Names have been changed to protect privacy
I walked straight from the jungles of Paraguay into a classroom, transitioning in a matter of weeks. With an emergency teaching credential and no education classes under my belt, I landed at a massive LA high school bursting with 4,000 students in a building meant for 1,800. My classroom was a bungalow stuck in what used to be the parking lot.
I knew I could control a room — I'd been a firefighter, after all. Everything was difficult. I didn’t know how to grade. I didn’t know how to deliver a history lesson without scripting every part out beforehand. And the kids were detached and disinterested. I recognized that the classroom issues were not their fault — it was on me to make things better by becoming a better teacher.
Me and my colleagues had no curriculum at school to support us and engage the students, no textbooks to help bring our subjects to life. I wanted to be a good teacher — I just didn't know how. When I learned about the cooperative tolerant classroom, it saved my ass. The first step was simple: meet your students at the door. Every morning, I'd stand there saying good morning, trying to get a fist bump, a high five, anything. For two weeks straight, if I was lucky, I got a grunt. Most days, I got nothing. Eventually, I gave up and retreated to my overhead projector before class.
That's when Gabriel showed up in my doorway.
The Only Nice Thing All Day
"Hey, Mr. Navarro," he said. "It just sucks."
Gabriel was a big kid, about 6'2" with a shaved head and baggy jeans. He and his brother Hector were gangsters with reputations and parole officers. While Hector was charismatic, handsome, and brilliant (he kept his book in my room to avoid being seen carrying it), Gabriel had special needs and rarely spoke.
"What sucks, Gabriel?" I asked.
"Well, you don't say good morning no more."
"Gabriel, no one cares," I said. "You guys don't answer me."
"I don't know about that, Mr. Navarro," he said. "I just know that when I wake up in the morning, my mom's on me about something. Then I run to school, so I don't get jacked. Then when I get here, my PO is laying into me about something. My teachers either yell at me or they ignore me. You are the only old person saying anything nice to me all day."
I never really "talked" to Gabriel. All I ever said to him was good morning. But after years of neglect and abuse, he and his brother were hungry for hello from a caring adult who dared to look in their eyes each morning, for a safe place to sit or a place to keep their book. Toward the end of that school year, both brothers disappeared. I learned later that Hector was shot and killed.
The Power of Showing Up
Gabriel reminded me of an experience I had in Paraguay when I was in the Peace Corps.
I lived down a valley and across a river from Don Jose. Walking over to his property was treacherous; the mud clay was slippery as hell when it rained. I had to go down the valley, across the river, and up the other side. During summer, it rained every day.
Don Jose was planting vertically, basically guiding all the water down to the river. The river would fill with silt, kill all the fish, and within two or three years, all his viable soil would be gone. He'd have to cut down more rainforest and start over. I wanted to show him how to plant on the contour. Simple solution, low-tech. Just go sideways instead of up and down. He was understandably skeptical of me. If I was offered poor advice about his livelihood, his family would not eat.
Day after day, I trekked to Don Jose's field hoping to work with him, and he was never there. I’d see him at church, and he’d say, Manana. I’ll meet you up there tomorrow. He didn’t. I was getting frustrated, so I consulted my supervisor. She told me that Don Jose could be hiding in the bushes, watching to see if I would keep my word. She encouraged me to keep showing up, and so I did.
After about a month, Don Jose was waiting for me. We started working. He didn't tell me where he had been, and I didn’t ask. Later on, I learned he had been lied to by the Germans, by the Japanese, by other Peace Corps volunteers, by his own country’s engineers and foresters. He wanted to see if I would follow through.
Set the Temperature of the Room
Two very different teachers — a teen gangster and a Paraguayan farmer — showed me the same truth: our influence comes from our consistency, not our control.
Teachers who act like thermometers let the room control them. They bounce from crisis to crisis, letting students dictate the atmosphere. They're not sure what they can control, or they decide their sphere of influence is incredibly small. But great teachers are thermostats. We set the temperature of the room. We determine the atmosphere, the level of respect, the quality of connection. Do not underestimate your power as a teacher.
Parents aren't hiding their "good" kids at home and sending us the difficult ones. They're sending us the best they have — hoping we will do the best we can. When my own son has a bad day, I'm just hoping his teachers will meet him with compassion and humanity at the door.
I never spoke more than "good morning" to Gabriel. But in that simple greeting was everything he needed to know: I see you. You matter. You're worthy of respect. Like Don Jose watching from the bushes, our students are always watching, waiting to see if we mean what we say.
Let's be worth watching.
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