Luis Cuellar

December 2000

The chorus, sung by the raindrops falling on the cracked, unleveled parking lot, was followed with an overpowering smell of wet asphalt as I stepped out of my car. The unmistakable sounds of conversations and trampled wet grass coming from across the street filled my ears, as an army of students, in their white shirt-khaki pant uniforms, hurried into the refuge of Edison High School. I walked briskly across the street trying to avoid the morning school traffic. A Styrofoam cup had dropped from the chain-linked fence around the worn down tennis courts and rolled on to the street. A passing car words "Open House." A raindrop slid down my face and I quickened my pace, along the sidewalk and past the police car guarding the entrance of the school. I felt the stares of young eyes as I double-checked to see if my car was parked in visitor’s parking. It was hard to tell. I blew it off and decided to accept the ticket if I got one. The pressure of the stares was stronger now. I had a green shirt on. It was not white. I was not one of them. I ignored them and quickly found the main office. My khakis were now polka dotted with water stains from the rain assault.

The bustling of the main office was typical of any high school in the morning. The three vice principals walked in and out of their offices with a focused calm looking over some material that they would have to do during the day. The student helper filled the mailboxes with important notices. I was told to sit and wait for Principal Munoz to get back from his orientation with the sophomore class. I felt out of place even though nobody noticed me. They were all busy doing the work. The girl sitting with me in the waiting area, caked with makeup, gave me a look up and down. She did not notice me and gave me a quick, flirtatious smile. Her eyes were green, only as green as contacts would make them, and her makeup on her face ended close to her neck in a quick change of subtle complexions. The mask was not successful in hiding her acne-scarred face.

The student helper interrupted my line of sight. He walked casually passed me carrying two pieces of paper that both had a Xerox copy of a knife. Two police officers came into the waiting room and escorted the girl into a room, followed by one of the vice principals. The door was left slightly opened.

"You are going to be suspended!" I heard a strong voice say from within the room.

"He’ll see you now." The secretary peeked over the counter from her desk smiling at me.

"Thanks." I answered, awakened from my trance of quiet observance.

I walked behind the counter into the office of Principal Charlie Munoz. He stood up and shook my hand. The class ring he wore from the class of 1980 from Our Lady of the Lake University pressed against my palm.

"Charlie Munoz." He nodded his head.

"Luis Cuellar." I did the same.

As I explained to him my intentions for his profile, the bears caught my eye. The schools mascot was everywhere. Litter ceramic bears hid among his shelves. One bear, on a nearby table, held an inscription on a white rock "Never, never, quit." On the wall behind him there was a picture of a young child. Underneath the picture there was a phrase "La esperanza del futuro, nuestros hijos, merecen una vida mejor. Registre y vote. Su voto es su voz." (The hopes of our future, our children, deserve a better life. Register and vote. Your vote is your voice.) We decided we would meet the following week, so that I could see what his day was like.

As I left the school and walked to my car, the girl with the makeup mask and fake eyes stuck her tongue out at me from the backseat of the police car. Her arms were bound behind her. I turned to see my car. Cool, no ticket on the windshield. I gave an attacking glare back at the girl. She slipped her tongue back into her mouth. I knew she had not been herself.

* * *

As Charles Munoz went down Fresno road toward the high school, the rising sun streamed through the wooden bleachers and gave sheen to the morning dew on the football field. The shadows of the rusted H- formed goal posts lay across the grass. Tonight was the big game against Jefferson. He turned left and passed the McDonald’s and the metal fence with blanketed with graffiti and soon came to his parking spot reserved for his Ford Lariat. He was tired. The student protests against him had taken energy from him. The students had made their point; they wanted to keep their popular principal and for Charles it was challenging to be the one to replace him. He cared what they thought about him. Tonight he was going to the game to support the Bears and wish the team good luck. They were going to the playoffs this year and nothing was going to stop them.

The rumble of the drums pierced the night air as the young men drove the ball forward. Steam rose from the sweaty heads of the players on the bench as they wiped the blood, mud, and grass from their faces. Charles watched the game progress; the Bears were doing so well. To the left, a small fight had broken out. It was nothing that the referees could not take care of. A loud roar came from the bench. Both teams were on their feet yelling and charged the field heading directly at one another. Helmets were swinging, punches were thrown, and eyes in fiery focus were fixed on doing damage to the enemy. Charles could not believe what he was seeing. Not this! Not now! Pride was lost.

For the next two weeks, camera crews from the local television stations harassed the young principal. What was he going to do? Charles did not have a say in the question. The superintendent had already decided to withdraw the Bears from the playoffs and it was Charles’ job to tell the team. His three months at the school were not how he planned them to be and this was just another blow to the head.

He stood before the team in the locker room. The smell of dry sweat and feet enveloped the air. The anticipation of the awaited words from Charles’ mouth magnified the intensity of the stares that were eating away at him. Charles was not one of them and the eyes of the Bears kept tearing.

"Sorry to say this guys, but the superintendent has decided that you will not be going to the playoffs this year." Charles’ eyes waited for a response. There was a long moment of silence. One young man stood up.

"So as principal, what are you going to do now?"

"I am going to appeal the decision." Charles said determined.

The Bears never made it to the playoffs, but the students knew who the principal of Edison High School was.

Within the next eight years, under the leadership of Principal Munoz the faculty and staff would demolish nine gangs and expel twenty-two students. Principal Munoz would not tolerate gangs on campus; nor, would he let them get in the way of the night activities that the school held. The only obstacles that still are a problem are the tagging crews that constantly ravage the walls of the nearby corner stores and the windows of the school.

Principal Munoz dropped out of school in his first year of high school. His father had a stroke and he found himself working, needing to be strong for the sake of his family. His 9^th grade coach persuaded him to return to school and he did. After tremendous hard work he overcame the struggles he went through and became the first Mexican American principal for Edison.

The first two principals before Principal Munoz had different characteristics. The first was a rigid man, who never interacted with the student body. He felt that his job was simply business, so he would confine himself to his office all day and never get to know his students. The second principal was very laid back. He would interact with the students, but his interaction and comfort made some students feel as if they could get away with anything. Those were bad times for Edison High School and its student body. Principal Munoz has a balance between these two characteristics that helped bring back life to the school and pride awaking the Bears from hibernation.

* * *

"Que onda Munoz?" A student questions, sitting by the lockers on the floor.

"What’s up?" Principal Munoz answers.

"Siempre in charge of the school," he jokes around.

"Hey, I thought I was in charge."

The boy smiles at his comment.

"I got a job at el H.E.B." He grinned.

Principal Munoz looks at him and nods his head in approval.

"That’s great! Are you gonna go to class, now?" The principal questions.

The boy starts walking in the opposite direction and turns his head to Munoz and winks.

"Yes sir. Laters."

Mr. Munoz enters an English classroom. The students are extremely quiet writing in their journals. He takes a seat by a computer. His ears are filled with the whispering beats of the pencils and pens writing on the papers that sound like silent helicopter rotors as they slide against the desks.

The teacher assures the kids.

"We’ll make it through the Odyssey, today. Don’t worry."

She turns her head to Mr. Munoz.

"They’re having a little trouble with the vocabulary."

He nods his head in understanding. He whispers to a nearby student questioning him on how his grades are for the first few weeks of school. The boy pulls out his report card and proudly shows his principal.

"Good job! … A B …two C’s… and one A." He whispers loudly slightly overheard by the students around him, who had stopped their writing and looked curiously up.

He gets up to leave. Its 10:30 a.m. Time to make a pass through the cafeteria. Walking through the hallway, he puts both hands in his pockets and strolls, passing the lockers that are no longer in use except by students with disabilities to that are pregnant. A metal chord is slipped through each handle of the lockers, keeping them closed, to prevent them from being "jacked up" by any of the students.

He arrives at the cafeteria and is welcomed by the staff. The humidity in the air from the water running to wash the trays makes the area seem warmer than the rest of the school.

"What do you have today?" Mr. Munoz asked as he walks through.

"Mole! Pollo y arroz." A woman said looking up from what she was doing, kidding.

By 11:24 am, Mr. Munoz is back, in his bear infested office, checking his boxes and signing what needs to be signed. Parents are asking for permission to transfer their child to another high school. That is one approval signature. The names of the players playing varsity football and volleyball need approving, that is one more signature. Permission to allow certain students to be on the varsity squad requires three more signatures. And a quick glance of the certificate in his desk, reminds him to congratulate a student for being student-of-the-week later in that day.

After a quick lunch with teachers, he takes his position, in the cafeteria, on the south side stairwell. His vice principals stand in the east and west end and the athletic coach takes position on the north end. The bell rings and soon the once empty cafeteria turns into a New York City block with the pounding of close to five hundred pairs of feet on the tiled floor. This is just the first lunch. There is one more lunch hour after this one. When the two watchful hours are terminated and the students have settled in their classes, Mr. Munoz is reminded of his mentee, Steve, at Whittier Middle School. He remembers his days as a principal of Whittier in 1990 through 1993 before he came to Edison. Although it had been hard at first, Mr. Munoz enjoys his job at Edison, but he would not mind being principal of Whittier again. Some of the best times of his life were spent at that middle school. Today would be a great day to visit Steve. It has been a few weeks since he last saw him.

* * *

"While he worked here, he was never in his office. He was always visible to the students at the school. He would always be seen with the kids," Dolores Rodriguez, the secretary at Whittier Middle School, commented. Mr. Munoz had left with Steve for a while and I took the time to look around. Before the front steps of the school on the sidewalk, there was engraved "Class of 1950." At one time, Whittier had been the school of the Bears. The old ceiling lights within the school made the halls look ancient and dark.

The bell rang and the halls were soon full, making it hard for me to walk between the children. They had grown accustomed to making their way to their next class efficiently, but I was a full-grown bumper car. I had almost forgotten how hard it was to get to my next class when I was in middle school. Although the school itself seemed lifeless, the children running to their next class during the break period gave the school signs of youthfulness and worth, even though the building was so old.

I made my way to the back of the school where the kids would play games during their lunch period. The football field was battered down with dry grass. A dirt track surrounded it. The yellow and black stands on the other side of the field were the most noticeable things outside. They were painted. Tagging covered the metal backboards of the basketball goals and a stray dog ate something fleshy from a white paper bag left on the cracked asphalt of the grounds. This place was dead. Had this place had more life when Mr. Munoz was here?

Mr. Munoz and I left the middle school as soon as he had gotten back with Steve. We drove back to the high school passing the same metal fence that at one time; eight years ago had graffiti, but that now had a bear paw painted on it with the words "Edison Pride" around it.

As I followed Mr. Munoz into his office and got ready to leave, he pointed out to me the picture of the young child on the back wall that I had noticed when I first visited him.

"Every morning when I walk in this door, and look at that picture, I picture a kid everyday that’s looking inside, you see, he is on the outside looking in, and I feel that it is my job to make sure that he becomes part if this society, part of this school, and part of this community. My dad always told me that he would make things better for me and I guess I feel like I owe the same to these kids."

As I left the school, I thought about Whittier Middle School and why he had felt so happy at a school that seemed so dead. It was the children, not the environment, that made it enjoyable. It was the fact that he got to work with kids that still had a chance and needed guidance. Charles Munoz, at one point eight years ago, had felt that he was not part of the school or community… just like I had felt when I had first arrived at the school. I was on the outside looking in and so was he, just like the kids he mentors, but he listened to the needs of the students and harnessed the pride that was once lost to the school. He had awaken the sleeping Bears and brought back "Edison Pride."