Book Excerpt
INTRODUCTION
I’ve gone through an epiphany of sorts and decided to share it. This book
is a fiction, but it’s primarily based upon fact. It’s about my intriguing and
demanding experience as a high school assistant principal in a public school
system. I candidly share a story of how I overcame my own sense of doubt
and fear. It’s about finally capturing something, relishing it, and then letting
it go. By writing about the many fascinating (and disagreeable) people that
I’ve met along the way, I reveal both the heroes that hold our schools together
and the self-serving characters that walk its halls.
Many things take place behind closed school doors—more than the public
can imagine. At the high school level, where there is so much at stake, I present
an insight of the synergy that goes into effect to take the beginnings of the school
year to its graduation ceremonies. I’ve written about human nature. Some of
you, probably teachers, will read this and laugh. You’ll recognize incidents that
take place right in your own school. Others, mostly parents, will be stunned at
the revelation of what goes on behind the scenes with regard to managerial and
operational decisions—decisions that affect their child’s education.
In some small way, my story might bring hope to those who are experiencing
the very same challenges, maybe not. In either case, it needs to be told.
Within the confines of these pages, I have also added some of my memories
as a child and as a teenager because it defines who I am and how I came to
make decisions in my life as an adult. I lived with neglect and despair, but
through a determination to survive, I managed to overcome obstacles. This
gave me a knack to empathize with people’s apprehensions, to understand their
traumatic lives. It helped me develop a special connection with my students,
one defined by my passion and my compassion in education.
If you’re a parent or a concerned citizen, this book will give you a better
understanding of why administrators and teachers say what they say. You’ll get a
glimpse of what high school students do and what they go through. If you’re an
employee, working under similar conditions, my story might give you courage
to stand up and work toward changes, or it might help you walk away. If you’re
an Asian American or Pacific Islander, you know that not much has been written
about the special challenges people like us go through as we try to climb that
professional ladder of promotions. Finally, if you come from poverty and dejection,
you’ll see how in some cases you can use it to your advantage, just as I have.
The current federal legislation of the No Child Left Behind Act has
definitely made changes in the way we run schools. Believe me, the old
schoolhouse of thirty years ago no longer exists. Teachers are held personally
accountable, now more than ever, to assure students are learning. Through
regular, standardized assessments, we’re also able to determine a student’s
learning needs and develop instructional strategies to address those needs.
Unfortunately, we have also come to use standardized testing and its results
in a punitive manner. Today we categorize everybody—pitting students against
students, schools against schools, and districts against districts—as the plight
for a higher school grade becomes more important than the commitment to
our students. Until we pull ourselves away from the numbers game, we will fail
to truly meet the needs of our youth today. Rather than teaching to the student,
we are teaching to the test taker—and I don’t think that’s what we want.
Sexuality, deception, and politics in high schools. I write about these here
too. For obvious reasons, I’ve had to create fictitious names of people, schools,
school districts, and even cities. I’ve taken artistic liberties, particularly in
the dialogues. Rest assured, however, that the events are as truthful as I can
remember (I couldn’t possibly dream up all of this stuff ).
Thank you to my supporters: all of my wonderful children and family
members, teachers, assistant principals, business associates, friends, parents,
students, legislators, lawyers, college professionals, businessmen, politicians,
neighbors, and concerned citizens. A special acknowledgment needs to go
to my sister-in-law, Lucille, who was a guiding light along the way, and my
eldest daughter, Angie, a critic who kept me on the right path. Brandon
and Lynn, it is through your encouragement that I decided to proceed with
writing and telling this story.
Most of all, thanks so much to my darling husband, Steve. Without his
unwavering support and generous spirit, this project would not have been
possible. He has indeed been a blessing to me.
CHAPTER 4
My first days at Myerson were awkward. I wasn’t familiar with the campus,
which was so much smaller than South Gibson’s. There were three primary
areas on Myerson’s campus: the main building, the vocational and performing
arts lab, and the gymnasium area where the six portables were stationed.
Although I didn’t know many of the people, some came right up to me and
extended their welcome. Others walked in the opposite direction, obviously
avoiding me. Was it shyness, or my imagination overworking again?
There were two other assistant principals in the admin team: Warren
Hinton, a first-year AP like me, and Renishia Johnson, a senior AP with seven
years under her belt. Counting the principal and me, that made a four-person
administrative team. One other AP occupied the separate building that was
located at the front of the school’s property. It was the building where all of
the pregnant students or teen mothers reported for their special programs.
We rarely saw her.
I wanted to be accepted by the other assistant principals. I felt a need to
bond with them. Assistant principals are always caught in the middle of the
fray. It was a thankless job that primarily dealt with handling issues among
the students, teachers, staff members, and parents. With a unified front,
we could support each other and obtain a cohesive direction and vision of
operational matters. Teamwork. That’s what I had hoped would be created
between me and my colleagues. Nothing, however, prepared me for the divisiveness of our cold and fearless leader. One morning as I arrived on campus for the start of another day, I saw Renishia talking to the receptionist.
“Good morning,” I said, walking through the area toward my office. A kind and warm response came from the receptionist, Iris Gardner, but nothing came from Renishia. She did not even look up to acknowledge my presence. I stopped and went up to her. “How ya doing, Ms. Johnson? Ready for another day?” I said. She lifted her chin and turned to walk away, saying, “Whatever.” I was astonished with the rudeness, and my expressions showed it. Iris, a saccharine-sweet young woman said, “Oh, don’t mind her, Mrs. Pinney.
That’s just how she is.”
From behind me, the guttural voice called. “Mrs. Pinney, please come
to my office.” It was Mueller. I promptly turned to follow her. “Close the
door behind you.” Uh-oh. A closed-door conference. What did I do now?
“I overheard you trying to make small talk with Renishia. Take my advice,
don’t,” Mueller said in her Elvira-the-Vampira way—a blonde Elvira, that is.
“Did I do something wrong? Is she upset with me about something?”
“She’s upset with me.”
“You?”
“Yes, she’s upset that I did not select somebody else to be Myerson’s
assistant principal.” Mueller clasped her hands and rested her elbows on the
armrest of her chair as she leaned back. “You see, she’s afraid of you.”
“Afraid? Renishia Johnson is afraid of me?” I tried to mask the laugh that
was burbling up. This was so absurd; it was funny. Especially the manner in
which Gretchen Mueller was saying it. “Mrs. Pinney, your reputation in this district is . . . how shall I say it . . . you’re recognized as a troublemaker.” Now, that comment slapped my giddiness right off my face. “You see, Renishia is anxious to become principal one day. She had heard how ambitious you are and sees you as a threat.” “That’s ridiculous.”
“It may be ridiculous, but it’s true.” Mueller sat firmly back in her executive chair. Emotionless. I’m working for a robot , I thought. “Renishia is in the principal pool and has been bypassed for promotion several times. You could ruin her chances.” Okay, that’s it. I need to clarify something. “First of all, I’m a new AP,” I said. “I’m not qualified to even be considered for a principal position for another year.”
“True, but some others have managed to excel over that requirement. You
might be one,” Mueller replied.
A fly could have flown right into my mouth. I sat there with my jaw
agape. This confused me. I didn’t know whether to take what my boss just
said as an insult or as a compliment. On one hand, this principal was telling
me that I’m being perceived as an enemy by a colleague. Then on the other
hand, she was saying that I had the potential to move quickly upward for
promotion. Yeah, right. She couldn’t mean that, could she?
I decided to say nothing more. I could feel the beginning of a migraine
coming from the back of my head.
“Just be careful around her,” Mueller said. “Now, let’s get out there for
hall duty. The kids are arriving on campus already.” She took a quick glance at
her wristwatch and went off down the corridor. I rushed to my office, put my
handbag away, dabbed another glob of lipstick on, picked up my walkie-talkie
from the cradle, and proceeded through the reception area.
Iris Gardner was sitting at her reception desk. She gave another welcoming
smile at me and a wink of reassurance that once again all was well. I smiled
back and hurried out to the halls.
Mornings are usually quiet. It’s mellow because most of the kids are
walking zombies at 6:45 a.m. The hormones do not start kicking around until
midmorning or lunchtime. That’s when the boys put on that puberty display
of a tough act, and the girls giggled loud enough to attract their attention.
Hallway supervision has got to be the most boring responsibility for
school site administrators—but it’s also the most important. Just the physical
presence of an administrator is enough to discourage students from acting
up, fighting, or being destructive. Eventually, I would come to use hallway
duty as a time to reach out to the students and connect with them. I’d ask
about their classes or their after-school jobs or their home life—anything to
get them talking to me.
Right now, however, I had been at Myerson High for only a little over one
week. I just stood there that morning and gazed at the students mulling about.
Robust and growing louder as we approached the first bell, these students
took a gander back at me. “Who is that?” I heard some of them say.
“Hey, lady!” a black male student, who looked to be a tenth grader, called
out to me. “You the new assistant principal?” He was with three other boys.
They each wore a baggy red polo shirt and baggy jeans that dragged atop
white canvas shoes which were untied.
What’s this? A gang , I thought.
I smiled demurely and answered, “Yes, I am.”
“Where you from anyway?” he said, “You a Chinee or what? You know kung fu?” The other boys burst in a hearty laughter.
I didn’t know whether to give the correct answer: I’m Filipino Portuguese. I suspected that these lads probably hadn’t heard of the Philippines, much less Portugal. Perhaps I should reprimand them about making fun of Asians.
No. Not yet. It’s too soon for me to be pontificating. So I simply said, “I’m from Hawaii.
” “You mean you surf? You know how to do them dances?” He proceeded to mimic a hula dance, but it was a pathetic display of gyrations. I almost laughed too, it was so ridiculously funny. Instead, I gave a stone-faced expression and narrowed my eyes at him. Nothing came out of my mouth. Just my glare back at this fool. At once, the seriousness of my look made the young man feel uncomfortable. His big grin, showing a gold grill on his front teeth, disappeared. He knew that he had crossed the line.
Standing firm, I put my right hand on my hip and pointed toward a hallway full of classes with my left hand that held my radio. My gesture screamed at them: scram and just go to class! One of the other boys in the group came up to me. “Pay him no mind, miss. He stupid. He don’t mean nuthin’ by that. Just messin’ with ya.” It was sincere, and the other boys were jabbing at the guy who made the comments, deriding him for doing it.
I gave a small smile. If this ever happens again, I will talk to them about making fun of other people’s races. But today? I need the word out among the student population that I’m here, I’m the new AP, and I’m cool.
After that, my mind drifted a bit. I stood in the hallway and thought about Renishia Johnson. Where Gretchen Mueller was a senior principal with the most years among the schools, Renishia Johnson was also one of the senior assistant principals in the district. I didn’t blame her for wanting to be a principal. It was time. She’d been at all sorts of district meetings and projects in the past years and was recognized for her down-to-earth style of management. She was a hard-edged black woman who came directly from a town up in northern Florida, one similar to Vista. With a propensity to bellow when she spoke, Renishia was also known for her kindness and her heart of gold. The Myerson High students loved her. Often, parents would talk to nobody else but Mrs. Johnson. How on earth could she think I’d do anything to wreck her chances of getting promoted? Who put that in her head?