That’s Just the Way It Is: Redux

(Continued from “That’s Just the Way It Is: Part 1” and “Part 2”)

Even though I didn’t like the fact that Breakthrough took place this year at a fancy private rich school in the equally rich and white and white-collar neighborhoods of Los Gatos this summer, I had to admit it was nice that, for once, the students had access to multiple microphones for celebration night.

Back in 2008, during evaluations after celebration night, I suggested getting more than one microphone because hardly anyone could hear the students who didn’t have one. Cesar retorted, “Great idea Brian. Feel free to buy us more microphones.” No one at that point in time ever thought that within another two years, Breakthrough would (unnecessarily) spend exorbitant amounts of money just so that they could ship their low-income students on buses every morning to a white, rich school—and I do say “white” and “rich” with some resent (looks like my students’ internalized racism has rubbed off on me, in combination with the things I’ve learned about white privilege and other stuff in college ethnic studies classes). But at least this summer, sitting in the very back on the bleachers in the gym I could hear every word that the students spoke on stage.

7 PM. The gymnasium thundered with applause as Breakthrough’s summer 2010 celebration night came to a close. Families shot from their seats to find their kids, while the kids scrambled to find their teachers for last-minute photos. As I sorted my way through the crowds, I found Timmy.

I was hoping that maybe we could pause to just chat a little bit more. Crack some jokes, discuss his summer, show off tutting combos, but he seemed to be in a hurry. Our conversation was limited to my request for a photo with him, our pose, and then his farewell as he disappeared back into the crowd.

I didn’t think too much of this until ten minutes later when Ross, one of this summer’s new teachers, emerged from the commotion with a New Era fitted cap in his hand. It was Timmy’s hat. A gift from him, Ross confirmed.

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and slid it open. The picture that greeted me on the screen was a photo of me and several students at the first Super Saturday, including Timmy. He was wearing a hat, the same one that now rested on Ross’s head.



“Hey,” I sat down on a concrete ledge next to one of the new seventh graders. I already knew pretty much all the eighth graders because I worked with them the previous summer, so, now during the second week into my second summer at Breakthrough, I had decided it was time to get to know some of the new seventh graders. “I was standing over there when I noticed what you were doing,” I said.

“Oh yeah? What was I doing?” he asked.

I held out my left arm and bent my wrist at a right angle, and then I bent my elbow at another right angle and rotated my forearm up. “You were tutting. Well, finger tutting. I can kinda do tuts, but they’re not too clean.”

“Oh tight! You tut?”

I nodded.

“I know a finger tutting combo. Wanna learn it?” he asked.

“Sure.”

He’d later introduce himself as Timmy, and he would never get the chance to finish teaching me his tutting combo.



The crowd started to die as more families left for home with their kids. I was mostly standing around at this point instead of actively searching, but I still got requests for photos and hugs from students. That was nice. What really made me happy though was seeing the formerly shy Rosalina running up to me with a grin. I held out my right arm for a side hug, but she stopped when she got close. She asked me if I had seen Maymay anywhere. I pointed her toward the right direction. My shoulders slumped as she turned to run off, but I guess she noticed. She turned back around and approached me with open arms and a timid smile, one that I was more familiar with. We hugged, and then I let her go find Maymay.



“Breakthrooough twoo thousaaand and eeiight.”

I turned around to face a student who was trying to read some graffiti that my seven grade writing students drew on the whiteboard the other day. Rosalina, Cil, and a few more of my students from my dance class wandered through my door and sat on top of the desks. One quickly located my rolly chair and started to slide over the carpet. Students often liked to drop by my class in the morning before first period to hang out and get away from the cold.

“Brian,” Cil said, “when are you going to start teaching dance again?”

“I’m not sure. Since dance class is a supposed to be a ‘dance around the world in thirty days’ class, I probably won’t get another chance to teach breakdancing. Augusto will probably teach for the rest of the summer since he knows a bunch of different kinds of dances, enough to teach one a week. I only knew breakdancing.”

“Aw man!”

“What, you don’t like cumbia?”

“I don’t like Augusto,” a student interjected. Rosalina nodded solemnly.

“Yeah, you made dancing a lot funner,” Cil added.

“Really?”

They all nodded and agreed.

I turned my back to them and continued to write the agenda on the whiteboard, but I was really trying to cover a huge smirk.



There was actually one more student that I had to say goodbye to: Matty. I realized that I hadn’t seen him all night long except for a brief “hey” before the celebration began. All the families had filtered out of the gym at this point, leaving the teachers and a few students still inside. Matty wasn’t among them, so I headed outside, where there wasn’t much to see. Tarps getting taken down, tables getting folded together, bees buzzing around trash bags, families and kids taking off in their cars.

I spotted a small group of students chilling and headed toward them, but when I got close they all turned to look at me. None of them was Matty. I smiled, and feeling a little awkward, I bent down to pick up a paper plate, trying to play myself off as having clean-up duty.

I teetered my way back into the gym and planted myself on the bleachers, but I quickly jumped up when I spotted the elusive Fernando with his family and a few teachers in front of the stage. None of the other ninth graders nor I could find him earlier, so I had thought that he simply didn’t show up. But he was here. He and his family started to make their way toward the exit, so I got up to intercept. I was ready to run toward him, ready to shout his name and to wave my camera around in the air. But my feet didn’t take more than two steps before I slowed to a stop. I didn’t have anymore energy to lift my legs.

My eyes followed Fernando as he and his family walked out the door. Once their silhouettes disappeared, orange sunrays shined through the open door. I shielded my eyes until the door swiveled its way back into the doorway, slamming shut and locking out the sun. No more students. Clangs rang through the gym as teachers began folding up chairs.



9:30 AM. The students were coming, but one last thing remained. I scrawled today’s date on the top left corner of the white board in my best cursive: June 23rd, 2008. I turned around to see students already walking in and finding their seats.

A short boy took his seat. His hair was slicked and neatly combed to the side. He put down his backpack, pulled out his binder, placed it on his desk, and cupped his hands in his lap. He’d later introduce himself as Fernando, and he’d later be one of my only two seventh grade writing students to finish all three summers that the Breakthrough program had to offer.

A skinny girl took her seat. She had pale, barely brown skin and long straight dark hair. Her backpack remained strapped to her back. As she leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, she shook her bangs aside, but they lazily fell back down across her face, obscuring her long, bored gaze. She’d later introduce herself as Leandra, and she’d later teach me how frustrating it was to work with and to control her, but also how rewarding it was to see her shine in her best moments.

A chubby, perhaps overweight boy took his seat. He wore pants and a white polo, which had some visible stains; this was probably his school uniform, although Breakthrough never enforced a dress code for the summer. He dropped his backpack by his side and reclined in his chair. His head turned toward the window, and he looked like his mind had already drifted somewhere beyond the classroom. He’d later introduce himself as Paulo, and I’d later learn about his processing disorder and be one of his first and only few friends at Breakthrough.

A few more students straggled through the door and found their seats. Once I counted ten students, I prepped myself and began. “Hello everyone,” I said, “and welcome to Breakthrough. My name is Brian, and this is my first summer teaching at Breakthrough, just as this is your first summer attending it. I just recently graduated from high school, and this fall I’m heading down to SoCal—that’s Southern California—for college at UC Irvine. I’m majoring in French, and I hope to become a French teacher. If all goes well, I should be graduating in four years in 2012. Some things I like to do include—”

“Hey!”

I turned my head toward a student standing at the door.

“Is this Mark’s seventh grade writing class?” he asked.

“Well, this is seventh grade writing,” I answered, “but Mark’s class is down the hall.”

“K, thanks!” He rushed off. I’d later learn that that kid was Mickey. When he saw my face and I saw his, neither of us had ever suspected the kind of crazy bullying that he would have to put up with and the kind that I would fail to prevent in my classroom a year later.

I poked my head out the door to see if there were anymore students lost in the hallways. Everyone had found their way to their classrooms, so I returned to the front of the whiteboard.

“Well,” I said, “it looks like everyone’s here...” I glanced over my students and took turns locking eyes with each and everyone of them, and they’d timidly smile back as I smiled at them, all of us unaware of the kinds of relations we’d form, the struggles we’d go through, and the breakthroughs we’d make together.

I clasped my hands. “Alright!” I cheered. “Let’s get started.”