"DON'T LEAVE A MARK ON HIM, SIR."

I taught two years from 1975 to 1977 at Brownsville High and resigned in frustration. Showing movies every day, I turned off the light, closed my eyes and endured my daily headache. My life depended on the projector functioning smoothly, which wasn't always the case. Then chaos ensued.

I was part of a program for at-risk students entitled Coordinated Vocational Academic Education, CVAE for short. The district didn't expect its riff-raff to last the year. Several of the boys didn't last but a few years on this planet, but the girls replenished their fallen numbers with the next generation of losers.

The boys took three-hour classes working on engines while the girls learned the fundamentals of keeping house. Both sexes knew little of personal hygiene. Scabies were rampant. To complete their schedule, they had an hour each of math, English and P.E. Most of them realized the district's self-fulfilling prophecy by dropping out before June.

The majority of the boys were expelled and the majority of the girls were impregnated. I have seen the girls at supermarkets or department stores with the passage of time. They are 50 to 100 pounds overweight. Their dainty adolescent days are distant memories. The boys have disappeared, many of them forever. They are either without life or sentenced to life.

As bad as the boys were, I was more dissolute. My saving grace was a significant one: I wasn't a criminal, notwithstanding the drug use and the drunk driving. I spent most my time boozing, smoking dope and fucking. Matamoros was my playground with cheap food, alcohol and whores. My life has been marked by decadent periods. The little I remember, these were a memorable two years.

I'd be walking to school. A car with students would stop and offer me a ride. They'd be passing around a joint and I would take a couple of hits. It never occurred to me that there might be repercussions for my reckless behavior.

I was living an out-of-control existence. I could care less if the BISD fired me. This stay was nothing more than a short stop on my journey into the unknown. If worst came to worst, I could return to California and my family. That was my ace in the hole if I were down to my last chips.

But the current changed and the course of my life altered dramatically. Towards the end of my second year at Brownsville High, I found a part-time position on The Brownsville Herald's sports staff. I began my apprenticeship as both a reporter and a writer. I discovered a purpose. The twin pillars of reporting and writing have sustained me for more than 40 years.

My first two years as a teacher weren't for naught and provided me with a foundation when I returned to the profession three years later. I was a product of the school of hard knocks. I had a half-dozen fist fights in the classroom. One incident remains indelibly printed in my mind.

It was time for the bell before lunch. The students were restless. I was recovering from a hangover after returning from across the border at four in the morning. A tension reigned over all my classes. The students didn't want to do anything and I was incapable of teaching them anything. They didn't respect me and I didn't hold them in high esteem either.

I was on edge as I patrolled the aisles between the desks when a delinquent, giving the impression that he was sleeping with his head resting on the desk, tripped me. I fell and the students laughed derisively. I exploded. I approached the skinny miscreant from behind. The loud guffaws were music to his ears. He had never raised his head.

I grabbed his left arm, pulled it behind his back and pushed it to the base of his neck. With my right hand, I cupped his head and pounded his face into the desk. When I released him, he jumped to his feet, delivered me several choice words and bolted out the door like a jack rabbit.

"Shit!" I thought to myself as I rubbed my forehead with both hands. "What the fuck have I done?"

I went directly to the office. Juan or Jose, since all poor boys were named Juan or Jose in those days, was sitting before the desk of Lupe Rocha. During my time at the school I had never shared one word with the assistant principal.

Built like a penguin, he had a swarthy complexion. Under his black pompadour he never showed any emotion. He would become a principal and serve long stints at a junior high school and an elementary school. He suffered from diabetes, the scourge of the Mexican-American, and died shortly after retiring. I took a seat.

"Juan, here, says you just beat him up, sir?"

"I never touched him, sir."

The assistant turned to the lowlife and dashed his sinister hopes.

"The next time I see you in my office, you will never step on this campus again."

Juan and I shared the same stupefaction but for different reasons. He was certain that he was going to exact his revenge after years of mistreatment at the hands of teachers, but as he slinked out of the office he realized that he would never defeat the system. I, on the other hand, had been saved from perdition.

The assistant turned to me. Smiling serenely, he imparted this sage advice: "If you're ever going to hit a kid, don't leave a mark on him, sir."

To this day I can't understand the reason a BISD school doesn't bear the name of Lupe Rocha.