I hated having to repeat things over and over because people drifted into class late) and, after the second absence, a student would lose a full grade. Although I never changed these two mandates, real-life circumstances would change my classes. A student who was also a parent would stand in the hallway outside the classroom with a child, half-listening to my lecture while waiting for a mate or babysitter to come get the child, so as not to be tardy to class. I asked these young mothers and fathers to please bring their children into class, offered them paper and crayons, and thus broke one of the college's primary rules: no children in class. As to absences, students faithfully obeyed my rules, but I found them coming to class sick, troubled, and exhausted. Again, in order to justify my rules, I had to spend hours preparing relevant information to supplement an out-of-date textbook in order to make the class worthwhile. I had to incorporate all the witty, amusing, and real-life experiences that would keep my students awake and help them in their first assignments as school administrators. Thus came about the breaking of another prime university rule. I started bringing snacks and sweets to help students through the evening, and then they started bringing dishes, and we all ate together. Out the door, with all the trash we collected so no one would know, went the rule: "No eating in the classroom."

My students seemed genuinely fond of me, but I was more than fond of them. I was amazed at how hard they worked and how determined they were to succeed. One example was found in an attractive young woman with curly, bouncy, golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. Bubbling over with personality and enthusiasm, she was dressed in the latest style; she was a perfect example of what was known as the "Valley Girl." The evening's class began with each student introducing him or herself and telling a little bit about his or her assignment and aspirations. We quickly learned that this young lady was in her first credential class after graduation. Since this was the last class for the Master's Degree, I thought, she must really know somebody. Thus she gained the title, "Princess." She was naïvely enthused about being assigned to work with minority children in Watts, in South Los Angeles, and she felt that she could make a real difference in her students' lives. I could see my other students looking at each other skeptically, but I congratulated her on her assignment, reserving comment. At the next class meeting her curls were a little less bouncy, and as we all shared that week's experiences, she soldiered on, participating in the class. The following week her bouncy curls had straightened out and she had on almost no makeup. No one commented, but we all knew what was happening. At the beginning of each class I always asked if anything exciting or different had happened at my students' schools since our last meeting, and "Princess" could hardly contain her excitement as she told us how her entire elementary campus had been locked-down that day due to police activity. There had been shots fired in the community and police thought the shooter had run into the school. Her descriptions were graphic. She said that the moment they announced the lockdown, every child in her first grade class had immediately said, "I have to pee." One member of the class asked, "What did you do?" and she replied, "We used a wastebasket," prompting another student to comment, "At least she had a wastebasket!" She went on to say that in her panic, she didn't know why, but she picked up her cell phone and called her father in the San Fernando Valley, telling him that her school was on lock-down because of gunshots. He immediately started shouting at her, "I told you not to go to Watts. Come home!" This special young woman not only did not go home, she stayed, went back the second year, and started working on her administration credential.

Although I spent hours gathering relevant material to supplement an outdated textbook, my most valuable time was immediately after class when most students would leave, but there would always be one or two who stayed behind. These students ran the gamut. One young woman told me that she was divorcing her husband, but that her mother and mother-in-law were angry with her for disgracing the family. They had told her that in their village, if a man could support a wife and a mistress, there was nothing wrong with that. She then told them that that was why she was no longer living in that village; she was an American now. When I told her what I thought of her husband, she was overjoyed that someone understood how she felt and a bond was forged. The outcome was that she seemed more self-confident and at ease with herself.

I had all types of graduate students. I will never forget the young man who was obviously a coach, as evidenced by his cap and P.E. clothes. When he asked if he could speak to me for a moment in the hall, I said, "Of course," excused myself from the classroom, and went out into the hallway with him. Deflecting his eyes, he said to me, "I've paid my money and I know you're going to pass me, so why don't you just let me stay home and give me credit for this class?" I was taken aback for a moment, and then responded, "Because I worked my butt off to make this an interesting class, and you are going to work your butt off to get credit for it." Without a moment's hesitation, he said, "Okay," went back to the back row, did all the work, attended every session, and he finished with the top grade in the class.

Every evening, through the boring rules and regulations of administration, students would ask me what they should do, how they should handle something that happened, and what I would do if I were in their places. I answered each question as frankly as possible, trying to give examples of what they would be facing. As an example, one axiom I believe in wholeheartedly is that "manipulation" is not a bad word. If you have a head-on confrontation, even if you hug, kiss, and make up afterward, there is always some residue left and communication will never be as open as before. Therefore, if you-as an administrator-are able to manipulate a situation to a point where neither party loses face, and are able never to put a person in a position where his or her back is against the wall, then you have been successful; there are ways of beating the system as opposed to being beaten by the system.

Although some of the information in the textbook was helpful, reading about administration and leadership does not help a new administrator be street-wise. Such knowledge is gained from years of experience, of collecting scars, and learning from past mistakes. Many potentially excellent would-be-administrators never make it, because none of the books and courses in administration ever taught them how to survive. Combining the dull administrative information from the textbook with real-life experiences seemed to be the key.

Once classroom teachers cross the threshold of their classroom door and enter into the world of administration, they all but leave the field of education and enter the field of politics. The rules of the game are now different, and are, for the most part, unwritten.

We had been discussing this point when that P.E. teacher who wanted to buy his grade asked, "What was your first administrative assignment?"

I answered, "I was principal of an alternative school."

The teacher then asked a question that I have heard for many years, "Alternative to what?" I pondered giving the "textbook" answer, but reality got the better of me. That was the moment when much of the planned curriculum went up in smoke, and in the remaining haze, I decided to give them a glimpse into the "white knuckle" world of school administration. I closed the book, told them to get a firm grip on their desks, and began the journey.

I Can Just See The Parents Sitting On Her Lap!

The house stood on a hill, the long winding driveway stretching before me like my years of higher education. I pulled through the gates, parked my car on the landing about half way up and made the rest of the trek on foot, trying to think of anything other than how much my legs hurt; like what I was doing there in the first place. I liked my job as Vice Principal of a large high school. Besides, I knew nothing about alternative education. Of course Area H Alternative School, which was interviewing for a new principal, knew nothing about Dr. Jeanne E. Hon, which should have made us pretty even. But even then, the odds were against me.

Inside the pink stucco mansion things looked a lot more like Dodger Stadium than anyone's living room. The house, tucked away in the hills of Los Feliz, belonged to Larry Alper, a liberal millionaire and one of the school's founding fathers. But other than fourteen foot coffered ceilings, enormous burlap wall hangings, and three larger-than-life crouching paper-mâché figures by a credenza in the front hall, I could hardly see a foot in front of me. There were forty-one people of all ages crammed onto antique sofas, stuffed armchairs, table tops, a piano, and overflowing onto oriental rugs clear into the foyer and halfway up a spiral staircase.

"Wait 'till you get a load of this one," I heard someone say as I stumbled my way over several bodies toward the center of the main room. I don't know what they were expecting, but I doubted that a graying, overweight woman with glasses, long skirts, and a brace on one leg bore much resemblance to a latter-day flower child, which was what was clearly in bloom around me. Nonetheless, they were kind enough to seat me in a chair for the occasion while they drew closer and closer, all firing questions at the same time.

"What do you think of sex education?" asked a young man of about fifteen with long hair, wearing a No Nukes T-shirt.

"Do you think students should get credit for wind surfing?" another gentleman threw out. His hair was just as long but his face looked more like Mt. Rushmore on a gray day and, if you believed what you read on the button on his shirt, he was into saving the whales.

"What about roller skating?" "What about sex education? Do you think it belongs in the primary grades?" asked a rather precocious thing in braids, obviously prompted by her mother, who sat at her side in a long, flowered skirt and sandals.

"Anything that is not illegal or immoral that the parents, students and teachers feel they'd like to have, I'd do everything to support," I finally squeezed in. It was a pretty broad statement, which seemed to cover all my bases. In an alternative school, the hiring took place by the Staff Selection Committee made up equally of parents, teachers, teaching assistants, and students. The principal did not have a vote. Anyway, who wouldn't support something as long as it wasn't illegal or immoral, and everyone was in favor of it?

"What would you do if the superintendent asked you to do something and the parents told you they were against it?" asked a robust woman with a "ripe" aroma sitting directly across from me on the floor. "What would you do if the kids were in favor of something and the teachers were against it?" a young woman with railroad tracks across her teeth and a brush in her hair jumped in. "Hey, give her a chance to get a word in," somebody shouted. "Shut up and sit down, Bimbo. I can't see."

"Isn't this fun?" I thought to myself.

"What's your name, Jean? Jeanne?" a bearded man of about thirty-five addressed me with a congressional air, "What would you do if nobody wanted to do anything?" The way I figured it, this one was a teacher. "Anything that is not illegal or immoral that the parents, students and teachers ..." I was cut off. "What are you feelings on sex education?" another obviously obsessed individual interrupted me. "Actually, I'm Catholic," I gave up cheerfully. "I could probably use a little."

I tried to answer their questions as honestly as I could, but knowing that there were forty people in line for the job and that I was about as alternative as Mr. Rogers in the wrong neighborhood, I didn't take any of it too seriously.

I was shocked to learn, one week before school was to resume in the fall, that I was the unanimous choice for the position. I assumed I'd been offered the job because I had a doctorate, my recommendations were outstanding, and because I'd worked hard for so many years. Now it had all finally paid off. Wrong! Not only had the Staff Selection Committee not checked my references, the only people they'd even asked about me were the janitors at North Hollywood High, my assignment at the time. Instead, I later found out, I was hired because I was fifty pounds overweight, smiled quite a bit, projected a motherly image, and seemingly posed no threat to anyone. In fact, although I left the interview that night feeling very professional, one of the first comments made after my departure had me pegged for a pushover: "Oh, we have to hire her. I can just see the parents sitting in her lap."

A week later I sat on my living room sofa with my two miniature dachshunds in my lap, trying to reach a decision. If I was at all naive about the challenge that lay before me, I cannot say it was without warning. The principal at my old school was willing to release me from my position, but was quick to inform me that alternative schools were the laughing stock among administrators and that other principals would gladly take a hundred dollars out of their own pockets to support an alternative school just to keep the "crazies" out of their hair. On top of that, Area H Alternative School, which was part of the Los Angeles Unified School District, had just been declared a magnet school. Designed in part to achieve integration through voluntary busing, its once upper middle-class White population would now be at least fifty percent minority. But as someone who'd married at seventeen, had two children and didn't start college until the age of twenty-nine, I didn't have a lot of time to fool around. Female secondary administrators were few and far between, and without either belonging to a minority group or working with them, the chances of fulfilling my career dream as a principal were slim. Besides, when I looked through the gates of the campus before finally making up my mind, what struck me was the beauty of the wooded hillside estate that once belonged to Barbara Stanwyck, and I decided the school had a certain charm. It wasn't until after I accepted the job that I learned they'd gone through four principals during the eighteen months prior to my coming, one of whom succumbed to alcoholism, another to a nervous breakdown. My chickens came home to roost the first day.

I arrived at school at 7:40 A.M. and called the two custodians, but there was no response. After a thorough search, I found them babysitting the older custodian's grandchildren in the "television room" where everyone was happily watching cartoons in Spanish. When I asked if they could please begin cleaning up the school and getting it ready for the teachers, they shook their heads "yes," but failed to move any other parts of their bodies. Certain the next commercial break would stir their sense of responsibility, I walked back across the dirt (asphalt was not an architecturally alternative option), kicking my way through clutters of trash to the "administration building," a narrow, portable bungalow much like a mobile home, which faced the parking lot.

I had always loved September, with its usual stacks of books and reams of paper reaching for the roof. I imagined the swirl of sharpening pencils and sounds of laughter rippling across the schoolyard and, for a brief moment, I was ecstatic about what lay ahead. Unfortunately, much of what lay ahead was lying around. As I climbed over barricades of boxes that blocked any passage through the main office, I finally found a doorway with the word PRINCIPAL displayed in peeling gold letters above it. The room consisted of a desk, two chairs, and a file cabinet crammed into a space the size of the bathroom that adjoined my former office at North Hollywood High School. "Oh well," I thought to myself brightly, "I won't be in there that much anyway."

However, bathrooms (or I should say bathroom, since there was one for a total of forty-two staff members) were another matter entirely. Not only did you have to traipse through medical emergencies in the nurse's station to get to it, but there was not a whole lot you could do in there once you arrived. In fact, that was the first major problem I encountered that year: utter filth. Old plumbing had made washing one's hands an impossible, not to mention unsavory, task. The custodian looked shocked when I asked if he could please clean the bathroom, and after asking him to go back and clean it four separate times, it was still barely usable. By then there was a lot of grumbling about my interrupting the cartoons.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from ALTERNATIVE to What?by Jeanne E. Hon Roy Hon Jr. Ken Easum Ron Klemp Copyright © 2012 by Dr. Jeanne E. Hon. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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