Assignment 1A

My name is Rodolfo De La Torre Pegueros.
But the kids call me Mr. D.

When I was in high school, I had an inspirational 11th grade English teacher, a tough but fair Spanish teacher, and a very down to earth and welcoming Theater Tech teacher.

Growing up low income in a single parent home, I was motivated to make something out of my life, and these three teachers were the catalyst that propelled me past the typical status quo that many in my demographic often ends up in.

I started to go to film school at San Diego State University, and while I attended, I started outlining a lesson plan in my spiral notebook that I would use to teach a volunteer video broadcasting class once I became famous and a part of the Hollywood Industry.

One and a half years later, I realized that, despite my financial aid, making movies was expensive.  I could not afford to take off work on the weekends to shoot short films.  Luckily, I had a co-worker getting her social science degree with an emphasis on the credential, and, because I liked the two history classes I had taken at SDSU, I switched to her track.

While getting my Bachelors, I did a summer internship with Breakthrough Collaborative in San Jose teaching English to middle school kids.  I had so much fun in this challenging environment, that I knew teaching would be my calling.

In June of 2005, I received my social science credential, and I bounced from job to job, sub assignment to sub assignment for a school year.

Then I saw a job opening: a 2/5th Government/Economics position at Escondido High School

2/5ths.

That might cover rent, my 2000 Nissan Altima's maintenance and maybe some ramen noodles for my meals.
I scrolled down the Ed-join page.

3/5ths Video Production teacher.  Same school.

So I applied to both.  Within a week I got a call for an interview.  The department chairs for both Visual and Performing Arts and Social Studies joined the principal in my interview.

One week later, I was teaching 2/5ths government and 3/5ths video production on a supplementary credential waiver  for a probationary 5/5ths full time contract.

As the years went on, my video production program grew, and today I teach 4 intro video production courses, one advanced, and one after school video news broadcasting course.

And as the years went by, state requirements to teach video broadcasting changed, and I was all out of district waivers.  So, after 3 tries, I destroyed the ITE CSETs 1 and 2 and now am ready to be an official waiver free video production teacher (which, oddly enough, while a ITE course according to the state, is still a visual and performing art according to the school and the A through G UC/CSU requirements).

One of the things I enjoy the most about teaching is seeing the looks of accomplishment in the student's faces when they finish a successful video project.  Many of my students excel in my class (or other hands on classes) where they fail elsewhere.  I have many students who use my classroom as shelter, as a place to feel safe, or a place to show off their mad editing skills.  In any case, I cherish the bonds that I create with the students I interact with on a daily basis, and it is for this reason that I feel I belong where I am at.  When former students come to visit, it is an amazing rush, as we commiserate over the "old days" and watch videos they created while they were in high school.

PERSONALITY TEST
So according to my MMDI personality report, I am INFJ.  This makes sense in that I teach a video production course and focus a lot on the story telling aspect of the class.  My imagination does drive my planning.  The class I teach does not require me to come up with examples from scratch, but I do them anyways.  According to the test, I "have a strong, private sense of knowledge and vision, often for hidden things that other people would think can't be known."  I write my own scripts to show how to write a script, I make my own video to show an editing technique, even though all of these things are available online.   I see things in my head before I do them.  However, Often I don't see them long enough to weigh the good and the bad, meaning, I usually see my idea as a good idea and implement it, then realize it was a bad idea (some of my lessons have bombed, leaving kids bored and wondering what to do).  I do have an extrovert side that I believe the quiz did not pick up on (the questioning scales were kind of strange), and I tend to project my enthusiasm in my class daily.  But I do see a lot of potential in my students, even those who feel they have no potential.  Thus, I "see imaginative possibilities and insights, especially in relation to people, anticipating a future for them that they can't even see themselves."  That is why I feel most proud when those who started the year struggling or not caring end up being the ones who turn in an amazing project or who come back to visit my class with success in their future.  However, sometimes my personality leads to a vision that indeed, only I can see, and thus, leads to frustration when students are not seeing the end product of an assignment that I had in my head.

TEACHING AND LEARNING STYLE
According to the Felder and Soloman test, I am an Active and Visual learner, with a balance in sensing and intuitive as well as sequential and global.
I see myself leaning towards my own learning styles when I teach, which often leaves out students with other learning styles.  One solution I have found is using Prezi  Prezi provides written words that students can take notes on.  Then, under the notes, I attach a video that explains the written notes or gives an example of the written notes.  Also, when it comes to operating the cameras in class, I give each video group a camera to play with as well as a page from the manual to look at When it comes to editing projects, I teach them by looking up at a PowerPoint at first, then having them do hands on in groups at a time.  However, as the year goes on, some students will take over and edit projects for their group, leaving other kids who end the class not knowing anything beyond the basics of editing.  I know I will have to use the variety of learning styles to keep students engagds, especially the ones who are not engaging in editing projects.

I am hoping that this course will give me some tools to add to my toolbox as I continue to do my best to inspire student's creativity and technical skills in my video production and broadcasting class.

SO MUCH IN COMMON: THE STORY OF THE MODERN ROMANTIC STALKER (APRIL 6)

It was as if he had known her all his life

“We share so much in common.”

Those words.

They can lead into two paths with the opposite sex.

One could become another great friend.

Another person that you become stuck in the ubiquitous friend-zone, a zone equally as entrapping as deep quicksand.

Or that person could become the one you have been waiting for all your life.

The one who shows up with you at the altar a few months or years...or hell....weeks...down the road.

But there it was.

They did share so much in common.

The things she liked to eat.

Well, it was pretty much everything.

But the fact that she liked to eat.

You know...try new things

Ok ok ok.

She calls herself a foodie. He calls himself a foodie.

Then again, anyone who has taken a photo of a french fry calls themselves that....

But still...

The fact that she likes bands and musicians no one has heard of....but he has

Electronic musicians

Cray bands with obscure instruments

Bands that replaces a drum kit with a keypad full of buttons that light up

Oh and yet she still appreciates a jazz trio.

He does too....at least when someone is looking

Oh, and her style.

The way she wears just the right amount of material to tease the male eye, without dressing like a slut. Sometimes she dresses like a Japanese Anime character ready to kick someones ass, other times she dresses like a girl from a mid budget romantic indie film.

Because not all indie films are low budget.

Oh and she likes those mid budget indie films.

Then again, so does everyone these days.

But he still counts that.

Because unlike everyone else, he can name the director AND the cinematographer

And so can she

She quotes the same movies and TV shows as he does

She gets the same references to the same subcultures that he does

She gets sucked into the same TV and Movie shows like he does

Yet still claim a semblance of athleticism when they both post a pictures of a hike or a bike or a ball being thrown

Even if just for a few feet

A picture can lie...

Jesus, they were meant for each other.

They were meant to be one.

That...

Or really good friends, frustrated like the friendzones in many a film or TV show

Where in the series finale they hook up.

Or break up.

Thats them

Thats the magic they have....

But there's only one problem...

It may seem slight...

Well not really...

See, she was actually a friend of a friend.

Of a friend.

Thus, their eyes had met, maybe once

or twice

And though they shared a polite handshake at a bar, or club

Neither of them could probably remember...

Because that's not where he fell in love

Because within the 4 degrees of frienships that seperate them..

is a computer screen

Yes they share so much in common...

Because he can see everytime you post...

Everytime he logs into Twitter, Facebook, Instagram.

No...he is not crazy....

He is just doing what millions do every day

They fall in love

Because of what they see

In the flashes of information in which a fraction of a person suddenly represents the whole.

“We share so much in common.”

Yeah.

Thats what he keeps saying to himself, in his head.

Every time he logs on.

Everyone Has a Story

EVERYONE HAS A STORY (APRIL 4, 2013)

8 a.m.

The alarm has been going off for about 30 minutes.

She refuses to get out of bed to go to work.

She knows when she gets there, her boss will ask her about the money.

The 50 bucks that went missing from the register.

The 50 bucks she “borrowed” to pay the gas and electric bill.

The 50 bucks she cleverly snuck out between customers nonchalantly buying clothes worth hundreds of dollars, manufactured for a lot less.

Or maybe....

Maybe her boss would not notice.

Maybe no one will double check the cash register balance sheet she forged.

Maybe no one will really care.

I mean, its 50 bucks.

Thats a lot to her. But to a company that makes that much money in a minutes time...

Shouldn't be a big deal, right?

No.

They'd still fire her.

But at least she'd have some electricity and heat for the rest of the month

Time to get up. To shower. To change. To eat. To get in the car.

She didn't have the kids this week.  Normally her teenage son and daughter would be loaded into the back like zombies heading to the school they dreaded going to.

They were at their dad's, getting dropped off by that girl of his.

The one thats partly responsible for the mess that she has suddenly been thrust into.

She pulls out of the driveway of the appartment complex, no seatbelt on, with only one reverse tail light working, and heads down the road to a stop sign. As she approaches the stop sign in her 1988 Toyota Camry, on its last leg since 1998, another car stops across the intersection. At the exact same time.

A brand new BMW M6.

Fresh. Clean.

Inside, a middle aged man, dressed to the nines. He waits to see if the Camry is going to go first. He is a patient man. An honest man.

Polite.

A throwback to when gentleman roamed the earth.

He drove the speed limit to get to that intersection. He always makes sure to have a seatbelt on, a working turn signal on when needed, and polished rims when necessary.

You would think, today was a typical day for him. Nothing really different about how he approached the stop sign, how he drove that day, or how he pulled out of his garage.

He smiled and waved to the neighbor as he left the house. He fed and played with his dogs before getting into the car.

He woke up on time with his alarm, bright and early. 6:30 a.m.

He did his usual morning routine. He showered. Changed into his work clothes. Stopped by the local coffee spot for a coffee and a breakfast bagel sandwhich.

He said hi to the barista. He chatted it up with the friendly elderly man who was always with a newspaper sitting in front of the coffee shop.

An unchanged routine for years

His morning, nothing different than any other morning.

At least that what he hoped everyone would believe.

He hoped his employees wouldn't ask.

He was glad his morning acquaintances didn't ask.

He knew his close friends knew.

He knew some of his coworkers knew.

He took a few days off.

But he was driving back to work today for the first time since then.

And he did not want questions. He just wanted things to go back to normal.

He wanted to get into his office chair, catch up on the work his secretary has been saving for him, and get on with life.

He did not want to forget. But he did not want to dwell.

He just wanted a version of normalcy that one could possible muster after this.

After a death.

After the death of his youngest son.

The Transvestite on the Phone at a Coffee Shop

THE TRANSVESTITE ON THE PHONE AT A COFFEE SHOP (APRIL 3, 2013)

“Yeah, I did! Don't tell me I didn't!”

Silence. 3....2....1...

“No, you tell her that I did what she wanted me to do, and I ain't doing it again.”

Silence.

Here I am in this coffee shop, trying hard to work, to release the creativity from the part of the brain my creativity is constantly hiding in, and, on of all the days I forget to bring my headphones...

“No, I had chicken and microwave cheese”

What?

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't.

I turned around.

There were only 4 people this morning in this relatively quiet coffee shop:

Me, a man quietly working on his laptop, the Barsita, and her.

Or him.

I couldn't tell.

In this neighborhood, every other her is a him, and some of the hims are her.

This one, though, decided that the coffee shop is the perfect place to use a cell phone

And talk into it like its a CB radio, holding it half a foot in front of her....his...mouth.

And not to be racist, but....

Well, anything that starts like that automatically sounds racist.

So never mind.

I could move.

But Im comfortable here already.

The table is the perfect size for the laptop, the coffee, the muffin, and the bag of carrotts I brought from home.

Yes, I brought carrots to a coffee shop.

“I gave him those blankets. I didn't need them. I got my own.”

Not sure what the conversation is about, and I really do not want to know.

I just look forward to the 3-8 seconds of silence in between each utterance.

Its like waiting for a geyser to erupt....but you are not sure if its going to erupt in 3 seconds or 8. And then it erupts. And then you wait again.

“You not payin'!”

I guess if I really wanted to, I could fill in the blanks and start my own conversation with her just to amuse myself.

And if I really wanted to I could politely ask her (by the way, I am just assuming its a her, but I still cannot tell), to tone it down a bit.

I mean I COULD....

“Alright I'll talk to you later.”

Silence. 3.....2....1.....

Silence

Silence

Silence

Finally.

Finally I can get on with my work. Finally I can write that great American novel.

But I'm Mexican.

The great Mexican-American Novel.

Or screenplay.

Or blog entry.

Or Facebook post.

Whatever. I can just write. In peace. In quiet. In...

“Hey, It's me. Im calling you back.”

Crap.

Short Story of the Day: April 2

EMPTY GLASS OF BLENDED COFFEE (APRIL 2, 2013)

On the table there you lie. And empty glass of blended coffee.

You satisfied me. If only briefly.

Somehow, I always drink you too fast. And I don't enjoy you.

I was too busy typing to appreciate the sweetness of the whipped cream that you wore as your hat.

I was too preoccupied with Facebook to realize that your caffeine was keeping my eyes focused on the screens in front of me. Clicking away. Stalking this person. And that.

All that's left is the residue.

A mixture of sugars, melting ice, ground filtered espresso.

And the straw.

The straw leans towards me, as if beckoning for one last sip.

That last sip which leaves on extremely dissatisfied, as it is more melted ice and less coffee.

I'm sorry.

I should have enjoyed you.

Your life was too short. Too quick.

I guess one minute in human years is, maybe, 5 years in coffee years.

You were one moment short of turning 100.

I remember when I first bought you.

I was craving you. I needed you. I couldn't work without you.

And then I had you.

And then I forgot. And now that you are gone, I know I will crave you again.

But you are gone. And I will have to find another cup, at another place, at another time.

I will probably forget about you, as I just did as I was drinking you.

But I shouldn't. You gave me the calories I needed for the moment. You were a part of my history.

If I had a historian follow me, you would be included in the chapter about the coffee shops I've been to.

Funny.

About a year and a half ago, my grandpa died. My abuelito.

He lived to be over 90 years old. Many years. Many memories.

Yet it happened so quick.

I was so occupied with work. With friends. With my daily routine.

I was occupied with the lusts of the world.

All the while, he was there, slowly fading, but there.

There was a time when a visit was as fresh as the coffee moments after its birth from the steel machine.

But then I forgot to enjoy the time I had.

The impact he made in my life goes beyond the impact that a blended coffee had on my moment at the coffee shop.

Yet sometimes, I treat the memory of the impact the same way.  Tossed in the background of the daily grind.  Placed at the end of a table, and only approached when convenient.

Funny.

How an empty cup of blended coffee could convict me of my sin of omission. How it could show me the errors of my ways. The errors of my days.

Time to slow down. Enjoy those around me. Enjoy those who love me. And never forget those who, while no longer here, made great impacts of who I am today.

And I'll start by enjoying another glass of blended coffee.

Attatched

Person A: White, around the ear. Inside the dominant lobe. Attached to a silver Macbook Pro. Him, a think short haired white guy. Possible Jewish. Looks intently at his screen as if his world is in front of him.

Person B: Black. Earbud, sliding past an ear gauged with a large enough hole that wood make a woodpecker jealous. Attached to a black notebook. Large. Him, a white Guy with slick back hair, maybe in his 30s, the kind that either has a motorcycle and listens to 105.3, or at least has kicked someones motorcycle after exiting a bar.

Person C: Black ear buds around a black ear. Glasses. Carlton Banks. Attached to a white mac book from a few years back Hairline is receding. Polo shirt. He is a nice guy. I know him. His intentions are good. He tries.

Person D: Large Around the ears, old school, DJ style. Black. Longer hair white guy. The 90's Ryder Strong look, but if Ryder Strong was in his late 20s and slightly losing the middle. And more blond. Blue Polo. Seems stressed. Or maybe in thought. Hand around nose. Focused. Friend in front. Doesn't seem gay, so I'm assuming friend. But you never know, 'round these parts.

Person E: Ricky Tan. Jackie Chan. Ok, stop being racist. White earbuds. Intense kung-fun stare. I though i said i was going to stop. Ya...Early 20s. Student. Maybe. Short hair, pensive. Probably plays guitar. Cool stickers attached to his Mac book air. He types fast. Too fast. Suspiciously fast. Maybe he is a robot.

slowly these people become unattached. Put their attachments in their pockets, backpacks, handbags. They get up and leave. They disappear. I will never see them again. Then again, maybe i will. Maybe i will see them in line at a store, at a show, in a bar, at a club, attached to something entirely different:

A drink

A dollar

A shopping cart

A wallet

A girl

Whats in the cup Part 1

In this cup in front of me

There is a red marker, a pink highlighter, a blue pen, a mechanical pencil, and a close pin

The RED MARKER

In a small village next to a small town next to a large city, a boy wakes up.

Every morning

The rooster crows, the meager meal is prepared, the family eats.

A story is told about a dream that was had.

An antecdote about the color of the sky is given.

Little by little, the bowl is emptied

And soon, the plates are gathered into a large pot to be rinsed for the next meal.

The boy gets ups.

He picks up his sack.

He picks up his hat.

And begins the walk to the factory, past the small town to the large city.

He walks by roosters tip toeing around the sides ofthe roads.

He walks by buffaloe grazing the grasses and working along the fields.

He breathes. The air is fresh.

For now.

Smoke rises from stacks of factory chimneys

Smoke clouds the sky.

Roosters are replaced by the vagrants

Calling left over boxes and discarded metal home

Buffaloe replaced by men in suits

Forcing the single file line into the metal monster that lay ahead

The door into the factory

The boy walks in, has his named checked off, and puts on safety glasses.

He walks down a hall to his post.

He cleans the machines

He cares for their gears

He oils them to life

And the machines stamp their logos

Like an elefant on slab of wet cement

Yet more graceful

A swan perhaps

Churning through the machines are the red markers.

And green. And Blue. And orange.

Sliding down the grate into boxes to be shipped, into cars to be driven, into planes to be flown

Into stores to be sold.

That mornig, a boy wakes up.

Its Saturday. Its time for an activity. Time to finish a coloring assignement from school

Mom goes through the drawers that house the markers

We are out of Red.

Lets get a new box.

The boy is placed into the front seat

In a 2009 mini van

The van starts

It drives past mailboxes

It drives past firehydrants

People walking their dogs

Or the other way around

The car makes it to the store.

Looks for a parking spot.

Frustration.

All the spots are taken.

Well, most of them.

But she doesn't want to park far.

She does want to walk

The boy exits the van, and holds the hand of his Mom.

Safety

They walk to the store, past parked cars and the frustrated adults waiting for open spots to open.

THe Friendly colors welcome them, the cool air inside refreshes them, the friendly workers greet them.

They look for the sign that says School Supplies

Or Office Supplies

Same thing

They ask a friendly associate. They find what they are looking for

They find the markers

Stamped

Gracefully.

They pick up the package and throw it into their basket

And they walk away

With the red marker

And somehow that red marker got lost.

Possibly in a classroom

Possibly along the sidewalk

And somehow it ended up in this cup in front of me