children. chil-dren.

in my freshman latin class at jesuit, anytime a student answered incorrectly, father whitten would just shake his head and say, "sad. sad. sad." he was bald, had a gut, and rocked the costanza hair-do. his face was always red, which led us to believe he was always drunk. he acted the part, anyway. he always supported legalizing weed, and talked about smoking all the time. a part of us all wanted to believe it was true. he even sent me a christmas card, something i've never expected from a teacher. we were all saddened when he retired that same year, and moved to LA.

then there was mr. hastie for p.e. he never really cared that lazy people like me hung out on the sidelines, or didn't play water polo. playing baseball in the spring, i sat the whole period in left field. he still gave me an A. and once, while we played basketball, he sat on some senior's car and spit sunflower seeds all over the poor bastard's windshield. i like to think that he knew who this kid was, and was doing it on purpose, but knowing mr. hastie, he probably didn't. and that's what made him cool. later, i heard from byron that he became an english teacher. this review, courtesy of ratemyteacher.com pretty much sums it up: "didnt teach teach anything only sat at his computer looking at sports scores. the only time he teaches is when the president comes to look at the class."

mr. lange taught social studies, but i don't remember learning a damn thing from that class. the only thing memorable about him is that whenever he caught a student sleeping (which was quite often, since it was right after lunch, and he kept the room completely dark to use a projector) he would sneak up on him and scream at the top of his lungs. sometimes, when he was in a bad mood, he would grab the desk, too, and violently shake it. i got caught once. luckily, nothing physical.

looking back, all i can think is, what a waste of money. i could've not learned anything right here at watsonville high. for free.

sad. sad. sad.

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