Episode 4- Titled: One Percent Pirate

Audio for The Real GOOD Loser: Episode 4- One Percent Pirate

(For audio: play music to Starz television series Black Sails during episode intro)

The following is a written for audio presentation of

The Real GOOD Loser

A Story That Could…


Start of Episode Four:

—1 % Pirate—

“This thing ain’t all pony and no show. It delivers… (It’s) showtime.”

—A comment made by Tavin Dillard on a Facebook Reel where he is referring to a pink frosted donut with sprinkles. 


At Recoveryhighschool.com, the entertainment used for educational purposes is sited in what we hope to be a mutually beneficial way for all. 

Welcome Listener to the world of The Real Good Loser….

(End entrance music)

September has arrived and the 2020 school year is about to begin whether we’re ready for it or not. Everyone knows that the year ahead will be challenging, but all we can do now is buckle up and prepare for the ride. Sadly, there seems to be no end in sight to this Covid pandemic. Me. I’m hoping that the memories of this time will unite us in the future but find myself constantly feeling impatient for better days. 

Committees across the country have argued both publicly and amongst themselves whether it is safe for students in their district to go back to school for in-person learning. One of the many debates is this: Are kids more at risk of this disease or suffering long-term emotional trauma by staying isolated in their homes? Everyone has an opinion on this, but most people understand that there really is no clear-cut right decision as far as what schools should do. 

Nowadays I avoid arguments whenever possible. Which means there are three games I try not to play: The If GameThe What If Game, and The I Think Game. Which explains why I don’t talk to many people these days. Despite society’s need for strenuous debate, I had accepted a while back we’d be teaching remotely as fear ultimately always wins in situations like this, and fear, right now, is at an all-time high.

Knowing that this Emotional Intelligence Program I am being paid to teach is only funded through the first two terms of the school year, I spent the summer racking my brain trying to come up with ways of doing this course of mine remotely. The objective in my mind is simple: Convince the district to extend the program through the end of the school year…and beyond.

A few weeks before school was set to begin, the announcement was made of our committee’s decision to start the year remotely and all educators were told to expect an in-person meeting with their supervisors before the school year began. I am about to have mine. To discuss “Expectations and Requirements” according to the email I received from Principal Sam. 

Prior to this meeting I had sent my principal a set of goals I hoped to focus on in my class. Attached to that was a copy of the week-one article I had written, which students would be required to read and then reflect on. There are no National Standards to consult for my course, so really, I’m simply flying by the seat of my pants. Sitting in Principal Sam’s office, I hope that what I presented appeared structured and logical. Who knows if my class will go the way I imagine, but I must pretend the best I can.

“I don’t get it,” Principal Sam begins our conversation. 

Before I can respond, the cellphone lying on the desk between us lights up with an incoming message. As its recipient’s eyes look down at it, I immediately feel like an unwanted distraction in the room. 

The fact Principal Sam and I are both wearing masks and sitting in a stripped-down office makes this whole meeting feel even more uncomfortable. I had expected some small talk before discussing business, but I guess the fact we are only allotted fifteen minutes to meet in person means there is no time for such subtleties. 

Everyone is quick to say “I don’t get it” to me. I’m used to it. It annoys me, but then again, a lot annoys me these days. A sprinkle of rain begins to tap on the window behind Principal Sam. With those eyes no longer focusing on that phone, I respond. “What don’t you get exactly?” I ask.

Three pieces of paper are thrown on the table in front of me. I can now see what Principal Sam “doesn’t get”. I cannot reach down and grab the papers because “person to person contact is not permitted,” but I see my article titled ONE PERCENT PIRATE staring up at me. 

Principal Sam had intimidated me last year, and I quickly realize things are not about to change heading into this new 2020 school year. Seeing me look down at the papers, Principal Sam breaks the silence by asking a question. “How exactly does this story of yours tie into the objectives of your class?”

I think for a long second before speaking. “The class is intended to help students think critically and objectively when presented with entertainment in the real world” —I quote my curriculum objective almost verbatim— “And discussing the effect social media is having on them will be important too obviously.” 

Under this pressure sticking to my script seems like common sense. I sit stone faced, waiting for a reply. 

“Well…” Principal Sam begins, “It seems to me like you’re just testing out your own personal creativity on my students.” 

After a painful pause, during which I can think of nothing to say, this dementor across from me continues. “As you know Jose, your friend, Mr. Bernard, pulled a lot of strings to get you into my school, and while I appreciate what you are trying to do, I am personally not a big fan of this little experiment of yours—”

It is now clear to me that this is not to be a meeting but instead a lecture. Whatever I want to say at this moment won’t change anything. I’ve been in this position a lot over the years.

Principal Sam continues. “We did not get to talk much last year given everything that happened with this virus, but you must know that I take my job of getting our students to graduate very seriously Jose. Our program is designed to fill in the many gaps that these students have. From years of neglect, mismanagement, and laziness.” —I nod my head but simply continue to listen— “Your class is only getting our students one credit as an elective Jose and with everything we have piled up against us this year, I have to say that filling your class roster was almost impossible.” 

My class roster is slid to me from across the desk and I notice that tattoo on the inside of Principal Sam’s left wrist; the story of which I heard told to our students last year when I had first arrived at the school. Looking at the class roster, I have no choice but to face the reality of my situation: I am to have only four students in my class this year.  

I was hoping that the rosters were still being worked on. That what I was given earlier was a temporary snag. But this confirms it…four students. I try to look strong, but a nervous voice inside me silently wonders: What the hell am I supposed to do with only four students?

“But anyhow,” Principal Sam says after I say nothing, “you and me need to talk about what I expect from you on a weekly basis….” 

Principal Sam continues to speak as I begin to feel my heartbeat. A single drop of sweat drips down the inside of my left armpit and I immediately realize how hot I am. Rather than listen to what is going to be expected of me, I can’t help but wonder how I’m going to convince the district to extend funding with only four students enrolled in this program.

At times like this I try to remind myself that it was only three years ago I found myself in that halfway house. So, I know I’ve come far. Yet, I still feel like this world is conniving against me somehow—like I’m destined to forever want more than I should. 

Its thoughts like these that the doubters in my head feed me. The doubters I imagine sitting on a set of comfy recliners in my mind. They have made their home up there and I fear I might never get rid of them. 

(For audio: Use Limp Bizkit song Hot Dog to transition into Breaking Knews)


(For audio: Play first minute of the show Mr. Robot. Season 1 Episode 1)

(For audio: the following is to be read by The Narrator)

Well, hello again, it is I, The Narrator. 

In the weeks ahead we will be interrupting Jose’s story at similar times each week with these sections we’ve chosen to call Breaking Knews, with a K. A cute play on words and a simple way for listeners to follow along. These Breaking Knews segments will serve as flashbacks to help us better understand who exactly this teacher Jose Julian was. 

And now, with that disclosure of story structure out of the way, allow me to magically bring us to that halfway house you just heard Jose mention in his story…

Sobriety did come to Jose giftwrapped, and he certainly did not get it on his first try. Every person’s recovery is different, but for Jose it took some homework for him to learn that all substances were off limits to someone with his degree of addictive behavior. 

It is with this realization that Jose finds himself being pushed through the doors of a halfway house in Gardner, Massachusetts in early October of 2017. 

Prior to arriving at this house, Jose had spent a week at facility in New Hampshire where he had to detox before this house would accept him. “Detox” is the process an individual goes through to cope with the physical effects of being addicted to substances. 

In the past, Jose had gone to such a facility and then walked out a week later excited to get back to the real world as a new man. This approach to recovery did not work for Jose obviously— despite his continued declarations of “being different”—and so, ultimately, Jose’s attempts to get back to whatever normal was as fast as he could simply prolonged his hell.

This hell was not just Jose’s though. In fact, Jose might slap me for even inferring it was. “I put my wife and family on my shoulders and carried them into my hell with me,” Jose would say. To keep that family together, Jose entered the Pathway Halfway House. Which many considered the most successfully run halfway house in the state of Massachusetts. A thirty-minute drive from where Jose and his family lived. 

This house was not a resort. Comfort is not what made it successful, and the staff were not celebrated for the unwavering love and support they offered their residents. Instead, what earned this house its reputation of success is how strictly it was run. Residents, like Jose, worked and paid a small rent to live there. They had chores, attended daily meetings, and were held to a very stringent schedule. On the day Jose arrived with a bag and pillow in hand, he knew nothing of this place.

“Put your cellphone and any other electronics in the box. Label everything you will want back when you leave. Hand me your things please.”  

The house is a white, three-story building on a side street near the city’s downtown area. Walking in, a door on the right leads to an office for the staff. Residents are not allowed in this room, and it is barricaded off by a half door that’s top also serves as a surface to sign all the papers upon arriving. This is where Jose is asked to hand over all his belongings for inspection.  

“When will I get my phone back?” Jose asks, as he begins filling out the paperwork handed to him. 

Across the doorway all of Jose’s things are being emptied onto a desk. The face that greeted him does not smile. This man’s name is Kevin according to the nameplate Jose can see on his desk. Jose cannot help but think that this man—Kevin—looks grumpy.

There is no warm welcome and Jose can’t help but feel like he is being checked into a prison. Though he tries to look strong, Jose is secretly in panic mode as it is hard for him to keep his hand steady as he fills out the paperwork on that door’s countertop. 

Kevin answers his question robotically. “You will get all electronics back when you leave.” 

Kevin is an older man with reddish hair and a hardened complexion. The owner of a face that looks to Jose like it was born with a scowl on it. This response causes Jose to stop filling out the paperwork and look up. Kevin seems to predict his thoughts. 

Stomping over to Jose, Kevin removes a piece of paper that is buried within the stack in front of him and slides it out. Kevin smacks that piece of paper on top of the others and then turns to walk back to Jose’s belongings spread out on the table without saying a word. 

Jose sees Kevin’s back and reads the title HOUSE RULES on the top of this piece of paper. Some of the things Jose reads are no-brainers. Other expectations stand out as a bit strange, but Jose does not believe they apply to him: things like No Gambling and No New Romantic Relationships.

Jose will learn why these things are banned at this house, but at this moment he has no clue. At the bottom of this paper the last rule he finds shocking: NO ELECTRONICS ALLOWED IN HOUSE INCLUDING CELL PHONES! Written in all capital letters and punctuated with an exclamation mark, it’s like they put it last on purpose—one last punch in the gut. 

Jose has never heard of such a thing. Troubled, he shifts his eyes back to the top of the paper and begins reading more closely. His immediate concern focuses on First Month Restrictions. Which include: No phone calls and no visits

Already nervous and secretly panicking, Jose’s mind begins to do summersaults, thinking of his wife and his kids. Trying not to sound too pathetic he speaks to the back of the man across the doorway. “After the first month can I use my phone to call my family?” Jose asks. 

Kevin turns and heads towards him again—looking annoyed. Kevin then points at the very bottom of the paper and reads something out loud to Jose, slowly, “Electronics of any kind found on a person while in the program will result in immediate eviction.”

“So, I can’t use my cell phone at all?” Jose asks reflexively; once Kevin is done reading to him what he can clearly read myself. If he sounds dumb, he’s not sure, but both his hands now grip the counter in front of him tightly. 

Kevin looks at Jose. There is no sympathy in his eyes, and he wears the anger on his face like a signpost. “No,” he answers the question simply.

“But how do I call my family?” 

At this, Jose removes his hands from the counter. Kevin looked unhappy with them there. 

With this Kevin character pointing at a phone hanging on the wall in the breezeway entrance, Jose gets an explanation. “After the first week you’re allowed ten minutes on the phone a day. Time permitting.” Kevin then looks into Jose’s eyes. “Listen kid, I’m short staffed today. And if you don’t like the rules the door’s right there.” Kevin waives his head at the entrance door.

Jose would later learn that this was how this place was run: Here are the rules, if you don’t like it, we are not forcing you to stay here so you can leave whenever you want.

Kevin turns again and goes back to ruffling through Jose’s stuff with a little more intensity. Jose watches him take each of his pockets and turn them inside out. This Kevin then pads down each piece of clothing in an attempt to find something expertly hidden. 

With what Kevin just said about being short-staffed Jose wonders if his frustration is not with him but with something else. Jose tries to be optimistic and tells himself that this Kevin is a lot nicer than he appears. That this place is not a prison. But Jose doesn’t believe himself.

Reading over the piece of paper for the third time, Jose is certain his wife does not know these rules. Before handing in his phone, he is going to have to call her and explain. 

“Can I call my wife and tell her about the rules please?”

Kevin turns and looks at him. Like Jose just insulted him. Pausing, Kevin thinks for a second, then speaks. “Go and make your call,” he says; glancing at the watch on his wrist and making a frustrated sound. “But be quick. I don’t have all day.” 

While Jose is about to use this as an excuse to make one last phone call to his wife, alternative motives are also at play. Primarily the fact that he is not going to be staying at this house the entire six months it requires to “Graduate.” 

Sirena, Jose’s wife, has already told him that he just needs to spend a few months here. She has yet to give him an official date that he can come home though. Jose is going to use this phone call to find out when exactly that will be.

“…I won’t be able to talk to you or the boys for the first week.” With an exploding pulse, Jose finishes explaining the rules to Sirena in a hushed tone; making certain she hears the fear in his voice. “And after that I’m only allowed ten-minute phone calls to one person per day.” 

Jose is certainly terrified, but his pleas are also manipulative. With time running out, he must ask the question he really needs answered. “How long are you going to make me stay here?” he asks his wife over the phone.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. If prying ears were not present, Jose would perhaps fill the silence with some begging—and maybe add some fearful tears. He cannot see her through the phone, but Jose feels Sirena’s eyes on him. “Christmas,” she finally says through the phone. “You can do this Jose,” she adds. “We need you to.”

Christmas is less than three months away. Hanging up the phone, Jose goes back and continues to fill out the rest of the paperwork. And decides not to ask Kevin any more questions. 

A voice from inside Jose’s head speaks: keeping him company and trying to sound strong and confident: Three months won’t be so bad….

Dear Listener, that’s where we will leave Jose for now, but we will be back next week to see how things go for him. 

As we transition back into Jose’s story, we will first sneak in a few minutes of audio from a show that we will repurpose for Jose. How it fits into his story you can’t completely understand now, but it’s entertaining and it works in the end. Relax and enjoy, as Jose’s story will resume immediately after we listen to Homer Simpson begin his quest for knowledge. 

(End Narration)

(For audio: Play clip from The Simpsons; Episode 8 Season 9: The Mysterious Voyage of Homer; length of clip 3:40)


Principal Sam’s alarm beeps. Marking the end of the time we have been allotted for this meeting. I watch Principal Sam touch a button on the phone to shut the alarm off. 

“I know you have experience teaching Jose, so I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Just please have something I can document for lesson plans and progress reports to me by the end of each Friday. There are district guidelines for teachers on the website if you need it. Miss Lily can show you. I’m meeting her next and will mention it.”

“Awesome,” I reply to Principal Sam attempting to sound excited, “Thank you.”

This class I’m teaching is completely different than what I taught before, but yes, Principal Sam is right, I do have experience. And so, I don’t want this principal to feel like I need any babysitting. I had lost that job teaching at the middle school in the town I grew up in because of my substance use. Everyone here pretty much knows my story—the parts I tell people at least. 

“They are going to be watching us very closely this year Jose, so let’s make sure we’ve got each other’s back—okay?” 

I am given a look that I don’t completely understand as I watch Principal Sam stand up in front of me. “No problem,” I say, standing up myself. 

Feeling overwhelmed—but not wanting Principal Sam to know—I say goodbye and walk out the office; secretly relieved to be done this obligation and make my escape back to isolation. 

My mind feels full as I walk down the hallway away from Principal Sam’s office. Being told that I’ll only have four students in my class has me feeling completely flustered. Before I have time to get completely lost in my concerns, I see Miss Lily, our school counselor, speed-walking down the hall towards me—in a rush to get to her meeting.

Miss Lily became the closest thing to an adult friend I had in the school last year. We ended up working together a lot to help some of our students cope with the difficulties around remote learning. With all that is now going on in my head, seeing her is a pleasant surprise. 

Getting closer, her appearance makes me smile to myself. She has a mask on—which is normal now—but her eyes are covered by her sunglasses, making her entire face a mystery.  

“You’re running late I’m guessing?” I say, coming together in the hall.  

“As usual,” Lily replies, stopping next to me. “How’d your meeting go?” 

“Not wonderful,” I answer with a semi smile. Turning my head slightly, I lean a little closer to her and tilt my head, “Are you smiling under there? … I can’t tell.”

“Sorry,” she says; then frees her hand to push the sunglasses to the top of her head. “I just bought them. How do they look?”

Presented with this question I can’t help but privately question why pretty girls always wear sunglasses. I like to look a person in the eye. This, however, is simply one of a million things about women that I find confusing these days. Like, for example, when did eyelashes become an accessory? And what’s up with this lip filler fad? Does size really matter?

It sure does when these girls are looking into a mirror. Or when taking a selfie. Or when they are looking into my bank account. 

This type of thinking is cynical of me—or negative or whatever—but it’s simply a reflection of my own personal on-going issue with things that I consider fake right now.

Not needing to invite Lily into my questioning and sensitive mind, I respond to her flamboyantly. “They look fabulous!” I say to her—hiding my true self’s scarred ego behind a satirical voice. 

Seeing Lily laugh at my comment, but knowing that she really needs to get going, I push her on. “Go to your meeting,” I say to her, “we’ll talk later.” 

“Alright,” Lily replies, “but you make sure to come see me next week.” 

Pushing one finger into my chest, Lily turns around and starts walking away. Watching her hurry towards Principal Sam’s office, I can’t help but toss one last teaser in her direction. “Hey Miss Lilly,” I say down the hallway, “Did you get that ring yet?” 

Stopping to look back at me, Lily raises her left hand into the air and wiggles her naked fingers. “Don’t get me started Jose!” she replies down the empty hallway. 

Smiling, Lily quickly turns back towards Principal Sam’s office, hurrying to her meeting without another word. 

Walking through the school parking lot and getting into my car, the reality of my situation again hits me, and I begin to wonder about how I’ll get funded. Trying not to panic, I accept the predicament I am in: It will not be easy, I tell myself, but it’s doable. 

Driving home my mind tries to put the pieces of this puzzle together… 

To solve this problem—and relieve me of this predicament—I must reverse engineer this goal of mine: I am the Master Strategist.

In situations as dire as this, confidently deluding myself seems rational.

If my class is going to be a success, it is crucial that the few students I have buy into what I am trying to do with them. This makes me think about the articles I will be sharing with them each week. The first one—that will be given to them on Friday, September 11th—runs through my mind as I drive home from my meeting. 

I worry…will they get it?

Week 1: Friday, September 11th, 2020: 

—Article Title: One Percent Pirate—

“Great men aren’t made great by politics. They aren’t made great by prudence or propriety. They are, every last one of them, made great by one thing and one thing only: the relentless pursuit of a better world.”

—from the show Black Sails: Season 2, Episode 1

I overheard my father reading a text message out-loud to my mother a few weeks ago. What I heard my father say to my mother was this: “I went on Ancestry.com and found out that we are one percent pirate today.” 

After hearing that, I then watched my dad hold out his phone and show my mother the message he had just read to her. The text message my father read was from my grandmother—my Memere actually. My dad’s side of the family is very Canadian. I then watched my mother laugh at what was on my dad’s phone. 

That same day I was watching a show called Black Sails: a drama series about pirates in the early 1700’s. 

I think of entertainment as a universal language that connects all people. I consider screenwriters as some of the great communicators of our age. I believe that talented screenwriters are the closest things to real magicians this world has. 

You should probably know all of that about me before we begin this class together. 

We live in a world today that is apt to believe practically anything. We must realize that many of these screenwriters have been living in the same world as you and I. Which means many of them are just as broken by this world as we are. Therefore, many of these so-called magicians are not using their powers to inspire and unite people today, but to intimidate and manipulate instead. 

It’s no one’s fault really. We love it. We just don’t understand what it’s doing to us. 

In my opinion the writers of this Black Sails show did a great job illustrating why pirates existed back in the 1700’s. The desire of these people to live a life where they were not governed by rules and expectations they disagreed with really spoke to me. 

That day I heard my dad tell my mother that we were one percent pirate, I was watching an episode of this show where the captain, James Flint, was talking about the men of the island: “They’re not animals,” he said, “they are men starved of hope. Give that back to them and who’s to say what could happen.” 

At these words I paused my show. 

Excited by newfound genealogy, I then took out my phone and jumped on Facebook. I clicked ADD NEW POST and began to write: “Happy Sunday everyone! I’m very excited to tell you all that I found out today that I am 1% Pirate! ARGHHH!!!”

Below this I included a YouTube clip. It was a six-minute clip titled ‘James Flint x so far from who I was.’ I didn’t care if people watched it, the image and title alone made my post just the right amount of interesting I thought. Smiling at my own cleverness, I posted this little announcement on my newsfeed and resumed my show. 

One LIKE. Then a few more. Why don’t people LOVE the stuff I post on Facebook? I wondered. 

I must tell you that I’m new to this whole Facebook thing. For a long time, my wife never let me use it: she called it “Fake”. Today, however, even she uses social media to Snap and Instagram the story she wants people to see. Did I use those terms correctly?

Being new to Facebook, I’ve experienced a few learning curves. For example. I learned the hard way that “loving” everyone’s posts made it appear that I was “creeping on people.” I’ve since gotten a little better on choosing my reactions more wisely, but still tend to “love” something whenever I don’t think it’s gonna get me in trouble. It’s just who I am. 

But anyway—back to my story….

A LMAO face… Another laughing face… A little later an OMG reaction was thrown into the mix (making me feel better about myself). And then, this pirate post of mine received its first comment: “U serious?” it asked.

Not recognizing who the person was that made this comment, I constructed a simple response: “Yeah,” I wrote, “it’s amazing how Ancestry.com can tell you all this stuff.”

A while later my post was losing steam and not many more reactions were being made. At this point I think I had about twenty likes: But who cares—I wanted more. (That’s a line from Disney’s The Little Mermaid movie by the way; she’s singing about forks if I remember correctly.)

Just when I had stopped checking my phone every three minutes another comment dinged: “Are u an idiot? Or is this a joke?” 

It was from the same person as earlierAnnoyed at being called an idiot, I quickly clicked REPLY: “Just thought it was cool when I found out. No need for name-calling.”

Then it began. 

This friend shared my original post; allowing all his followers to see it. With it, this friend wrote: “He thinks he’s a pirate. LITERALLY!!!” 

Immediately after this, comments started blowing up my Facebook feed. A full out assault was underway, and I was at the center of the attack. The hits came fast and furious:

“How stupid. A Pirate. Some people should not be allowed to bread.” (This person meant to write “breed” with an e but instead wrote it with an a making it bread—kind of ironic.)

“Time to jump ship you moron!!!” wrote someone else. 

“I’m 1% Alien. You don’t see me posting that on Facebook. Maybe I should?”

There were so many comments I couldn’t believe it. As the day went on, I couldn’t help but read each person’s creative spin on how to spew hate. My post was like a pinata on a string at a party—put up for people to hit with their words. Inside that pinata was my heart. Who was going to hit hard enough to smash it open?

After taking a closer look at the original antagonist’s profile, I realized this person had over ten-thousand followers. I could not recall when or how I had become this person’s ‘friend’, but that no longer mattered. This social media monster—THIS TROLL I’m told they are called—this little person desperate for the world to pay attention to them—had me in their grasp. 

Eventually I turned off my phone and went about the rest of my day; still not understanding why everyone made such an issue of me saying that I was one percent pirate. Was it like saying I was one percent Native-American or somethingWas it because proving you are one percent anything is impossible?

Even if I knew why these people were making fun of me, who would let themselves become upset over something so stupid? 

Unfortunately, I did.

Feeling down—frustrated with people and their ability to be so hurtful—I joined my parents later that night for supper. As hard as I tried not to think about it, I still could not comprehend how my post from earlier had turned my day into such a miserable one. 

In my parent’s kitchen my mother and father were both preparing that night’s meal. My dad was pealing some potatoes and my mother was cooking something on the stove (she’s the cook, he’s just hired help). 

I watched as the two of them laughed at something. Hoping that whatever it was might snap me out of my funk I asked what they were laughing at. Unaware of what was going on in my head, my mother smiled and answered my question. “Just that picture from your memere’s surgery,” she said.

“What picture?” I asked.

My mother then stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on a cloth, and grabbed my dad’s phone off the counter. Punching a few buttons, she then handed it to me. 

On the phone I saw a picture of my memere…wearing a black eye-patch over her left eye—the one she had surgery on the day before: “One Percent Pirate.” 

Dammit—I’m an idiot…


Is virtual socialization (social media) bringing people together or tearing them apart? Give examples of both the good and bad it is causing and state why you believe one is doing more than the other.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

Song title: 7 Year by Lukas Graham

“I know the smallest voices they can make it major.”

(For audio: play 1:19 of this song from The Teacher’s Playlist to end episode.) 

This concludes episode four of The Real GOOD Loser Experiment. In our next episode we meet Jose’s class. To end here we give you a little bonus, however. As we will now let you listen to the audio from that YouTube clip Jose just referenced in his story to his students. We are pretty sure he really did care if people watched it. At six minutes it’s a little long. But worth it. Enjoy.  

(For audio: play clip James Flint x So Far From Who I was created by joeyclauk; thank you for your inspiration and support)

(Click here to continue your journey; Episode 5 is next)

Follow us on Facebook: @TheRealGoodLoser
Read our story at RecoveryHighSchool.com

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s