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 sixteen–year–old, 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 donning the rival 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 airplane—made out of my syllabus, I quickly realized—and tried to make myself he ...
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