Today we are playing basketball in PE. “Maestro, look!” Alberto shouts as he hoists the ball into the air underhand. Grandma style we call it. Slowly, slowly the ball fulfills its potential, surrendering to gravity and swishing neatly through the hoop. “Did you see? Did you see?” he asks.

I nod and his pudgy, red-cheeked face gleams. He’s an important ally. Alberto is my classroom translator.

It’s 1998 and California is in the midst of a massive teacher shortage. Alongside other college-fresh idealists, the state fast tracks me into the public school system with an emergency credential. My classroom experience consists of one year tutoring and a stint co-teaching summer school.

Right off the bat, I get a full-time gig teaching fourth grade in muggy, industrial San Jose. The hills along the 280 freeway are a yellowish brown—any lingering grass now burned to a crisp. Welcome to late August in Silicon Valley’s South Bay.

I spend the final scorching days of summer driving to teacher supply stores in my hand-me-down Saturn. I’m looking for posters, decorations, “beginning of the school year” stuff. I tack colorful borders to the walls of my classroom until they shout, “Welcome Back, Students!”

The first month is a breeze. The kids are great and they seem to buy my teacher persona. We cover the three Rs along with science and that grade four chestnut: California state history. After recess, the pooped pupils rest their heads on their desks while I read James and the Giant Peach aloud. Sometimes, I wheel in the television cart with the VHS player and we watch Schoolhouse Rock. I wear a different tie each day. Things are going great.

Four weeks in, I receive an unexpected call from our school principal, instructing me to come to the front office. She’s had nothing but kind words for me during my short time here, so I’m not sure what this is about. Surprise. They’re transferring me, effective immediately.

“You know we don’t want to see you go,” she explains. “But the district needs you at a different school.”

I ask if there is any other option.

“You’re a first-year teacher at the bottom of the pecking order,” says my principal. “I know the kids are already attached, but this is how it goes sometimes. ”

My new assignment is teaching a bilingual second-third combo. I’ve never heard of a blended grade. The district rep tells me the format is for emerging English learners. While I vaguely recall including Spanish in the “languages spoken” section of my job application, my high school vocabulary and rusty conjugation don’t equal fluency.

Like a nomad, I pack up my posters and laminated calendar. The decorations look a little sad now, like unused party favors. Oh, and the principal was right about my students— they cry at the end of our final class together.

Saturday morning I zip down the freeway to check out the new school. Despite the ongoing Golden State heatwave, I’m wearing a long sleeve shirt to conceal my growing tattoo collection. Gotta play the teacher part, even on the weekend. You never know who’ll be there, watching, judging.

In my CD player is a fifty-two-minute song by local metal legends Sleep. Here, in my trusty Saturn, there’s no pressure to be a role model. I can listen to what I like, be the real me. The second I step into the classroom, it’s showtime and I’m a rocker masquerading as an educator.

I lock up my car and investigate the premises. It’s weird coming here on the weekend. Even holding my district-issued keys, I feel like a prowler. The school is enormous, institutional, and boasts an encampment of temporary classrooms at the far end of a massive playing field. The campus is all sun-bleached stucco buildings and long outdoor walkways. It’s an imposing place.

My new classroom is a mess—like the last teacher escaped in the dead of night. Popsicle-stick art hangs limply on the back wall next to a paint-splattered sink. Of the mountains of textbooks left lying around, only a few are relevant to the grade level I’ll be teaching. There are no Spanish worksheets or flashcards anywhere. However, I do see a formidable looking manual pencil sharpener. Good. Something useful.

Monday morning, I meet my new principal, Mrs. Antonio, a compact powerhouse in a pink pantsuit. Her father worked with the famous migrant activist Cesar Chavez, the man who coined the protest slogan, “Uvas No!” I find her impressive and intimidating.

Mrs. Antonio explains to me that most of my students do not speak English in the home. This I understand. What I find confusing (but which I don’t address, for fear of losing my job) is the expectation that I’m somehow qualified to facilitate a bilingual learning environment. The district may be satisfied by my pulse and good cheer, but I worry the kids will see through the facade. I mean, even minus the language barrier, I’m young and a new teacher: a sitting duck.

“You’ll do fine,” says Mrs. Antonio. “Just have fun and stay positive.”

Switching teachers a month into the school year is tough for both the instructor and the students. Even a veteran educator would have trouble establishing procedures under these circumstances, much less a rookie like me.

Julian is the tallest kid in class and never stops talking. His English is better than most of his classmates. Of course, Julian is the class clown.

“Guys, please, quiet. Julian, turn around.” I don’t recognize the voice I hear coming out of me. I sound like my dad.

My outstretched arm holds open a science book I’m reading in my approximation of a Spanish accent. Through a combination of enthusiasm and force of will, I’m trying to bring the underwater world to life in the kids’ native tongue. “El pulpo tiene cuatro pares de brazos,” I stammer. “Ochenta todos juntos.”

A couple of kids laugh. “Marisol, what’s so funny?” I ask. “Isn’t that how you say octopus?”

She and the others keep giggling. Marisol whispers to Alberto who explains my error through fits of near hysterics. “Maestro, you said the octopus has eighty legs.”

Tough crowd.

So it goes. Days turn into weeks and soon quarter report cards are due. Grading is not my strong suit. Picking through crumpled worksheets, I bemoan my lack of organization. Hours evaporate as I stare at the grade book, hoping to conjure some magical figure from participation, a few writing samples, and vague optimism about student potential. As I work, I do battle with the voice in my head. It asks the same question over and over: What grade would the students give the maestro?

Sebastian is the smallest kid in class. He has big watery eyes and speaks in a scratchy little voice. At first, I think it’s my imagination, but there is a strong stench of urine around Sebastian’s desk. His parents haven’t shown up for conferences all year. I report the neglect to Mrs. Antonio and hope his family will step up.

In November, Mrs. O’Neill, another third-grade instructor, asks me to visit her class. “Can you come teach us about Chhh-nukkah?” she inquires innocently. Sure, why not? As the sole Jewish person at our school, I guess I’m the appointed representative of all things Semitic.

I stand in front of her perfectly behaved class and speak in my best Sunday school voice. I feel like Woody Allen’s Hasidic caricature from Annie Hall, but Mrs. O’Neill’s little angels cling to every word about Judah Maccabee and Greeks. It’s awkward as hell, but at least I get to see how a pro like Mrs. O’Neill runs her room.

During our weekly staff meetings in the boomy school auditorium, Mrs. Antonio tells us about our district’s many problems: we are underfunded, score poorly on standardized tests, and have a deluge of ESL students. Emergency class configurations like mine are merely a band-aid.

The main thing I learn in these meetings is that teachers like to complain. About money. About hours. Mostly about kids. Some battle axes and grumble bums sound like they care more about new snack machines than new curriculum. Others are just biding their time, waiting for tenure.

I’m struggling. Most days I feel like a fraud and a failure. Once a month, a district mentor visits to offer me encouragement. We meet during my lunch break and sit on miniature chairs. I usually spill my guts about how difficult it’s been adjusting to my new position.

“We lose so many great teachers after the first year,” she says. “Hang in there.”

A few weeks later, Mrs. Antonio is sitting across from me at her desk. Her office smells like potpourri; angels and inspirational slogans cover every available surface. This meeting is supposed to be a check-in to see how things are going, but I sense something different. My principal’s thick glasses magnify my every flaw.

“Let’s just say,” Mrs. Antonio begins pointedly, “that we notice who leaves early and who stays after school to work on their room and prepare.” I spit out a few bullet points in my defense: I’m a first-year teacher, possess scant Spanish-to-English materials, and sorely need a bilingual aide.

Mrs. Antonio doesn’t let me off the hook. “Put in the extra effort,” she says. “It will pay off.”

She’s right. Most days, I’m tired and stressed out and do bail right after the last bell. I dash out the door, drive away, and dive into the arms of my true love: music. Once I’m home, I spend the rest of the day recording indie pop songs onto an analog tape machine, pounding on my red sparkle drum kit, and messing around with vintage synthesizers. This is how I recharge, how I feel like myself again. Despite my best efforts, it’s easy to take the job home. I find myself thinking of ways to bring music into the classroom.

We start working on a number entitled “The Bears are Happy.” The students sit criss-cross applesauce on the rug, clapping their hands as I bang on the dusty out-of-tune classroom piano. We get the chorus down first:

The bears are happy

They like to run

The rabbits are hoppy

They like to have fun

My plan is to include each student in the song. It’s an ambitious undertaking, demanding more than a half-dozen verses.

“And what does Mariposa’s oso do?” I ask from behind the piano.

Ten kids yell their answers at the same time.

It’s a blast channeling the music classes of my childhood, when we sang “sixteen miles on the Erie Canal” in a glorious cacophony. Alberto and Julian wear huge smiles as we work on their personalized verses of “The Bears are Happy.” I think I’m getting that teacher feeling.

I keep begging the administration for a Spanish-speaking aide. Miss Benitez shows up halfway through the year. She’s young, speaks both languages perfectly, and is an excellent teaching assistant—her math skills far surpassing my own. With Miss Benitez in the game, the tide begins to turn.

I make an executive decision. Core content be damned, Miss Benitez and I can at least help these kids become more fluent English speakers. We have a path forward.

Each afternoon, the class separates into reading groups. Sebastian and a few others read phonetically from the low-interest material. They are good sports about these baby books and I quickly see progress. Kids really are sponges. The more advanced students edge even closer to grade level. Something is happening. I think I’m witnessing learning in action.

One morning, after a weekend trip to San Francisco, I arrive at school with a fresh tattoo on my lower neck. I wouldn’t have dared to get a neck tattoo back in September, but now it’s almost the end of the year. With summer on the horizon, I feel bold. My dress shirt and tie cover the new addition to my collection, but I grimace visibly when I turn from the board to face the class.

“Maestro, why are you moving your head like a robot?” Julian asks. That kid doesn’t miss a thing, does he? After some urging, I show the class my healing tattoo. The kids aren’t impressed in the slightest. Their parents have ink to spare, it seems.

In May, Miss Benitez announces she is pregnant and won’t be finishing with us. The year ends the same as it began, just me and the kids. The difference is that now all these students can read in English as well as Spanish and no one needs a student go-between. Very cool.

The last day of school is pretty loose. Most teachers bring their classes out to the field and let the kids run wild. I stroll around the grass in the brilliant June sun and indulge in some nostalgia for both the good and bad aspects of the last eight months: Hanukkah presentation, administrative accusation, happy bears, tiny chairs. At final dismissal, everyone gets pretty choked up, myself included.

I’m pretty certain Mrs. Antonio hates my guts, so I’m surprised when she hands me a contract for the upcoming school year. Even with a salary bump, I won’t be returning. Sure, the heartwarming moments are transcendent, but I can’t forgive a district that set me up to fail. The kids deserve better. So do I, come to think of it.

Still, I tell myself I must have done something right. Maybe I showed the kids it’s OK for a teacher to struggle, to be fallible. Like Alberto, I was shooting underhand, but I think I managed to put the ball through the hoop.

At least once or twice.

– Ari Rosenschein