In a time where I felt the most insecure, scared, unstable and delicate, I also fell in love with reading. I was in kindergarten at San Juan Elementary School in San Juan Capistrano. Kinder didn’t atend a full day ended early but I stayed until my brother, Chad was released. He would come get me and we would ride the school bus home. But, before he picked me up at my class, I recall having story time. The kindergarten aide, whom I absolutely loved, would read us books. It didn’t matter what she read. She had such a beautiful way of engaging her audience. She’d hold the book with one hand so that we could see the pictures. The Aide was so expressive in the way in which she would pretend to be each character of the story. She would give each child eye contact as she would gaze from the page to her audience. She was young. She was pretty. I couldn’t wait to learn how to read! I don’t remember her name. I wasn’t at that school for long. I never got a yearbook so I don’t think I’ll ever find out who she was..
In second grade, I attended Jordan Elementary. My teacher’s name was Mrs. Broncolino. I bet I could still point her out in a line-up. After first recess, myself and half the class attended SSL (Spanish as a Second Language) while the other half would go into a different classroom for ESL (English as a second language). I loved these lessons. I didn’t love Mrs. Broncolino. The area we now lived in was known as El Modena. It was a historic barrio with deep roots in Mexican-American, Californian and Spanish-American heritage. In the 1980s, it was predominantly home to low- to middle-income families. We were one of them.
At this time in my life, I wasn’t being properly parented during the week. My Mom was busy, or out, or at work. My siblings were somewhat responsible for me, I guess. My two oldest brothers drank all the time and argued all night while listening to oldies on the record player. They’d have their friends over and one of them had his girlfriend living with us. This was not a big house. There were only three bedrooms. My sister and I shared a room. I could access the roof from our bedroom window and sometimes I went out on it. My sister would yell at me to get back in the house. But, my sister was skinny, timid and a total pushover. I didn’t listen to her. It was rare that I had clean clothes for school let alone a lunch packed for me. Certainly, no one really thought to send me with lunch money.
Mrs. Broncolino wasn’t nice to me. She was actually a fucking bitch. She’d yell a lot. I can still hear her yell, “Seet dowwwwn! Seet dowwwwn! Seet dowwwwn!” It was always three times. Our class would make fun of her at recess in her accent. One day, we were coming in from recess or something and I went to my desk to sit down. She came over to me and told me to stand up. The entire class looked my way. I could feel all the blood rush to my face. I was shy. And Mrs. Broncolino made me nervous. “Why are your clothes so dirty?” She asked me. I couldn’t answer her. I started to tremble. She asked me again but this time louder. Her question was more agressive. “Doanchu wash yo clothes?!” Whatever questions she asked after that, I didn’t hear. I was still standing up as the entire class continued to look at me. It took everything in me to stop from crying. She finally allowed me to sit down. She walked away and started her lesson.
I have never forgotten her or that moment. She didn’t have to be cruel. The result she was hoping for in shaming and embarrassing me, I’ll never know. She should’ve never been a teacher. She should’ve never worked with kids.
Teachers possess so much power. They can inspire, motivate and show their students that anything and everything is attainable. They can also make you feel so incredibly worthless and hopeless. Both can be true. I am so hopeful that any teacher who reads this understands the magnitude of their words and actions.
Leave a Reply