Lymphoma and the absurd safety net

My diagnosis of Nonhodgkins lymphoma didn’t hit me with the same sense of dread that an AIDS diagnosis would have. But I certainly noticed an absence of support systems and wondered where that social safety net was located that Bill Clinton used to praise himself for salvaging from the Republican congress. As ugly as it sounds, I found myself almost envious of the attention and sympathy shown to the PWAs. If it weren’t for the help of family and friends I don’t have any doubt that I’d be dining out of dumpsters by now and making up stories about why I need change for the bus from total strangers.
The 95/96 academic year had been one of the least stressful in a decade. Marginal involvement in LA County’s quagmire of public school districts had been an emotional strain. By September of 95 I was teaching only adults – high school diploma preparation in the mornings and English as a second language at night.
Although ”young adults” can radiate plenty of attitude, they don’t have to be in your class if they don’t want to be, regardless of what their probation officer says. There are no referral slips to the Dean in a community adult school. There are no conferences with irresponsible parents either.
I didn’t do much when the swelling under my jaw first appeared at the beginning of May. I didn’t want to spend the money. Working less than 20 hours per week for each district meant that neither district was obligated to supply me with a medical insurance plan.
The swelling didn’t disappear as friends suggested it might. Other symptoms developed. I began to feel listless in the evenings. I slept a lot. Strange aches and pains made themselves known.
By the first week of June I was running low grade fevers occasionally. The joint and muscle aches were stronger now – hot and throbbing sensations usually associated with inflammation. Hefty doses of Ibuprofen became my salvation.
I was grateful for my negative HIV test report. It was a well spent 20 bucks. The private clinic in W. Hollywood had provided courtesy and friendly treatment as well as a cartoon band-aid and a nice lemon lollipop. The mystery only deepened however.
A highly recommended surgeon took a look at my neck. After sitting in his majesty’s waiting room for close to an hour beyond my appointment time, he touched the lump and laughed, insisting that it was probably a dental infection. The visit lasted no longer than three minutes. I was told by his nursing staff that 80 dollars was a special fee for the uninsured. Boy, wasn’t I the lucky recipient of this man’s generosity! Fortunately I saved the receipt. I was later billed for the remaining 70 dollars of his standard consultation fee.
The back of my neck throbbed one night waking me and sending me stumbling to the bathroom cabinet for Advil. Other days the pain was in my shoulder or elbow. Finally after 10 days of sore throat pain and fevers topping out at 101, I gave up, and withdrew 200 dollars from my summer savings for a visit with a general practitioner.
The M.D. was a man close to my age, conscientious but a little naïve. I remember his eyebrow rising slightly when I told him I did teaching for a living. Did he think gay men were all waiters, hair stylists, and sex industry people ? He examined me carefully, took x-rays, and ordered a full blood work-up. The x-rays were clear. Everything appeared to be normal in my blood except for high levels of a protein called LDH (Lactate Dehydrogenase) which the good MD said could be attributed to several things.
He told me emphatically that the lump had to be biopsied. I pleaded poverty. He pointed me in the direction of LA County USC Medical Center, the infamous art-deco structure seen at the beginning of every episode of “General Hospital” on TV.
As I walked up the hill toward the imposing structure on the first of July, I could almost begin to feel the sucking motion of that vortex of bureaucratic incompetence that afflicts public agencies in so many U.S. cities. Nine hours later I found myself clad in a hospital gown and wheeled up to the eighth floor.
The medical personnel in the emergency room had had a field day with me. Half a dozen young doctors asked me the same questions over and over. They were invited to take a look at me by friends and colleagues who swished and gossiped and buzzed around me like a swarm of excited bees throughout the day. They took more blood, x-rayed me again, and discussed me in whispered tones from a distance.
A heavily accented doctor was assigned to me on the eighth floor. He acted as patriarch for a diagnostic team of young interns who looked no older than some of the high school students I used to send to the Dean’s office. Paternalism permeated his demeanor. He seemed to be intimidated at the prospect of treating an English teacher.
When he found out I was gay, he immediately assumed my case was a case of AIDS. My precautions in that area over many years meant nothing to him. The negative HIV test results which came back in a few days prompted a gleeful thumbs up signal as if to say, “How about that !” I resisted the temptation to say, “I told you so.”
As time dragged on it became apparent to me that I functioned in the hospital as both patient and educational prop. The young interns took turns drawing blood and administering tests intended to rule out other possibilities. Lymphoma was considered the most likely diagnosis from the very start.
There were six beds in my hospital room. They were never empty. Drunks and drug addicts vomited for hours throughout the night. My paternalistic doctor lectured them about their lifestyles and behavior during the day. A man with an intestinal infection was continually hallucinating in the bed next to mine. He was in leather restraints but managed to fall on the floor one night, his legs still attached to the bed posts. He claimed there was a police dog under one of the beds growling at him. I suddenly remembered that I have a snoring problem.
One afternoon an attractive competent-appearing woman came to visit me as I lay waiting for another test. She addressed me formally and said she was from some social service agency within the hospital itself or was it the billing department ? She handed me the forms to apply for Medi-Cal and assured me that even if Medi-Cal didn’t come through I would fall under the County Hospital’s ability-to-pay plan which would mean if I had no income and no property, I would not be charged for my medical care. That sounded good to me. Before she left she told me to be sure to get my bank statements to her office by the end of the month. I might receive a bill in the mail if I didn’t. I did it. Months later I was billed anyway. The clerical vortex was just beginning to suck me in.
It took over a month to arrange for the surgery needed for a biopsy on my neck. In the mean time I suffered at home and took Ibuprofen. The fine needle aspirations were inconclusive. One morning I was called in to the hospital for surgery. I was dressed in a gown, stuck with an IV, and ready to be rolled into the O.R. when my surgery had to be canceled due to an unforeseen emergency – a throat slashing or a gun shot – a ten second blurb on the evening news but a week’s delay for me.
After surgery and a conclusive diagnosis of aggressive nonhodgkins lymphoma, I became a hematology patient at the Hematology Clinic of County USC. This feat was accomplished with the help of my surgeon who did some heated verbal arm twisting over the telephone with more clerical people who wanted to wait a few weeks. I sat in a cubicle overhearing it all. I feel grateful to him now.
Labor Day weekend of 96 I lay in another bed on the 14th floor of the same hospital. Four months after I first began to show symptoms for a type of lymphoma that kills people in a span of six months to a year, I was finally about to receive my first dose of chemotherapy. The CT scan showed numerous small tumors in my liver, deep under my arm, and near my heart.
The chemotherapy went well that weekend. There was no nausea. The lump in my neck disappeared within 48 hours. I can remember dreaming about cool clear water and swimming in pools and fountains. These dreams may have resulted from the air conditioning rather than the effect of the chemotherapy drugs.
While lying in my bed one afternoon a cheerful middle aged woman paid me a visit. She was another social worker. She exuded sympathy and spouted a lot of upbeat jibber-jabber as she made claims that her independent organization would help to speed the process of applying for Social Security Supplemental Income. I filled out forms for her, and signed other forms which she claimed her organization would fill out for me.“You need to concentrate on getting better” she said with a smile. “Let us worry about the rest.”
I heard nothing from this organization for two months. My hair fell out. I lost my teaching jobs. I lost the house I was renting with roommates. I had a few possessions in storage and nothing else to my name. I couldn’t collect disability because neither district had been putting any money into the pot. At age 36 I was living with Mom and Dad. The only thing that seemed to be working in my favor was the chemotherapy.
When I finally heard word from the outfit that was allegedly advocating on my behalf it was to ask me for basic information such as my social security number. They hadn’t even filed an application yet !
At about this time (end of October) I received a phone call from a representative of Medi-Cal. She was calm and reasonable. She was calling to find out if I existed or not. Apparently at that time the County Hospital claimed to have no record of my hospital stays in July or September.
Eventually I got a response from the Social Security Administration. They didn’t consider me to be disabled. I wouldn’t receive a cent of SSI. Medi-Cal later denied me any benefits on the basis of the S.S.A. decision. I can still vividly recall the sound of my doctor screaming, “What!?” on the other end of the telephone line when I informed her of this. She was amazed. “Have they examined you? Did they look at your biopsy slides?”
I understand all too well now why there are so many AIDS advocacy groups out there with full time case managers on their payrolls. What did people with AIDS do before these groups existed ? Public agencies are a veritable tornado of bumbling clerical incompetence. Private medical organizations too often seek to squeeze as much money as possible out of the sick and dying. I’m glad for organizations like APLA, but where do you go when you’re HIV negative ?
Welfare seemed to be my only viable option. I called the Welfare office. They told me that I needed a particular form saying that I was ineligible for Unemployment benefits. I visited the local E.D.D. office to get the form. The EDD office told me I was eligible for Unemployment insurance benefits. I wasn’t sure if I were hearing correctly. I was weak, pale, and bald. I told them I was undergoing chemotherapy. They answered that I had been declared “not disabled” and if I had been replaced at work for medical reasons I was eligible to collect U.I.B. I didn’t argue.
I began to collect some money until an infection landed me back into County Hospital for a solid week during the last week of December. Anything even remotely out of the ordinary on a biweekly claim form sends the E.D.D. into a tizzy. A stay in the hospital is a major red flag. Sure enough, a computer printed letter soon told me to be at home on a set date for a period of four hours so that an EDD representative could hold a telephone interview with me. Naturally it was the same day that I was scheduled to go in for a blood test.
I tried to reschedule the date for the interview. No, I was told that was impossible unless I wanted to wait for two more weeks. What about right now while I was on the phone ? Couldn’t I talk with my dutiful EDD representative right now ? “No,” the crotchety voice replied. I would have to call on the appointed date for my interview because that was the way things were done.
The appointed date arrived. I called in the morning from a hospital pay phone only to be told that it wasn’t acceptable. I had to call during the appointed four hour segment of time that afternoon. My doctor finished conferring with me during the appointed four hour segment of time. A five minute prepaid phone card was my only means of paying for the call. I called. As I listened to a synthesized rendition of “Raindrops keep falling on my head”, a recorded voice announced, “You have two minutes of calling time remaining on this card” My EDD representative finally picked up the line. I was momentarily relieved. “Well, let me get your file.” He said. “What was your social security number ?”—More synthesized movie theme music followed. “I’ve got the file now.” The recorded voice I heard earlier while on hold interrupted my representative, ”your calling time has expired. (click, dial tone)”
The next day an EDD “supervisor” canceled my unemployment benefits while I talked with him on the phone. Discharge papers which labeled me as “fully ambulatory” and “under no medical restrictions” were insufficient. He wanted a letter from my doctor saying that I was not medically disabled. In the meantime he told me to seek help from state disability and SSI – yeah right !
I couldn’t ask my doctor for a letter stating that I was NOT disabled since she had already composed a lovely letter stating that I was disabled due to chemotherapy so that I could reapply for SSI and Medi-Cal. She had recently filled out detailed forms on my disability and photo copied my medical records in order to get the student loan people off my back. I had to wait a few weeks and then reopen my unemployment claim before I could begin collecting any money again.
My last dose of chemotherapy was in mid January. I reapplied for SSI, but never received a word in response. A Medi-Cal card finally arrived in the mail in December of 97 almost a year after the last chemo dose. This meant that I could at last afford a consultation with another facility for a possible bone marrow transplant. Hopefully that won’t be necessary, since I’ve been in remission for over 18 months at the time I am writing this, but what if I had relapsed before the Medi-Cal card arrived ?
Trying to get back into the job market was another nightmare. It’s amusing to me how Cancer support group facilitators love to sing the praises of the A.D.A. (That magical piece of legislation which was supposed to safe guard the rights of persons with disabilities by, among other things, forbidding prospective employers from inquiring into one’s medical history). A gapping hole in one’s work history is a screaming siren and indirect questions about it eventually leave one with the option of either revealing the illness or lying in a job interview.
In spite of precisely appropriate credentials and experience, I was forced to give up on the hope of getting back into the community adult school system. I have no doubt that in at least two cases, year-long teaching contracts went to healthier candidates. I played the resume game with classified ads for employment in other areas. It was futile. After being turned down at the welfare office for G.R. because of money in my California State Teacher’s Retirement Account, I made the highly reluctant decision to do regular K-12 substitute teaching. It wasn’t such a bad decision after all.
Baby sitting kids in public schools as a “sub” is a familiar routine for me. I supplemented my income as an ESL teacher this way for several years. In many ways, therefore, it’s actually less stressful for me than it is for starry-eyed recent college grads with fresh credentials. Sweet idealistic education majors are never prepared for the messiness and absurdities of public schools. After everything that I’ve been through, the Long Beach Unified School District almost seems like a model of orderliness and efficiency. Not only that, but I feel a sort of kinship with the urban kids in the class rooms. Like myself, these kids are society’s throw-away items – victims of broken promises and hopeful sounding propaganda, yet survivors nonetheless.
Looking back at this point in time, I must say that I have great admiration for the majority of doctors and nurses at County USC Medical Center. In spite of understaffing and managerial incompetence they dispense necessary medical attention to overflow crowds of people spilling out into the hallways, coughing and moaning like characters from the literature of Charles Dickens.
I’m glad to be a single gay male. It makes me shudder to think of the possibility of children being economically dependent on me. Although it may sound almost too self evident for mentioning, I can’t help but caution people not to take too much comfort in a negative HIV test result. So many other things can go wrong with one’s body. If something does go wrong, you’d better pray that your medical and disability insurance are in perfect order. We may have some of the best medical care available, but God help the uninsured citizen who gets seriously ill in the United States of America.

Christmas Letter 1996

December 1996

"life is what happens while you're making other plans." I'm not sure whose quote that was originally but it certainly has made a lot of sense recently. In April I flew out to Minneapolis to investigate the community and was impressed. An ESL class of 18 is considered "large" back there. They had the educated populace and cultural events I expected. The city parks and lakes were serene. I went as far as to secure a Minnesota state teaching license for ESL instruction. In May I was sending out resumes to the Minneapolis / St. Paul area. This summer I was diagnosed with NonHodgkins Lymphoma._______
___________ I first noticed the swelling under my jaw bone in May. I began feeling strange toward the end of that month. At first it was an achy run-down sensation, but by the first week of June I was running low-grade fevers in the evenings and experiencing mysterious pains. A throbbing inflammation in the back of my neck kept me up one night. There was a funny weak sensation in my chest which increased in the evenings. I had a miserable sore throat for five or six days. There was throbbing that seemed to move around in my body -- to the elbow, shoulders, and finally my lower back. My Ibuprofen intake increased to 600 mg. every evening. At this point it occurred to me that I was either seriously ill or being poisoned by a house mate.____________
______ A general practitioner took a disturbing interest in the swelling under my jaw. He was the one who steered me in the direction of the LA County medical system. On the first of July, I paid a visit to the emergency room of County USC where the doctors stared at me form a distance of 10 feet or so and whispered to each other with somber expressions on their faces. After a few hours I was wheeled up to the eighth floor with my admission papers looking up at me from my lap. They knew it was lymphoma but needed a conclusive, concise diagnosis._____________
______ For a week I played guinea pig to supervised medical interns who didn't appear much older than high school students I used to send to the Dean's office in Temple City. They poked and punctured me to their hearts' content. ____________
______ My eighth floor ward was reserved for "internal medicine" which meant I was to be treated to the sounds of at least two or three people vomiting at regular intervals most every night._____________
______ My blood tests were not out of the ordinary. The X-rays revealed nothing unusual. My HIV test was negative. (Gee, I wonder if I would have put it in a christmas letter if it weren't?) The results of my needle biopsy were delayed due to the Fourth of July holiday, so they discharged me.
______ The needle biopsy turned out to be inconclusive. A second was needed. It also turned out to be inconclusive. Finally in August I had to undergo surgery for a definitive diagnosis: Immunoblastic T-cell Lymphoma, a high grade or fast growing variety.____________
______ Just before my first chemotherapy on Labor Day week end, a CT scan revealed several small patches of lymphoma across my upper chest and also on my liver. Chemotherapy, however, has worked wonders so far. The swelling under my jaw disappeared within 48 hours of the first dose. I've felt dramatically better since then and am due for a re-evaluation soon._______
___________ I'm really quite fortunate that my parents are young and healthy enough for me to rely on at this time, because I still haven't regained my balance from the dizzying whirlpool of inept and draconian social agencies that some optimistic politician called our "social safety net" --- must have been someone who inhaled. ________
___________ First of all, I was denied any state disability money because I've been working part-time and half-time teaching jobs for the past five years.________
___________ During my Labor Day hospital stay a sweet middle-aged social worker came to visit me at my request. She filled out a form for me and comforted me by telling me that the Montebello Social Security Office would expedite things for me. There shouldn't be any problem receiving S.S.I., I was told. "You just concentrate on getting well." my false prophet assured me._______
___________ An entire month went by before the office got back to me with a request for basic stuff such as a birth certificate which they said they needed before they could even process my application. I have since been denied Social Security benefits because my period of disability is not expected to be 12 months._________
___________ My Medi-Cal application got lost in the paper trail. The case worker told me over the phone that she couldn't get records from County Hospital on my diagnosis or subsequent chemotherapy. Honestly folks, I don't make this stuff up. It really happens._______
___________ For pocket change I'm down to either welfare with food stamps or unemployment insurance on the spurious pretense that I'm looking for work now.________
___________ This Christmas season my valuables are in storage while I live through chemotherapy at my parents' home in Carson. I must confess that the treatments haven't been anywhere near as bad as I thought they would be. (so far)_______
___________ I've appreciated the cards and phone calls that many of you have given me. I can't help but make some comment on the surprising thoughts that have been expressed to me. It seems too many people assume that a time of serious illness is a natural time to question one's faith and ask things like, "why me?"____________
______ I've never believed in a universe that operates by some inner distributive justice. The philosophical problem of evil is more complicated than any 17th century doctrine of Providence or contemporary notion of "Karma" can explain. I believe that the rain falls on the just and the unjust and that rotten things like lymphoma simply happen without any apparent reason. I also believe that giving up on trying to decipher messages from God out of the events of our lives frees us to empathize and commiserate with others which is one big step toward becoming more human._______
___________ I'm reminded of a large, well-to-do, ethnically proud Dutch church during my high school years. They spent a huge sum of money refurbishing their pipe organ and when questioned about it one girl my age responded, "Well, we must be doing something right. Look at how God has blessed us." Curiously though, this community also had a very high cancer rate.____________
______ I hope everyone enjoys the Christmas season. If you visit someone in the hospital be sure to bring some reading material. I, for one, know first hand how boring it is to lie in a hospital bed with nothing to do._____________
______ Phil Keller

Christmas Letter 1997

November 1997

Dear friends:

Another year has transpired and somehow I’m still walking the earth. This is no small milestone considering the grade and stage of lymphoma wreaking havoc in my body two summers ago. As of November, I’m still in remission. My blood tests are perfect. A doctor/friend at County-USC was finally able to pull the correct strings which will allow me to receive Medi-Cal. Having Medi-Cal means that I can at last afford a consultation for a possible bone marrow procedure in the near future. I should have originally lied and claimed drug addiction or clinical depression – no doubt I would have collected SSI along with a Medi-Cal card months ago !
I must express thanks to so many of you who called and wrote to me over the past year. It hasn’t gone unnoticed.
After 10 months of remission I consider myself to be living proof that “the power of positive thinking” is a lot of horse manure. Statements similar to that one really used to hit my cancer support group facilitator like a bowling ball in the lap. She was an avid believer in thinking pretty thoughts. I can remember listening to her lecture the group about thought patterns and immune systems with a Carol Channing smile plastered across her mouth and eyes that never blinked. As I continually adjusted myself in my seat (hemorrhoids are a by-product of chemotherapy), I would think to myself, “somebody please slap this woman before she turns us all into psycho-diabetics !” I’m no longer attending support group meetings.
The constant barrage of bureaucratic absurdity coupled with deliberate neglect from prospective employers have left me wavering between feelings of suffocation and sardonic amusement.
Unemployment Insurance has been my only source of income since the beginning of chemotherapy. Every two weeks I filled out forms saying I had “looked for work” (right, I also looked for UFO’s). Anything even remotely out of the ordinary on these forms seems to short circuit the EDD and send them spiraling into an official process of inquiry which involves computerized letters, telephone interviews on particular dates with particular representatives asking particular questions, and requests for very specific documents. It’s like having an agency of human beings flush you down a toilet in slow motion. I got an infection the last week of December, and was hospitalized for a week. The EDD canceled my Unemployment benefits because I was “medically disabled”. The computerized letter suggested I turn to the Social Security Administration or to Disability Insurance. State disability didn’t acknowledge my existence. The SSA had already labeled me as “not disabled” which was why I had been collecting UIB in the first place. Fortunately I was permitted to “reopen” my Unemployment application a few weeks later.
This past summer I began to seriously look for work. I thought my experience and credentials might make it easy to slip back into the Community Adult School system – WRONG ! Although I certainly could never prove discrimination, it strikes me as significant that the question of what I’ve been doing for the past year ALWAYS came up in an interview. Well, can I blame them ? Would I want to risk a year’s teaching contract on someone like myself ?
I started looking elsewhere. Temporary agencies wanted typists. Answering want-ads in the LA Times was a waste of time and money.
Meanwhile, despite filling out paper work for County Hospital which pleaded poverty, and being assured that my lack of income would leave me with no liability, I was billed for hospital services. Soon I was treated to phone calls from USC’s private collection agency by people who could barely speak English or who sounded like high school kids from East LA – “hey dude, like we gotch-u on our computer man. U owe some money home-y.” It took about a month or so to straighten that mess out.
My parents have been great throughout all of this. Without them I surely would have perished in the gutter, a victim of Republican “welfare reform”. It’s a humbling experience to live with Mom and Dad. One discovers that so much of the mystery of one’s personality is simply a matter of inheritance. “Honor thy father and mother.” – well, heck, it’s never very wise to spit in the mirror, is it ? While living in Alhambra I used to wonder why I could never bring any sense of order to my bedroom. Neatness and organization seemed to come so easily to other people. What can I say ? I am indeed my mother’s son.
Since my chemotherapy ended last January, I’ve been attending a small Episcopal church in the east Hollywood area. A couple of friends from All Saints in Pasadena had become regulars there. What a contrast though --- 50 people on a Sunday morning compared with 1500 at All Saints ! I’ve found it to be a friendly more intimate place.
The 12 o’clock Spanish service is packed with ex-Catholics from EL Salvador. It swarms with kids ! The Roman diaspora continues to fill up Episcopal church pews. What will we do if the next pope moderates on social issues or actually takes the Second Vatican Council seriously ? We’ll have to start recruiting Presbyterians – Oh No ! -- not them !
At this moment in time I’m about to begin doing something I said I would never do again – regular K-12 substitute teaching. I thought “subbing” would be an easy thing to slip back into, until I visited my first Certificated Personnel office. Their new human resources bunny met me from behind the counter with her bouncy hair and intrusive perkiness (at least she blinked her eyes).
“Oh, you’d like to apply for a substitute teaching position ?” she bubbled.
“Excuse me ? Come again ? -- Position ??”
In the past all you had to do was show up with your BA, CBEST results, and a money order. Within two days the district would be calling you and practically begging you to come in and baby sit all of their little turbo-engines on Ritalin and adolescent crack babies. New Regulations mean a longer waiting period now. Everyone has to be finger printed and reviewed regardless of whether they’ve been credentialed before. I’m sure it’s less hassle for a paranoid schizophrenic to purchase a machine gun in LA County.
That sums up the news, at least for the time being. I wish everyone well. I’m still alive and kicking (in case there was any doubt). -- Merry Christmas, by the way.
Love & Kisses,

Phil

Christmas letter 1999

December 1999
Dear friends:
Greetings from the feudal kingdom of the LA Unified School District !! -- that strange academic netherworld where problems are eliminated by finding the correct label to pin on them and then renaming existing solutions to fit the underlying ideology of the new label.—that capricious wonderland where a .05% increase in Stanford 9 test scores could mean an awards ceremony, while a .05% decrease could put an entire administration on probation.—That decaying temple of 70’s style pedagogy where a recalcitrant priesthood of educational bureaucrats screams in horror as sacred buzzwords are pulled from their pedestals by iconoclastic politicians in search of public literacy !! -- Yes, greetings, and a belated Merry Christmas to all.
My journey into this kingdom began when upon receiving my passing competency test scores I ventured into the dark recesses of the Grand St. Personnel building. “Oh dear,” said the off track middle school teacher earning extra money in a new found bureaucratic role in which people actually listened to him, “this letter of reference is more than three years old and this other letter was not typed on official letter head stationary; you’ll just have to get new ones.”
It wasn’t easy, but several weeks later I was able to get new letters. I then discovered that my 23 semester hours of upper division English credit were being questioned. One four unit class at U.C. Davis was a part of my ESL teaching preparation. Could it be properly labeled an English class? If not, it would drop my English units down to 19. This would fall below the required 20!
“Well,” the cubicle dwelling viceroy suggested, “you could call the university and have them fax down a copy of the course syllabus and I’ll present it to the credentials committee?” He beamed an insipid smile. I bit my lip. It was difficult, but I fought back the impulse to spoil what appeared to this man to be a magical moment of helpfulness by blurting out something like: “why don’t you pick up that phone in front of you, you oaf, and take care of this ridiculous crap right now?”
The class in question was taken more than 10 years ago. It is no longer offered. I spoke with a generous soul at U.C. Davis who went through the trouble of researching old files in the English Department. She found the course syllabus and faxed it to the cubicle fortress in the deep dark recesses of the Grand St. building. I was clearly qualified for the district intern program and should now be free to interview at some of the high schools with vacancies—HA!
A twenty day, eight hour a day, orientation session awaited me during the month of August. A hundred and fifty of us recently recruited mercenaries sat through this trial by ordeal on hard metal chairs in a stuffy band room at Bancroft Middle School in Hollywood. We were paid nothing. Conflicting and often contradictory voices clamored for our allegiance. Each speaker pleading in earnest tones, used sentences which began with words such as: “research indicates ......” or “studies show that .......” Wasn’t it Mark Twain who once said, “there are lies, there damn lies, and then there are statistics?” I listened to them. One speaker advocates structure, routine, and teacher direction as the keys to classroom management and student learning. Next week an advocate for “cooperative learning” takes the podium. His presentations are replete with quotes from Stephen Krashen whose notion of “affective filter” has stood as the theoretical justification for turning a classroom into a circus event for over a decade now. Students can’t learn, says he, if they are stifled by routine and intimidated by heavy expectations. Traditional lectures are an educational dinosaur. Students must be split into “pods of four” with each member of “the pod” being given a task to complete. Research proves, says he, that this is the most effective way to teach. I feel like grabbing him by the ear like an angry nun and leading this man to North Long Beach where he can see his “cooperative” playground in operation.
A former civil rights activist pleads with us to move to standard based student evaluations. She throws bar graphs up on the overhead projector which illustrate how an “A” in a school from an upper income area of Orange County does not mean the same thing as an “A” in a lower income area of LA. Students should be evaluated on the basis of skills which they truly possess. She makes good sense. The very next day, however, a principal from a middle school in the San Fernando Valley stands in her place, inveighing against a P.E. teacher at his school who flunked 75 kids. This principal strongly implies that any teacher who gives out too many failing grades at his school will be suspected of poor teaching. Well, as a side note, I’ve substituted for enough PE teachers to know that 75 out of 300 students in a day probably do NOT dress-out or participate. Once again, the district is sending us mixed messages.
The first school interview in September went reasonably well. There were a few common sense questions posed by a rather mousy English department head. A rather self confident principal who had kept me waiting without apology 40 minutes beyond an appointment time chimed in with a few of the more banal lines of questions about how not all students are agreeable and how I might deal with the occasional discipline problems.
I was then asked for an example of my teaching style. I naively offered the essay I had written for high school students years ago on “ways to pick your nose in public without being caught”, noting how carefully it followed standard essay format. The expression on the principal’s face let me know immediately that I had blown the interview. As a foot note I might mention that within a week from the day that I was politely escorted from her office, a teachers’ union representative appeared on the local evening news demanding her removal because she was “inept” and “autocratic”. I believe this principal is now in early retirement.
My interview at Huntington Park High School was much faster.— “So, Mr. Keller, you want the job?”
Teaching at Huntington Park could best be described as teaching at an English language school in Mexico. The ethnic homogeneity creates a fairly peaceful campus. There may not be much violence, but apathy, laziness, and sheer lack of basic academic skills surface quickly as other inner city school problems which are perhaps more difficult to address than weapons and fist fights. What do you do when kids don’t seem to have any concept of what learning is about and are all too ready to turn their chairs around into “pods of four” so they can play around with their friends? -- Go with the flow and label it “cooperative learning?”
Veteran teachers bear the scars of such psychological battles in the forms of deep frown lines and furrowed foreheads. Their lunch time humor is reminiscent of the mess tent in the TV series, “MASH.” They scream and cuss at each other during English department meetings, and speak tenderly of their upcoming retirement years.
As a district Intern I’m required to attend weekly three hour Thursday evening classes. These sessions do little other than fulfill state mandated teacher preparation requirements. The steady stream of memos and booklet size hand-outs makes one feel as though he were serving on some sort of Presbyterian task force. Oregon lumber companies must surely have special treaties signed with the kingdom of LA Unified. I wonder if there is an embassy located in the deep dark recesses of the Grand St. building? -- next to the copy room, no doubt.
All in all, I’m fortunate to be at Huntington Park High School. I have unlimited xeroxing privileges, great flexibility in curriculum, and tremendous resources in books, videos, and audio-tapes. At the risk of sounding too influenced by stereotypes, I’ll confess to observing that the Mexican kids have a certain sweetness in them which is not so easily observed among their Anglo, Asian, or African-American counterparts. There are always exceptions to such generalizations, of course. This is why we keep referral slips handy.
I certainly hope everyone’s holiday season went well, and that all made it into the new digital arrangement unscathed. It’s always great to hear from people at least once per year—so keep your Christmas list updated.
Love and Kisses,

Phil

P.S. My health seems to be holding out. It looks like I may be walking the earth for at least another 20 - 30 years or so. -- Funny, but I don’t really think about it much anymore.