The first time I heard of Mr. Vincent was through my brother, Stewart. I was in the seventh grade at Malibu Park Junior High. My brother was two grades ahead of me. Being a typical teenager, Stew wasn’t particularly jazzed about school. Stew loved learning about new subjects, but school mostly turned him off during this period of his young life. Unlike me, Stew was a cool kid, he played football and surfed. When it came to school, he never had anything particularly nice to say about any of his teachers or Malibu Park Junior High. It made sense. Being into school was for nerds like me – Stew was smart, but he wasn’t a member of geek squad. So, it was a real shock to both myself and my parents to hear Stew raving about how wonderful his new 9th grade history teacher was.
“The dude is so freaking awesome,” Stew explained at our family dinner the first week of the fall semester. “He doesn’t waste our time on any of that boring bullshit like those other loser teachers, making us memorize useless dates and shit – Mr. Vincent makes history interesting.”
“How does he do that?” our mother asked.
“He tells it to us like it’s a story. He gives us interesting details, like how the Romans used these huge planks with giant nails to trap the Carthaginian ships so their infantry could rush aboard the enemy ship. That’s how they defeated the best navy in the world to win the first Punic War. The way he explained it makes it sound like you were watching a movie. Plus, he’s like the nicest guy. I’ve only been in his class a week and already I can tell he’s like the best teacher I’ve ever had.”
“Wow.” My mother asked. “He sounds like quite a guy.”
“He is. Everyone digs Mr. V. He’s the best. In fact, I’d go far so say he’s the best. Teacher. Ever.”
That was my first introduction to Mr. Vincent. Over time, I’d learn that, indeed, every kid at Malibu Park Junior High adored him just as much as my brother did. In fact, my brother was so excited by Mr. Vincent that he started recounting his lectures on a regular basis at dinner almost every night. Unlike his other classes, Stew studied hard for Mr. Vincent’s tests. He was actually excited about learning history and ended up earning a solid “A” in his class.
I’m sure countless other kids went had a similar experience with Mr. Vincent. To this day, he remains one of the most fondly remembered teachers to ever grace the halls of Malibu Park Junior High. What made Mr. Vincent so great was that he an amazing storyteller, as my brother said, who knew how to present history like it was an epic tale unfolding before our eyes. He had a keen sense of humor too and knew just when to punctuate a lecture with a well-placed, groan inducing pun. He was also well organized and knew how to present his course material in a manner that challenged the brightest students without leaving behind the slower kids. His class wasn’t that hard, especially if you paid attention, but he also wasn’t afraid to challenge kids to understand history from a more mature perspective.
Perhaps most importantly, however, Mr. Vincent was an incredibly kind and thoughtful man who genuinely cared about you as a student. Mr. Vincent, never talked down to anyone. He treated us all like we were capable of understanding the complex details of human history. He presented it as an epic tales of choices, good and bad. He didn’t pull any punches, he wanted to make sure we got the big picture, it was important to him. Mr. Vincent wanted us to make the connection that history had been no picnic, but that the future was in our hands.
I recall him recounting in moving detail the Holocaust and giving us a very sophisticated breakdown of Adolf Hitler’s mental health issues and how he was able to create a fascist state. Having TA’d in his class one semester in the 8th grade, I knew that Mr. V taught his lessons verbatim, class after class, year after year. Yet, somehow, his lessons always felt completely spontaneous and fresh because of the infectious enthusiasm that he displayed whenever he taught his lessons.
Unlike Mr. Tucker, our bombastic science teacher, who would regularly call me a “dullard” and scream at me whenever I did anything wrong in his lab, Mr. Vincent was soft spoken and patient. He made it a point to always build up the self esteem of his students. He praised me often, complimenting me on how smart I was. Once, when I got in serious trouble for tagging the school, he pulled me aside and told me the incident didn’t reflect on my true character.
“You’re better than this. You screwed up, but most kids do, I still believe in you, Scott,” he said. Those words meant a lot to me at the time. I resolved to never get in that kind of trouble and disappoint Mr. Vincent again.
I think most students who went to Malibu Park Junior High would agree. Mr. V was the Best. Teacher. Ever. Period.
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I thought about Mr. Vincent often when I worked as a substitute teacher for LAUSD. This was during a slow time in my film career, when I had to scramble for cash to pay my bills. However, working as a sub, wasn’t just a job for me. I wanted to do more than just pay my bills. I took teaching seriously. I wanted desperately to make a difference – especially for kids of color. To this end, I volunteered to work at the worse schools in the district, with the most dysfunctional kids in all of LAUSD. The school district was more than happy to oblige a gullible, idealist like me. So, they assigned me to work the absolute worst schools in South Central LA.
I had practically no training of any kind when I started, but my optimism (arrogance?) told me it was fine. I thought I was a cool, smart guy, I could just “wing it” and be a great teacher – just like Mr. Vincent.
How wrong I was.
My first semester teaching was an absolute disaster. With virtually no training I was given a long term assigned to take over a social studies course at one of the roughest Middle Schools in South LA where the regular teacher had a heart attack the first week of school. I was given practically no materials of any kind, or lesson plans to follow. No one in authority ever checked in with me to see how things were going. I was simply told by the clerk in the main office to go to the class every day and “try not to let them burn the room down.” All the administration cared about was that there was a warm body in the room. Still, I was up for the challenge. I wrote up lesson plans based on my considerable (but amateur) knowledge of history. Inspired by the example of Mr. Vincent, I tried to be a story-teller. I gave inspiring lectures that I practiced at home every night, I tried to make learning US History as entertaining as possible. I tried to be kind, gentle and make every student fell like they were special and appreciated by me, just like Mr. V used to do. I even spiced up my lectures with well-timed, groan inducing puns.
The was only one problem: I was no Mr. Vincent.
To be fair, the kids did really like me. Which is shocking. We were the same color, but were from totally different worlds. I’d grown up in relative affluence in Malibu. I was educated at a school were doing your work everyday and sitting in your seat quietly was the norm. My students came from family that were very poor, most were first generation immigrants. They had attended dysfunctional “ghetto schools” all their lives. Some hadn’t done any class work, let alone homework, in years. Their academic skills were all far, far below grade level – which made teaching even the most basic concept an enormous challenge. Gangs ran rampant at the school. Fights were constantly breaking out. Students would tear pages out of text books and tag the room the moment I turned my head. The fire alarm got pulled practically every five minutes. The culture of the school was one of chaos and violence. It was a war zone more than a place of education.
However, even though I was a huge fish out of water, I was still somehow very popular with the kids. My students always gave me endless props. They dapped me coming in the door and told me constantly how my class was “chill”. I was the cool guy on campus, “Mr. Diablo”, the guy kids could relate to, who, like Mr. V, made history fun – or so I thought. It took me awhile to figure out what was really going on. Sure, I was popular, but the sad truth was, although the students liked me, they really didn’t respect me at all. They thought my class was chill because they could goof of in it.
The students had quickly figured out that I had never taught a class before and took full advantage of my naïveté. I had no idea how to control a room full of teenagers. Although, the kids mostly stayed in their seats while I lectured them with unbridled passion on the American Revolution – they really weren’t learning much of anything. They were entertained by my performance, but they weren’t retaining any knowledge I was attempting to impart. I didn’t know enough to reenforce my lessons with assignments. When I tried to give them handouts and quizzes, they would just blow off my work and I was too soft hearted to punish them for it. Gradually, my class got more more wild and unruly. It turned into a teenage club house. I didn’t know how to get anyone to do work. I didn’t want to call security and get anyone in trouble because I felt sorry for them, and also, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to be a snitch and lose my status as the “coolest teacher on campus.”
Then, one day, as I was opening the classroom in the morning, a group of Latino boys who had my class first period called me over, claiming they wanted to talk to me about something important. I really liked this particular group of boys. They were troublemakers, but they were funny and liked to talk to me about skateboarding, sports and Mexican Ska. They were considered “bad apples” of the school by the administration since they were suspected of doing a lot of the tagging – but this fact only made me relate to them more. After all, I was also a “bad apple” who had once tagged Malibu Park Junior High when I was in the 9th grade.
I thought that by accepting them and being their “friend” I could gain their trust and “reach” them. I figured that my comradery with them would eventually pay dividends, but my strategy was misguided. They took my friendly, laid-back attitude towards them as a sign of weakness. Like a pack of predators, they saw this as an opportunity to pounce.
As soon as I walked over to them, one of them distracted me while another crept up behind me and threw a trash can over my head – so much for being the second coming of Mr. V. At that moment, I don’t know what happened, but something snapped inside me. White hot rage exploded in my brain. I threw the trash can off my head and grabbed the ring leader, a young wannabe gangster named Dennis Martinez. Grabbing him firmly by the arm, I dragged him, kicking and screaming to the main office. All the others stood in shock with their mouth hanging wide open. They’d never seen me mad before, it was a rude wake-up call for them.
“What are you doing with Dennis, Mr. Diablo?” one of the bystanders protested.
“Shut the fuck up! Or I’m taking your ass to the dean too!” I snapped. The dude immediately waved his hands in the air, gesturing “its cool, dude.”
Meanwhile, Dennis had turned completely pale. He knew he was in real trouble and panic had set in. I didn’t say another word to him as I dragged him into the Vice Principal’s office, where the VP, a grim looking elderly African American woman name Claurice Beaumont, (whom the students called “The Crypt Keeper”), immediately got on the phone and started calling the police to report an assault.
“You’re going straight to Juvie, Martinez.” She growled at Dennis. At the sound of these words, Dennis’ tough-kid demeanor evaporated. He started to cry like a baby and begged me not to press charges against him.
“Please, Mr. Diablo… it was just a stupid joke. I wasn’t trying to hurt you! My mom will kill me if I pick up a case and get kicked out of school. I’m begging you, just give me another chance! Please. I’ll do all your work, I swear.”
I looked over at Ms. Beaumont. She pause in her call to the police.
“It’s your call, Mr. Marcano.” She said, “But if you want my two cents, I’d send him to juvie.” I thought about it for a few moments, then turned to Dennis.
“I’ll let it go if you write a ten-page essay on respecting authority. Then write another ten-page essay on the causes of the American Revolution.” Dennis nodded enthusiastically.
“I will, I will! Thank you, Mr. D! Thank you!” He blurted out. After Dennis left the office, Ms. Beaumont looked at me with distain and shook her head.
“You’re too soft, that little asshole ain’t gonna do shit for you.”
Well, it turns out that Ms. Beaumont was wrong. Dennis did write both essays for me. Not only that, but he also never caused another problem in class. In fact, he was one of the few students who did any work for me. Yes, sadly, in spite of all my attempts to charm, plead and cajole them – I was no Mr. Vincent. I couldn’t make these kids love history or learn much of anything that first semester. I simply didn’t know how to teach. When almost all of them failed my final exam, I had to face the ugly truth. I felt utterly ashamed of myself…
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“Does anyone remember this guy?” The post at the Malibu Junior High Facebook page said. I recognized man in the picture immediately, it was Mr. Newcomb, my 8th grade Algebra teacher. I had always like Mr. Newcomb, granted he was no Mr. Vincent, he was very eccentric, irreverent and given to wild outbursts of anger when students got out of line. Still, I learned a lot of Algebra from him and earned an “A” in his class. I wrote a positive comment under the post, expressing my gratitude for Mr. Newcomb.
Many positive comments followed mine, but I was surprised that several people wrote very negative things about him, like “He was a jerk… dude taught me nothing…. He just sat at his desk and twiddled his thumbs.” One person wrote something along the lines of; “Like most teachers, he probably started out ok, then just got burned out until he completely sucked.” I found this last comment objectionable. Sure, Mr. Newson wasn’t always the best, but he tried his darndest to do a good job. Whatever his failings, I went on from his class to learn trig and pre-calculus. The comment hit home with me, particularly since I’d just finished my first disastrous semester trying to teach. I wondered to myself, is that going to be me one day, just a “jerk” that students remember as a failure?
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It took me many semester of trial and error for me to finally find my sea legs as a teacher. Gradually, I got control of classrooms I was assigned to. After that first horrible semester I discovered a trick which served me well for the rest of my substitute teaching career. I recalled how Mr. Vincent would turn history into a story. I wasn’t nearly as good at it, but I was definitely a good storyteller. The problem was since I wasn’t teaching any one subject, I had to improvise and tell stories that would work in any given situation. I’d always had a fondness for scary stories, so I focused on those, making up ghost stories and retelling classics like the true story of The Exorcist. So, I began making up horror stories to tell the kids as a reward if they finished their work. It was an unorthodox approach, but to my surprise, it actually worked. In exchange for telling one of my tales of terror at the end of the period, students would quietly work for me. It was amazing.
Over time my stories became so popular at the various schools I subbed at that I became one of the most popular substitute teachers in South Central. Predictably, the administration at the various schools couldn’t leave well enough alone. They wouldn’t give me textbooks or lesson plans, but they harassed me constantly for using ghost stories as a method for maintaining classroom control and productivity. Many, like Ms. Beaumont, thought my technique was just too fucking weird to be condoned. I was constantly being threatened with being written up for spreading “supernatural lies.” I gave zero fucks. I needed to keep those kids in their seats and working. I got tougher too. Like Mr. Newcomb, I’d occasionally go into a rage filled tirade if I needed a class to settle down. The kids never took my anger personally, however. Mostly, they’d say I was tough, but fair. I wouldn’t say I was a great teacher, like Mr. Vincent, but eventually I became a good one.
The whole adventure taught me to truly appreciate the profession and how difficult it is.
Teaching is, without a doubt, the hardest job I’ve ever done. Working in South Central as a sub gave me a whole new appreciation of Mr. Vincent. Although, he had a distinct advantage over me, teaching to classrooms of mostly affluent kids – Mr. Vincent was definitely a rare breed. He was a master teacher who could breakdown the most abstract and complicated lesson and make you not only understand it, but want to know more about it.
The other teachers I had at Malibu Park Junior High were all very good too, even the ones I thought at the time were pretty mediocre or total jerks. Like Mr. Newcomb they all tried their best and for the most part succeeded. It’s no small feat to get up every day and face a hostile crowd of hundreds of kids and try to give them an education against their will. It takes enormous fortitude, skill and dedication.
The great thing about the best of them is that they make you, the student, feel appreciated and special – even if that’s not entirely the case. Back when I was in college, I returned to Malibu Park Junior High and went by Mr. Vincent’s old classroom to say hello to him. I wanted to thank him for all he had done for me. I managed to catch him chilling in his room as he was grading papers. When I walked into his room, Mr. Vincent’s face lit up. I thought he recognized me, but to my surprise, when we started talking, he didn’t remember my name. I was a bit crestfallen, I must admit. After all, I’d been his TA and gotten an A in his class. I thought he’d remember me as fondly as I remembered him. But alas, I was just another student to him, one of countless faces that had come and gone over the years.
It was only later when I’d taught thousands of students myself that I realize how hard it was to remember all their faces and names. Mr. Vincent was warm and friendly throughout my visit, even if he didn’t recognize me. He asked me where I was going to college and wished me well.
It was great to see him. A few years later, when I found out he had passed, I cried as if a member of my own family had died. I’m sure many of us who had the honor and privilege to have him as a teacher felt the same way. Mr. V truly was the best teacher ever.
But when I think about things more deeply, I have to give a shout out to all my teachers, so many of them stand out in my mind; Ms. Honey, Mr. Newcomb, Mr. Jones, Mr. Degamo, Mr. Poole, of course, to name just a few of the most outstanding ones. I don’t speak to any of them, except for Ms. Carines who interacts with me on Facebook from time to time. Still, I’ll never forgot any of them. All of them, in their own special way, taught me something important and made a huge impact on my development and character. I was raised by a village of teachers who made me the person I am today.
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Many years have passed since I subbed for LAUSD. Many of the stories I told my students later became best-selling comic books for my company Diablo Comics. Since I left teaching, I lost touch with my former students… that is until I start my Youtube channel. Somehow, many of them started finding my videos online where I tell the ghost stories I used to make up for them. Many of them leave comments, like “he was the best sub I ever had.” “Loved his stories!” some remember things a little differently than I do, however, commenting “we never did any work in his class, we just goofed off while he told stories” – which isn’t true at all except for the first semester I taught. I always made them work after that, but if that’s how some of them remember me, that’s ok.
One day I was going through the comments and one in particular stood out to me. It was from Dennis Martinez, the one I spared form Juvie. In his comment he wrote:
“Mr. Diablo, I’m not sure if you remember me, but this is Dennis, the kid who threw a trash can over your head. I’m really sorry about that. You were such a cool guy. I loved the way you taught history, telling stories. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I admit it, I was a punk back then. Anyhow, I somehow found myself watching one of your videos here and I just wanted to give you a shout and say thank you. Just so you know, I graduated from King Drew Medical Magnet High School with honors, I’m now studying medicine at Stanford. I’ve had a lot of teachers over the years, but I wanted to let you know, I think of you more than anyone else. You were the best teacher ever.”
To all the teachers from MPJH and especially to Mr. Vincent – from the bottom of my heart, thank you all, every one of you was the best teacher ever.