Master Teacher

Year seven.

Among teachers, year seven is an unofficial "turning point" - your time and experience has transformed you from a neophyte into a battle hardened veteran. You've survived the first year trial by fire and weathered years of bureaucratic indifference; against the limitless hordes of wild, hormone driven teenage larvae you've proved yourself to be more durable, more resilient, more seasoned. Almost nothing surprises you, even the most obnoxious and difficult student leaves you unfazed.

Wannabe gangsters, hyperactive adolescents, outraged rebels, attention starved hecklers, the emo who wish they were vampires - come one, come all - their classroom antics mean nothing. A sharp glare, a stinging rebuke, the no nonsense frown - one by one they fall into line.

By year seven the art of teaching has been programmed into your neural hard drive, you operate not on conscious thought but instinct. You are a psychic savant, intuitively predicting outcomes and neutralizing trouble with an enchanted sixth sense. Like a magician fooling an audience, you are seven steps ahead, you know where to push and when to pull back - you are the foreman, the manager, the drill sergeant, the boss - except you don't have the authority to "fire" anyone. Nor can you write a "ticket" or make an arrest, you have no badge and you have no gun.

All you've got is a mouth and attitude.

On the second floor of the B building I spot two semi-circles of students standing idly in the hallway. Like a sea captain who can spot a typhoon on the horizon, I tack into the midst of the crowd, stopping between a pair of boys glaring at one another.

"Boys," I state calmly, eyes squinting, "I need you two to move along. You can't fight here."

There is a long pause, the onlookers holding their breath in anticipation. A second later one of the boys shuffles down the hallway, glowering fiercely at his rival. The crowd begins to dissipate, the typhoon has been averted.

"Awww...Leiken, you ruin all the fun."

"Aye," I reply, "That be true."

In U.S. history I give a brief lecture about individual rights versus state rights. I radiate energy, pulsating with enthusiasm and humor as I hook the class into the lecture, seizing their attention like a virtuoso performer who cannot be ignored.

At lecture's end, they applaud.

I give a guest lecture to a World History class about colonization and slavery - they're riveted. By the end, they applaud.

The following day I am working with a group of 11th graders, encouraging them, pushing them, expounding the importance of believing in yourself. "I don't teach you, ladies and gentleman, you teach you! You may not be the next Shakespeare, but that doesn't mean you can't graduate! Everyone can make the team!"

And they applaud.

I've paid for that applause, earned every single clap minute by sweat driven minute, crossed the River Styx on a boat of gravel and grit, my paddle an increasingly sardonic sense of humor.

No document or credential can create a "master" teacher, no amount of training or books can adequate prepare any individual who wishes to cross the River Styx to teach in an inner city school. It's a journey each teacher must take alone, an odyssey of restless evenings brimming full of nightmares followed by anxious mornings filled with silent dread; long months of being quietly petrified at the thought of having to face down class after class of unruly, mean spirited students.

The master teacher is born not out of the classroom but a journey crossing a thousand moments of uncertainty, guided not by conviction but doubt as they ask themselves the same question, over and over: "Could I have done it better? With just a little more effort, could I have nudged that student in the right direction?"

There will be no trophies, no awards, no medals, no ribbons; your reward is to inspire others.

Hey, Mr. Leiken, I just wanted to tell you I got into Polytech! Mr. Leiken, did I tell you I entered culinary school? Mr. Leiken, you're awesome, history isn't boring at all. Mr. Leiken, thanks for encouraging to save up my money and go to Hong Kong, it was like the best trip ever! Hey Leiken, you were right, I started my own moving business. Hey Leiken, are you going to run a comedy club again, we want to be funny like you. Mr. Leiken, I hope one day I can be a teacher, because you like make learning fun.

And to think that seven years ago I went into teaching for the money...

It may be true that you'll never obtain riches teaching, but its taken me seven years to learn that a master teacher is never poor.

Cap and Gown

Six years, five graduations, nine hundred school days. A relatively short period of time in the lifespan of a human, 900 days.

If all the hours I had spent teaching in school were added up into one continuous, non-stop marathon, at 6.6 hours a day I'd be only 247 days old.

Six years teaching and I'm still just a baby.

This year only two of the students on my case load are graduating, but only one will be at the ceremony, only one will walk across the stage. The other should have graduated last year, but doesn't want to "walk" when most of his senior class graduated a year earlier.

But the girl who is walking across stage is a success story. I've seen her grown from a shy, dependent girl into a slightly less shy but independent young woman. It's been a struggle: building her confidence, teaching her to believe in herself, getting her to work on her own.

"Looking forward to graduation?" I ask rhetorically.

"I'm not going to walk," she says flatly.

"Why?"

"I don't want to walk. It's stupid."

Oh no, this is not happening. "Graduation is a rite of passage, it only comes once. In life, there are no do-overs. You should go."

"No, Mister. I don't want to, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing? Everyone is walking across stage. It will be over in like a second."

"No, it's okay. I don't want to. Graduations are boring."

"Of course they're boring!" I exclaim. "Graduation is supposed to be boring! It's for your parents, and your teachers, and your family! Graduation is for everyone but you!"

The girl looks at the floor, unwilling to meet my gaze.

It occurs to me there is more going on here than meets the eye; the benefit of six years, five graduations and 900 days experience. "If you don't do this," I continue, "you may live to regret it."

The girl mumbles something. I ask her to repeat herself, leaning in.

"I don't have the money, Mister."

"Money for what?"

"It's a hundred dollars for the cap and gown."

"A HUNDRED DOLLARS! Cold hard cash?"

The girl nods, quietly embarrassed.

"What about your parents?" I ask. "Don't they have the money?" The girl shakes her head. I've known that her family is poor, I once had to "loan" her and her sister money to go see Eclipse. "Do they want you to go?" The girl nods, gaze furtively darting about the room.

"I want you to go the rehearsal today at lunch. You are going to graduate."

"But I don't have the money."

"I'll take care of it. Don't worry about it."

"But, I don't have the money."

"I'll get you your cap and gown. Go."

I go the special ed department first, explaining the situation. Borquez and Khazani immediately start asking their students, some seniors short on credits have already bought their cap and gown but won't be needing the gown since they won't be graduating.

Nothing.

An aide who graduated two years ago says he'll bring in his blue and silver cap and gown, after all, he isn't using it. Caps and gowns don't really change, South East's 2005 graduating class would fit right in with the 2010.

But his father has already thrown the aide's cap and gown away. Turns out he didn't think his son would ever need to use it.

Ms. Owens finds a website that sells the gowns for $15, but time is short and it will cost me through the nose to have it shipped.

Eventually I go to the head of leadership and ask her if I can buy the gown at cost, or about $50. The head of leadership agrees. Khazani, Martinez and Solorio all help contribute cash.

I go back to the girl, handing her the money. I could have paid for it directly, but I want her to buy it for herself. She deserves that.

Two hours later she enters my room with a small plastic bag containing the gown, cap, a black sash embroidered 2010, and a small medal. (In today's world, graduation is worthy of a medal.)

"I have my cap and gown, Mr. Leiken."

I nod, looking up from where I am helping a student finish up a paper. "Awesome, so how was rehearsal?"

"It was okay."

The girl goes to my window, looking out over the football field, where students are lining up for the senior photo. She stares in silence, twisting the cap and gown bag in her hands in endless loops.

"Aren't you going to join the seniors for the photo?"

"No. It's too hot."

"You should go. Be a part of it."

"No, I don't want to." she answers, staring at the crowd outside.

I stop lecturing her. Sometimes you have to let people do what they want to do. Nothing is said, nothing is spoken. Neither of us is bothered by the silence, the lack of conversation.

The bell rings, and the girl turns. "Goodbye, Mister," she says, exiting the room.

It's her way of saying thanks.

Six years, five graduations, 900 days.

It never gets old.

Bridges of Destruction II

"Bridges of DESTRUCTION!" I intone over the public address system. "Twice the Bridges, Double the DESTRUCTION!"

Mind numbing in their repetitiveness, school announcements over the PA system resonate with monotone dreariness straight out of Communist Russia or George Orwell's 1984. Daily reminders to obey the dress code, to return overdue books, to gear up for summer school; all are ritually blared over the PA system only to be tossed into the bin of white noise trash we reserve for commercials and political pundits.

Then came Leiken.

"TUESDAY, TUESDAY, TUESDAY! Bridges of DESTRUCTION!" I exclaim, gesticulating wildly with my free hand, mike inches away from my mouth. "See bridges made out of mere popsicle sticks, held together with nothing but Elmer's Glue - hold hundreds of pounds of weight! Then see them - DESTROYED!"

The office stops, kids walking by halt to stare at the crazy maniac dancing behind the counter, lost to the performance. "With the winner," I continue, "winning one hundred dollars COLD HARD CASH!"

COLD HARD CASH!
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS!
COLD HARD CASH!

It started as a joke, but already in its second year the Bridges of Destruction contest is becoming a South East High school tradition. Mr. Barrigan helps the students engineer and design the bridges, while I handle the promotion. Last year the winning bridge, the "Whopper", held 425 lbs before shattering, no mere feat for a bridge made out of popsicle sticks.

But for me it isn't about who wins or loses, it's about the joy of going crazy over the announcements. I'm not in the classrooms when the announcements hit, but I know the students are paying attention. I can hear them shout: "Bridges of Destruction!" in the hallways, sometimes stopping me to ask if I'm the guy who does the announcements and if I'll use my "promotional" voice.

"Your that Bridges of Destruction guy! Right Leiken! Do the voice."

I always smile and shrug. "Sorry, don't know who it is."

"We know it's you Mister. It's got to be you."

"It's got to be me?" I ask dryly.

"Yes! You do all those voices! You like those pirates!"
"And you wear that parrot hat!"
"Can you do the voice, please?"

I shake my head. "Sorry, no autographs, just throw money."

Bridges of Destruction isn't so much a school activity, as it is a monster truck rally with a special guest appearance of BRIDGEZILLA! At least, that's how I promote it over the announcements, ending the commercial with a fast and low disclaimer:

Twice the bridges, double the destruction, gross exaggerated hyperbole. Cash is neither hard nor cold. No popsicle sticks were harmed in the making of the bridges, all bridges made out of non-toxic Elmer's glue, the official glue of LAUSD, for all your gluing needs. Brought to you by A&E, the "unofficial" place to be.

With the promotion, unfortunately, also comes responsibility. I didn't ask for it, I didn't want it, but I've become the point person for setting the date, organizing the event, and keeping everyone in the loop. The weights to destroy the bridges, the tables, the portable sound system, it all falls on me.

It almost doesn't happen. The forms are turned in, administrators are informed, space is reserved in front of the auditorium and the event is marked in the school calender, but the day of nothing is ready. Nothing.

There is no cart to carry the weights, no one knows if the tables will be ready, no one can get additional chairs and desks, the sound system is MIA. I turn to the kids, ask for their help, explaining we've got less than an hour to get Bridges of Destruction together.

The kids make it happen. Five of them ferry the weights back and forth from the gym, carrying 45 lb dumb bells, one weight at a time. Others text their friends, and like magic the sound system is set up. Tables and chairs spring up almost on their own.

The event goes off without a hitch.

I announce the contest while Barrigan assists the students with setting up the weights. This year's winner named for its jaw like sides, is the Piranha Plant, which holds 350 lbs before cracking. Joshua and Kim, the team who worked on it, are ecstatic. The crowd cheers as they both give special shout outs to their friends.

When the event is over, the kids come and pick everything up, ferrying the weights and tables back to where they belong. Leadership materializes to collect the sound system. I might have promoted Bridges of Destruction, and Barrigan might have helped the students create the bridges, but in the end, the kids made it happen.

It's a good day to be a teacher.

Smog Check

California, land of automotive rituals, home of the smog check. Before the invention of the catalytic converter and cleaner fossil fuels, air pollution covered LA in a dusky blanket of impenetrable fumes that choked out the sky.

Brown became the new blue.

After thousands of stage 1 smog alerts and hundreds of "day-light dim outs" , hospitals filled with asthma patients and gas mask wearing commuters, California decided to incorporate the "smog check"; an emission test to ensure that vehicles no longer undermined public health.

Years of dogged regulations and shrew environmentalists have finally won the battle against smog. We no longer have pollution, but a "marine layer".

Gray is the new brown.

The price for clean air is a small bi-annual ritual: the smog check. Every other year vehicles must be inspected for emissions, tested to ensure that they are not "over-polluting" the atmosphere. Without a verified smog check, California will not allow motorists to buy license plate tags, all but guaranteeing fines from the state's legion of meter maids.

Parking violations is the one aspect of the state government that functions with optimal efficiency. If you put the meter maids in charge of finding Osama Bin Laden, they'd catch him, provided he was parked illegally.

Me being me, I forget all about my tags until after they've expired. I get a notice from the DMV stating I'm overdue, $120 for the car, $20 for a mysterious bonus tax, and another $112 fine for being late with an additional $10 processing fee. $262, plus I need a new smog check.

Ouch.

Fortunately I drive a Honda Civic, a car that excels at passing smog checks and extremely low emissions. I drive to a nearby smog center, wait patiently, playing video games on my iTouch as the mechanic hooks my car up to an emissions testing machine.

Catalytic Converter: Pass
Electrical Systems: Pass
Emissions: Pass
Maintenance Light: Fail

The mechanic apologizes. "I'm sorry, I thought your car would pass, but you have a maintenance light that's flashing on the dashboard."

"So?" I reply, trying to conceal my irritation. "It's been on for months. Probably just a short, the car is fine."

"I'm sorry, but I can't pass the car with that light on. The computer won't give your car a passing grade."

"The computer?"

"The computer checks the car, then it wires the state. If it finds anything wrong, it won't allow me to pass you."

"You are not going to certify my car because of a dash board light?"

"Bring it back tomorrow. Sometimes it goes away after you drive it for a couple days."

I swallow my anger, snarling as I restart the car. The maintenance light is not just going to go away, its been lit for two months.

Perhaps its a blown fuse? I drive the car home and check the fuse box under the hood, then the box under the driver's seat. There are dozens of fuses, but I have a fuse checker, a small hand held device that emits a green light if a fuse is operational.

The hood fuses are easy to check, but underneath the driver's seat it is cramped and difficult to manipulate the device to read the fuses. The fuse checker is an inch too long. It's like trying to screw in a nail in a three inch space with a four inch screw driver, the fuse checker just doesn't fit under the driver's seat. After several minutes of cursing, I stop, frustrated.

Harry calls, and I tell him what's happened.

"Peoples Republic of California." Harry responds, blowing smoke out a cigarette on the other end of the phone. "In Georgia we don't even have smog checks. My check engine light has been on for months. My guess: they probably just want you to bring the car into the dealership in order to change your spark plugs and oil, then charge you $600."

"Well I don't know how to fix it." I complain. "Anytime its electrical it can be expensive."

"This is just your socialist government trying to get more money out of you," Harry says, smoking. "It's just like the movie Casino, it's all about getting your money. This mechanic could have passed your car, but he isn't going to."

After a long bitch session I decide to search the world library for answers. The Internet, cornucopia of rumors, pornography, and useless information. I know I can't be the only owner of a Honda Civic who has ever had a maintenance light problem. After a minute I find an old discussion group thread, turns out hundreds, if not thousands of people have been in the exact same predicament.

Harry was right. The Honda Civic maintenance light is scheduled to flicker on every 10,000 miles in an effort to get owners to turn their car over to the dealer. There is also an easy way to shut it off: press in the travel odometer, turn the car to on, and hold the button in for twenty seconds. The light then switches off as it resets.

I go out to the car and try it. CLICK! The maintenance light vanishes.

Victory!

The next day I take the car back, just as the mechanic is finishing up with a customer. I'm delighted I don't have to wait.

The mechanic informs me he's taking his lunch.

I smile and try not to get impatient. After fifteen minutes he re-hooks the car up to the emissions equipment and reruns all the tests. The car appears to have passed. Finally! I am now cleared to pay money that I don't want to pay to the government.

"I don't know if I should pass your car."

I blink. "What?"

"Something is not right, you need to take better care of it."

I look at the computer. The computer screen reads "passing" under the half dozen state mandated criteria. I glare at the mechanic, imagine his head blowing apart, spraying gibbets of brain matter and gore as pieces of cranium shattered bone scatter over the street beneath his formless gray hat.

He lasts five seconds before passing my vehicle.

Zoolander had a look called "Blue Steel". I have a glare called the Exorcist, a laser like beam of dark psychic energy, honed to deadly glower by years of unruly students.

Turns out the Exorcist is also good for difficult mechanics and officious bureaucrats. Who knew?

Thanks kids.

Jury Duty

Jury duty, a civic obligation and American tradition, a vital part of the judicial process and a privilege that should be embraced by all responsible people.

But who said I was responsible?

Since moving to LA, I've received five summons in ten years to appear before the Los Angeles Superior Court. Every other year, I receive a notice in the mail, and every other year I trek over to the court house to sit patiently until I am summarily dismissed. I've discovered through careful observation that the louder and more boisterous your opinion, the less the lawyers want you on their jury.

I've only ever served on one jury, a personal injury case. I could have gotten out of it, but I was unemployed at the time and it provided me with an excuse not to look for work.

Jury duty in LA pays $15 a day, plus 34 cents a mile (one way), and the unemployed can't afford to be picky.

So I kept my mouth shut and sat on the panel like a lemming, got selected to serve and sat through four days of mind numbing drivel as I witnessed an incompetent lawyer try to prosecute a weak case on behalf of a plaintiff who had been involved in at least fourteen other personal injury law suits.

This would not do. I made myself foreman and convinced the jury in under thirty minutes that the defendant was innocent. After the trial I told the plaintiff's lawyer that his client was a money grubbing moron, and if I could have, I would have awarded both the defendant and the court damages for wasting everybody's time.

There's a reason why I don't get picked to serve on juries. I may not be a lawyer, but my father was an attorney as was his father before him. The blood sings.

Today I walk through security, and go the 5th floor where a couple of hundred potential jurors are instructed in the finer points of court etiquette. While in court there is no reading, no use of cell phones, no computers, no talking or chewing of the gum. I pull out a book and read, ignoring the unhappy crowd. I've heard it all before.

Several hours pass before fifty of us receive a summons to the 13th floor. When we arrive a pleasant bald headed African American judge who sounds like Barack Obama informs us that we will be hearing a marijuana case, and that the defendants are being charged with trafficking and for being in violation of the California health code.

Two black men in their early twenties stare straight ahead, eyes riveted on the front of the room, either unwilling or instructed not to meet our gaze. Each of the defendants has a personal lawyer, and given that this case was not plea bargained, I speculate that both defense lawyers are private attorney's, not public defenders.

The prosecutor is a young Asian woman wearing black rimmed glasses, a diamond ring sparkles on her left hand.

The judge reads us some of the rules, and then has the court clerk read off a series of jury ID numbers. As the numbers are read off, jurors quietly walk up to the jury booth and take their seats, twelve in the "box" with an additional ten outside the booth.

"5997!"

I raise my hand and am directed to seat #21, directly in front of the jury booth. The judge instructs us to read a series of questions framed on the court room wall. We are to state where we live, our occupation, if we are married, have any children, and if we have ever served on a jury before.

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," the judge announces, "I would just like to thank you all for all being here. May I ask, does anyone want to be here?

Juror # 7 raises his hand. "Actually your honor, I'm glad to be here. It's a privilege."

The judge looks taken aback. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. That's wonderful. The men in white lab coats will be coming for you soon."

The court room cracks up.

Each of the jurors answers the questions, being #21 I'm one of the last to state my name, occupation, and marital status. I inform the court that I'm a high school teacher and that I work for LAUSD.

"You're a teacher?" the judge asks. "What do you teach?"

"I teach history and English in the city of South Gate, your honor."

"Teaching high school kids must be tough."

"It can be challenging, but I have to admit its even more challenging to have to sit and listen. I'm the one used to doing the talking."

The court laughs.

The judge instructs us in the importance of assuming all accused our innocent until proven guilty. He asks the jury if we understand the difference between circumstantial and direct evidence, and that we are not allowed to speculate on punishment, only to deliberate the facts and follow the law with our best moral certitude.

One juror tries to pretend like she can't understand what is being said, another tries to play the "pain in the ass" card by questioning everything the judge says. He dismisses no one.

Amateurs.

The judge continues. "I know many of you may think the war on drugs is a waste of time and resources, and that many more of you may think that marijuana is not a "drug". Nevertheless, it is illegal and the law states clearly that you cannot sell it without a proper license. I need to know if anyone has a problem with drug enforcement?"

My heart tightens. I have an opening, a chance! I raise my hand along with several other jurors. The judge begins asking questions of the jurors, starting with the lowest numbered juror and working his way upward, asking them about how they feel, questioning them if they can follow the law while informing them that "juror nullification" is illegal in the state of California.

"Juror #21," the judge states. "I understand you have a problem with the drug laws."

"I do your honor. The current law is an absurdity." Calm, Leiken, calm.

"An absurdity?" the judge chuckles. "Are you claiming the law is absurd?"

"Yes, your honor, but it is even more absurd that anyone would traffic or buy pot illegally when you can get it around the city from hundreds of medical dispensaries."

The court room breaks into laughter, even both the defendant's crack a smile. Only the prosecutor looks unamused. Good, I think to myself, good.

"You understand, juror #21, that while we may disagree with the law, we have an obligation to follow it. If you want to try and start a "grass roots" campaign to try and change the law, that's one thing, but that doesn't give you the right to dismiss it."

The judge pauses for a moment. "I'd just like to note for the benefit of the court reporter that when I refer to "grass roots" I mean a political movement, not cannabis."

The court laughs again.

I smile, ignoring the fact that I'm being one upped by a judge. Fortunately, I've already heard him question several other jurors so have had time to think of a response.

"Yes, your honor, I do understand. We do not have the right to choose what rules we want to follow. If this was 1857 and a fugitive slave had escaped to the North, according to the Supreme Court's ruling in Dred Scott I would be obligated to return the slave to their master."

The silence is deafening. Both the prosecution and the defense attorney's perk up. The judge looks taken aback. "That is assuming," I continue, "that the slave owner could prove that the escaped slave was his property and I was on the jury deciding the case."

The judge stares at me for a moment, then continues. "You understand that this is not 1857 and this case has nothing to do with slavery."

"I do your honor. This is 2010 and this is a marijuana trial. It is not 1919 and I am not on a jury having to decide if a woman is guilty for trying to vote at a public poll. My duty is to follow the law, not to have an opinion on whether it is right or wrong."

The judge raises an eyebrow, but decides to let the matter drop. He hands it over to the lawyers to make opening statements. The defense attorney's ignore me, but the prosecutor decides to ask me additional questions.

"Juror #21, I understand you have some strong opinions about the drug law. You are aware that people who sell marijuana legally are licensed and sell only to people who have a legitimate medical condition. There is a matter of public health."

"Yes, ma'am. I also understand that those who are in violation of the public health code are typically either fined or have their place of business shut down or condemned. They are not charged with felonies and do not have to face the prospect of jail time."

The prosecutor cocks her head. "You aren't allowed to speculate on punishment, only on the facts of this case."

"But this is a felony case, and typically felonies involving illicit substances involve incarceration. But you are correct, I am not allowed to speculate."

"While I disagree with your opinion, I respect how you feel. We do, however, have to follow the law."

Bullshit. "The law is a flawed tool to maintain order because it is created by flawed people. To my knowledge, I have never heard of anyone who OD'd on pot, nor have I ever heard anyone turning violent or becoming abusive on pot. If marijuana is a detriment to society, then it is certainly not any worse than alcohol, which is the leading cause of DUI's, or more addictive than cigarettes which are sold in almost every gas station and drug store."

The judge should stop me, but I've launched into a diatribe and I can't stop.

"I once worked as a pharmacy clerk where I routinely handed out vicodin, percoset, oxycontin; pain killers so powerful they put some of our patients back in the hospital. We handed out methodone like candy, that's medical heroin. Every month we would have patients run out of their medication "early" and every month they would be back in the pharmacy, asking for more. If they were loud and persistent, their doctor would just refill their prescription and give them more."

"Juror #21!" the prosecutor interrupts.

I clamp my mouth shut.

"The issue is can you follow the law? If you find the defendants guilty, you must follow the law. Can you do that?"

"I will follow the law to my best moral certitude."

The prosecutor frowns, she isn't happy, but she wisely decides not to ask me any further questions.

The judge moves on, asks the last juror, juror #22 the same questions he's asked everyone else. Juror #22 is an elderly Asian woman with no opinion on anything, identical to the majority of the other jurors who sit politely like sheep. The judge looks at the time, it's 4:00.

"I'd like to thank everyone for coming, but we clearly aren't going to finish picking a jury today, I'd like to adjourn court until tomorrow at 10:30. Please be on time."

CUT TO: REALITY

The daydream ends, the fantasy evaporates.

I've sat in court for three days, playing out the above scenario in my head, rewriting the movie, reworking the court room dialogue. There are no distractions as my writer's brain is forced to sit and listen, forced to hear the same banal questions followed by the same trivial excuses, superficial arguments, and petty justifications.

Turns out not many people in LA think marijuana is a crime.

Three days to play out my response as I study the courtroom like a hawk, anticipating both the judges and lawyers potential questions, preparing to launch into a soliloquy the moment I'm called up. Three days on the bench I have sat, waiting impatiently for my number to be called so I can have my moment in the sun, and then exit stage left to freedom.

Three long days.

But I am never called. Three days of having to listen to the same rules repeated, the same questions asked, and the same tired pleas about why said juror can't serve on said jury. "I can't serve because I've done drugs, I don't like cops, my next door neighbor is a cop and I have him over for BBQ, my brother's step-nephew was arrested for drug use and we're close."

The prosecutor removes all the men she can, preferring older women with young children. The defense retaliates and dismisses all the older mothers with young children, and in five minutes both sides dismiss nearly every potential juror and the process has to start over as another batch of 22 jurors is called forth.

The court has to process 44 jurors before they can decide on a final 12 plus 3 alternates. I am one of the last 6 who is never called up. Never given a chance or the opportunity to expound on the stupidity of the law, to have an audition.

Damn.

Three days, wasted.

Not to worry, I'll get another chance in 24 months.

Friends of Proximity

You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

It's an old adage, a cliche, wisdom served up straight from the fortune cookie factory.

But how many of our friends our already chosen for us? Friendships decided not by shared values, or similar interests, but location?

Sometimes we meet people who do share our interests, forming bonds that transcend both time and distance. We pull them into our orbit and never let go, regardless of where they have moved or what they are doing, they are eternally bound to our minds and hearts. We may not talk to them for years, but the moment we reconnect, the gap of time closes in an instant.

Time and space cannot weaken a true friendship.

Then there are friends of proximity.

Friends of proximity are friendships of shared experience, momentary attachments based not on shared interests or values, but on immediacy. Proximity friendships are short lived and transient, based an our neighborhoods, our homes, our work place and our families. Quit the job, move to a new neighborhood, and most of your friendships quietly disintegrate, dying an invisible death.

With a friend of proximity, you don't share common interests, you share common experience.

One such friend was Tom. Living beneath the heel of our tyrannical property manager, we were united in our dislike of the warden, prisoners sequestered under the same roof. A waiter at Canter's Deli and older than me by a good ten years, Tom was calm and affable, he showed me how to bet on the ponies and I helped him write a script.

We saw shows together, griped about politics, and were always unified in our hour long "bitch" sessions about the craziness of our dictator roommate and his unreasonable demands. (Like shutting off the power to my room, telling me how I should park my car in the drive way, or insisting that one of us was stealing his silverware.)

After I moved, I promised to stay in touch, but somehow I never really did. Not long after I left Tom moved out as well, and that was the last I heard from him. We no longer had our common experience, both of us had moved on to different shows, to different venues.

A week ago I walked into Canter's to have an open beef brisket. Canter's has probably 300 things on their menu, but only five of them are good. (Corn beef, matzoh soup, brisket, pastrami, and of course, the brisket - as a rule, stick to traditional Jewish food when eating here.)

I look for Tom, but don't spot him.

"Does Tom still work here?" I ask at the register.

"No," the woman replies, counting my money, "Tom passed away a year ago."

I try to hide my shock and fail. "What? What happened?"

"He had a heart attack." She answers, handing me my change.

Tom's dead? Dead? I exit the deli in a daze. I still have his number on my phone. I haven't called it in years, but I call it now.

His voice mail picks up. "This is Tom, leave a message."

For a moment I don't know what to say, maybe the woman behind the counter was wrong? Maybe she was talking about a different Tom? Don't phone companies cancel voice mail after no one pays the bill?

Or is your voice mail like MySpace or Facebook, a digitized ghost casting a pixeled shadow, remaining up on the web even after you are gone. Death is no longer marked by a mere gravestone, but electronically encrypted bits of data zipping around the world, locked into place until someone makes a conscious decision to erase your electronic thumbprint.

A week later I never hear back from him. I call a second time. Nothing.

Does it even matter? Tom vanished from my life years ago. He was a friend of proximity, a connection of convenience. The moment we stopped living under the same roof was the moment our friendship vanished into the ether.

How many friends have I met in LA? How many people have I met and formed friendships with only to never speak with them again? Thinking back I can barely remember half their names. Former roommates, people I worked with, teachers I've known, writers who moved away - so few remain friends.

But when they're gone, you don't really miss them.

They're no longer in your proximity.

Crossed Out

Kids don't read.

This statement is so overused and hackneyed it's akin to a pair of frayed shoes, scuffed and scraped to the point where the soles are falling apart from overuse. "Kids don't read" is no longer an opinion, its an unquestioned fact, passing beyond the world of cliche and into the realm of truism.

My first year I was teaching a phonetics class designed for elementary school students as part of the LANGUAGE! program. Unfortunately, the class was filled with unruly high school freshman who rebelled at the thought of having to read Dr. Seuss and Dick and Jane. One of them insisted that he read "as good" as any other student at the school.

I'd taught the class for weeks, and by this point the kids are in open revolt. It's the end of the day, they don't want to be there, and as a new teacher I'm fresh meat. I'm about to to lose my temper.

"Than let's see how a general ed student reads." I declared grandly.

Outside the bungalow I spotted a teenager wearing a black Metallica T-shirt slouching across the quad. "Hey kid!" I called out. "C'mere, I need you for something."

As the teenager approached, braces glinting in the afternoon sun, my class of special ed students began to freak out, terrified at the thought of being embarrassed in front of a student from general ed. In a school of 5000 students, there is anonymity, but there isn't a special ed student alive who isn't terrified of being "outed"; of being thought of as dumb.

My students covered their heads, raised up their hoods, retreating to the back of the room - one ran and hid in the closet. When Metallica gets to my room I handed him one of the phonetics books.

"Read this."

Metallica stared at the book, confused. A second later he made an attempt to read it.

"The....man....walk..ed...out...to...."

The class cracked up, backs straightening, terror evaporating, fear gone in an instant. My student in the closet leapt outward, bounding up to the front of the room.

"You see, Mister!" she laughs. "You see! We do read as good as all the other kids."

I shouldn't have been surprised.
Kids don't read.

By my second year I realized part of the problem was lack of reading material, what was available was either too easy or too difficult. Precious little was in the comprehension "sweet spot", easy enough to be decoded, but interesting enough to be challenging. I scoured book rooms and searched book stores in a never ending quest for stories that would spark interest.

There wasn't much. The district claims they have identified 4,700 books that are high interest, low readability material, but that is a gross exaggeration.

I put the number at less than ten. House on Mango Street, Holes, The Outsiders, A Child Called It - how many times can I teach the same novel? Animal Farm? Too abstract. To Kill a Mockingbird? Too different, the deep South might as well be science fiction and take place on Mars. For the majority of the students, even vampire goth drivel like Twilight is a challenge.

After a few years, it occurred to me that perhaps I should begin writing my own stories. After all, who knows their audience better?

Once upon a time, before I was a teacher, I was a writer.

I decided to write a survival story about a student who is afraid to come to school because he doesn't want to get "jumped" by a rival gang. Each chapter was kept to a few pages, written in 14 font with shorter margins and wide spaces to make it easier for struggling readers. Unlike most novels, I was writing in a setting that "mirrored" the students world, an inner city high school, a story that kids could immediately pick up, access, and understand.

They devoured the first chapter. What happens next, Mister! What happens next! I wrote a second chapter from the point of view of a girl who secretly has a crush on the kid hiding from the gang, then a third chapter from a "stoners" perspective. By the time I get to the goth girl in chapter 7, I was starting to realize I had a book.

And so Crossed Out: A City Tales Novel, was born.

I passed out some of the chapters to other special ed teachers, and almost instantly they wanted their own classroom sets. The book became viral, taking on a life of its own as it wound its way through the school. Soon regular ed teachers were asking about the book, eager to offer it to their own struggling readers.

Crossed Out isn't just a book for special ed, it's a book for ESL and anyone in developmental reading. It's a book for all the students who read below grade level, for every kid who has never read a novel, who doesn't have books at home, who has parents that are functionally illiterate.

Crossed Out is a book for over half the LAUSD school district.

Students approach me in the hallways now, some I know, others are strangers.

"I love your book, Mister!"
"Hey, Leiken! Good book."
"Hey teacher! Did you write that book? It's awesome!"

I acknowledge them with a smile a wave. For some students, Crossed Out is the first book they have ever finished.

A few even want to take the book home, refusing to let go, fingers glued to the pages.

"Can I take it home Mr. Leiken?" Sam says. "I promise to return it."

Normally I would say no. The copies I have keep on disappearing, but in Sam's case, a demote who should be a senior, I'll make an exception. I've never seen him excited about anything, at least anything to do with reading or school.

He returns the book the next day.

"It was excellent, Mister. Best book I've read."

Sam is a slow reader. At 180 pages, I'm a little surprised he could finish Crossed Out that quickly. "You finished it in one day?" I ask. "How long did it take you to read it?"

"It took me all night, but I couldn't put it down!"

A student reading for fun? A student reading for pleasure? It's not possible.

Because kids don't read.