Or start with Scene 1 at

On Friday, I paired up the ninth graders to interview and write an essay about their partner that would be presented to the class the following Monday.

In third period, there was one extra boy, and I said that I’d interview him.

"Nicolas is a school boy," a voice from the class taunted, and it was obvious that Nicolas didn't like that.

"Isn't it strange that students who don't bring books to class and who don't do the work will always call students who do a school boy?" I asked.

"Almost every President of the United States or CEO was once a school boy,” I said. “I suspect that the students who made fun of them ended up cleaning their swimming pools or mowing their lawns. Who gets the last laugh then?

"While I'm on this topic, starting Monday, I'm going to be checking to make sure everyone brings a three-ring binder to class every day and has a supply of unused, lined paper in that binder along with a pen. Anyone who doesn't come ready to learn will lose points off the responsibility grade that is worth five percent of the semester grade.

"Also, starting Monday, I’ll only accept work completed in blue or black ink. If you turn work in that is sloppy or completed with a pencil, you’ll have to do it over."

"What's wrong with doing work using a pencil?" Brianna said without raising her hand. "What if we don't have a pen?"

I stared at her, and then pointed at the rules. She made a face and raised her hand. Stay firm, I reminded myself. Tough love had served me well through the years.

"All the teachers in the English department at Nogales want the work done in blue or black ink, and it’s my job as a ninth-grade teacher to make sure you do it so you are ready for tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grades."

"You treat us like college students," Brianna said.

I stared at her again, and she raised her hand.

"No, you’re wrong. I don't treat you like college students. If I treated you like a college student right now, I’d drop you from the class."

“You can’t do that!”

“They do in college,” I replied. During the year I was working toward my teaching credential, I’d seen a professor at the college do just that when students were talking during his lecture. Without warning, he stopped the lecture, threw them out of the lecture hall, and dropped them from his class. There had been a waiting list, and he filled the empty space with two of those students.

During the lunch break, I worked with Camille, the news editor, on page layouts. I also brainstormed with Mary Grace ways to raise money so we could replace outdated computer equipment and send a few students to San Diego later in the year to compete at the Journalism Education Association (JEA) national competitions. Pepperdine University also offered a journalism summer camp for high school students. I was hoping to send next year's editor-in-chief there.

The phone rang, and it was one of the guidance technicians. "Mr. Lofthouse," she said, "I've scheduled a new student, a junior, into your journalism class. She tells me that she was the sports editor on her high school newspaper.”

"What school was that?"

"La Puente High School."

"Before she can join the staff, she has to come in at lunch and talk to Amanda, our editor-in-chief.  She’ll have to try out for the class like all the other students do. The sixteen new students on the staff went through the application process at the end of last year. Thirty applied, but fourteen were turned down.”

"I understand," she said. "I'll tell her to come see you now."

The girl from La Puente High School didn’t show up before lunch ended, but she did come in during sixth period. I asked her several questions about the journalism class she was leaving, and I was worried that she wouldn't be able to keep up with the work in this class.

Last year, we hadn’t interviewed any of the students that joined journalism, and half of them had been unable to write a complete sentence, make deadlines, or follow directions. But this year was different.

"Before you can join this class, you have to show us you can write." I turned her over to Amanda, who had her take the same writing exercise that all of the staff had taken to get into the class.

After sixth period, Amanda and I read what La Puente had turned in, and her writing skills were poor. It was obvious that Amanda was skeptical about letting La Puente into the class when she hadn't proved herself as everyone else had.

"Amanda, according to her transcripts, she was in a journalism class at the other high school, so let’s have her start out as a cub reporter.” I said. “She’ll have to study out of the textbook like everyone else and then pass the exam with an eighty percent. If she doesn't like it, she can drop the class."

La Puente dropped the class two weeks later unable to write a simple essay, let alone meet the deadlines. It didn’t bother me that she left, because my goals for journalism were to challenge high-performing students by demanding excellence from them so they had an opportunity to grow and improve. I didn’t want journalism to be a remedial class.

La Puente should’ve been placed in a basic-level English class, but instead, she would be another student performing well below grade level in a college prep class she wasn’t ready for.

Scenes from "Crazy is Normal, a classroom expose" will appear here Saturdays in thirteen installments covering the first ten percent of the memoir or 12,455 words.

The paperback and eBook may be found through its Website: http://www.crazynormal.com/

The Introduction, which comes before the Prelude, may be found at: