The Power of Ganas: How Jaime Escalante Transformed Lives Through Calculus
In the early 1980s, an unassuming Bolivian immigrant math teacher at Garfield High School in East Los Angeles accomplished something most educators believed impossible. Jaime Escalante took students from one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city—students who had been written off, tracked into vocational programs, and told they weren't "college material"—and prepared them to pass the Advanced Placement Calculus exam at rates that rivaled the nation's most elite prep schools.
His secret wasn't a revolutionary teaching method or cutting-edge technology. It was something far simpler and far more powerful: ganas.
What is Ganas?
Ganas is a Spanish word that doesn't translate neatly into English. It means desire, but it's more than wanting something. It's hunger. Drive. The willingness to do whatever it takes. When Escalante spoke of ganas, he meant a fierce internal motivation that could overcome any obstacle—poverty, low expectations, difficult circumstances, even self-doubt.
"You need ganas," he would tell his students, poking them in the chest. "Do you have ganas? The desire to succeed?"
For Escalante, ganas wasn't just about motivation. It was about dignity, self-respect, and refusing to accept the limitations others tried to impose.
The Garfield High School Challenge
When Escalante arrived at Garfield High in 1974, the school served predominantly Latino students from working-class and immigrant families in East LA. Many students worked after school to help support their families. Gang activity was common. Academic achievement was not the norm, and college seemed like a distant dream reserved for other people's children.
The school didn't even offer calculus when Escalante started. Most students struggled with basic math. But Escalante saw potential where others saw problems. He saw students who were smart, capable, and hungry for something more—they just needed someone to believe in them and demand excellence.
He began building his program from the ground up, starting with algebra and working his way toward calculus. He required summer classes. He held sessions before school, after school, and on Saturdays. He gave students his home phone number. He was relentless.
"Students will rise to the level of expectation," he believed. So he expected everything.
More Than Math
Escalante's classroom was unlike any other. He was theatrical, funny, irreverent—wearing costumes, using nicknames, teaching through pop culture references and real-world applications. He made math come alive. But beneath the entertainment was an iron will and absolute refusal to accept excuses.
He taught his students that calculus was their ticket out, their weapon against a society that had already decided they would fail. Every derivative and integral was an act of defiance against low expectations. The AP exam was their chance to prove everyone wrong.
"If you don't have the ganas, I will give it to you because I'm an expert in Math-ganas," he would joke. But he was serious. He inspired ganas by showing students what they were capable of, then refusing to let them settle for less.
His philosophy extended beyond the classroom. He taught life lessons wrapped in mathematics. He emphasized discipline, hard work, and self-respect. He told students they were champions before they had won anything, so they would start seeing themselves that way.
The 1982 Scandal and Vindication
In 1982, Escalante's program achieved the seemingly impossible: 18 of his students passed the AP Calculus exam. This should have been cause for celebration. Instead, it triggered suspicion.
The Educational Testing Service, which administers the AP exams, accused the students of cheating. The scores seemed too good to be true. How could so many students from an inner-city school, many of them from families where no one had attended college, perform so well on one of the most challenging high school exams?
The accusation was devastating. But Escalante and his students were given the opportunity to retake the exam. Under strict supervision, 12 of the 14 students who agreed to retake it passed again—many with even higher scores.
It was a vindication that proved Escalante's point more powerfully than any test score alone: these students weren't lucky or gifted with natural talent. They had ganas. They had worked harder than anyone expected them to work. And they had refused to let the world's low expectations define their future.
The Legacy of Ganas
Escalante's story, immortalized in the 1988 film "Stand and Deliver," inspired educators and students around the world. At the program's peak, Garfield sent more students to take AP Calculus exams than all but a handful of schools nationwide. Former students went on to become engineers, doctors, teachers, and leaders in their communities.
But the true legacy of ganas extends beyond test scores or college acceptance letters. Escalante proved that the potential for excellence exists in every student, regardless of their zip code or the color of their skin. He showed that what separates success from failure isn't intelligence or resources—it's desire, hard work, and someone willing to hold you to a higher standard.
"Students will rise to the level of expectation," Escalante always said. He expected greatness, demanded ganas, and transformed lives by refusing to accept anything less.
In a world that often makes excuses for mediocrity or blames circumstances for failure, Jaime Escalante's philosophy remains radical and essential: You don't need permission to succeed. You don't need perfect conditions. You need ganas—the burning desire to prove that you can do it, and the willingness to work until you do.
That's the secret. That's the lesson. That's what changes everything.
Reading Passage 2:
The Truth About Jaime Escalante: Why Ganas Means More Than You Think
You've probably heard the story. Maybe you've seen the movie "Stand and Deliver." An inspiring teacher takes a group of struggling students from East Los Angeles, teaches them calculus, and they pass the AP exam against all odds. It's a feel-good story about believing in yourself and working hard.
But that's not the real story. Not even close.
What the Movie Left Out
The 1988 film showed Jaime Escalante walking into Garfield High School and almost immediately transforming students into calculus masters. It made it look like charisma, inspiration, and a few tough-love speeches were enough to overcome years of academic neglect.
Here's what the movie didn't show: Escalante spent years building the foundation that made those AP Calculus success stories possible.
When he arrived at Garfield High in 1974, there was no calculus program. Most students were failing basic math. So Escalante didn't start with calculus. He started with algebra. Then geometry. Then trigonometry. Then pre-calculus. He built a pipeline, course by course, year by year, creating a pathway where none had existed before.
Those students who passed the AP exam in 1982? They hadn't just shown up for one year of calculus. Many had been in Escalante's program for three or four years. They had attended summer school. They had come in early, stayed late, and showed up on Saturdays. Some came to his house for tutoring. They had built mathematical skills brick by brick, problem by problem, hour by hour.
This wasn't a miracle. It was architecture.
Ganas Wasn't Magic—It Was Method
When Escalante talked about ganas—desire—he wasn't talking about wanting something really badly and hoping it would happen. He was talking about the willingness to do the unglamorous, exhausting work that nobody sees.
Ganas meant showing up at 7 a.m. for extra help before school started. It meant staying until 5 p.m. to work through problems. It meant sacrificing Saturdays and summers. It meant doing hundreds of practice problems until your hand cramped. It meant failing, trying again, and refusing to quit.
Escalante had ganas too. He didn't just teach his regular classes and go home. He recruited students into his program, often pulling them out of vocational tracks where counselors had placed them. He fought with administrators for resources. He collaborated with other teachers who shared his vision, building a team effort that supported students across multiple years and subjects. He created elaborate lessons that connected math to real life—using everything from construction projects to sports to popular music to make abstract concepts concrete.
He turned his classroom into what he called a "theater of the absurd"—wearing chef's hats to teach fractions, using movie references, nicknaming students, cracking jokes, doing anything to make kids pay attention and actually care about mathematics. But underneath the entertainment was relentless, systematic instruction. The humor kept students engaged, but the real learning came from the structured, sequential, challenging work they did every single day.
The Problem with "Grit" Today
Today, schools are obsessed with teaching "grit" and "growth mindset." We put up posters with inspirational quotes. We tell students they can do anything if they just believe in themselves and try hard enough. We make it sound simple, like success is just about attitude adjustment.
But we've stripped away everything that made Escalante's philosophy actually work.
We want grit without the Saturday sessions. We want growth mindset without the years of foundational skill-building. We want students to persevere without giving them the systematic support, expert instruction, and intensive practice that make perseverance pay off.
Escalante didn't just tell students to work hard—he showed them exactly what to work on, how to work on it, and why it mattered. He didn't just demand effort—he built a comprehensive system that made their effort productive. He didn't just inspire confidence—he developed competence, which created genuine confidence.
The difference matters. Telling struggling students to "have grit" without providing excellent instruction and support isn't motivating—it's cruel. It puts the burden entirely on the student while ignoring the structural and educational failures that created their struggles in the first place.
What Ganas Really Required
Escalante's success came from combining several elements that we rarely talk about:
Time: Students spent years in his program, not months. They accumulated hundreds of hours of instruction and practice.
Structure: The curriculum was carefully sequenced, building from foundational concepts to advanced ones. Nothing was skipped.
Expertise: Escalante was a master teacher who understood mathematics deeply and knew how to explain it in ways that made sense to his students.
Engagement: His theatrical teaching style, real-world applications, and genuine relationships with students kept them invested even when the work got hard.
Support: Students had access to help before school, after school, on weekends, and during summer. When they struggled, support was available.
Community: Teachers worked together. Students worked together. Parents were involved. It wasn't one teacher working alone—it was a collective effort.
Expectations: Escalante believed his students could succeed at the highest levels, and he refused to accept excuses or lower standards. But those high expectations came with high support.
This is what ganas actually meant: a complete commitment—from teachers and students—to doing whatever it took, for as long as it took, to achieve genuine excellence.
The Real Lesson
Jaime Escalante changed lives. His students went on to become engineers, scientists, teachers, and leaders. Many were the first in their families to attend college. Some came from homes where parents worked multiple jobs just to pay rent. Most had been told, directly or indirectly, that advanced mathematics wasn't for kids like them.
Escalante proved those low expectations wrong. But he didn't do it with slogans or quick fixes. He did it through years of dedicated, systematic, intensive work—his own and his students'.
The real lesson isn't that desire conquers all. It's that desire, combined with expert teaching, structured support, adequate time, and genuine community investment, can help students achieve things that society tells them are impossible.
We dishonor Escalante's legacy when we reduce it to a simple story about believing in yourself. His work was far more complex, far more demanding, and far more valuable than that.
If we want to replicate his success, we can't just tell students to have ganas. We need to build the systems, provide the support, invest the time, and do the hard work that makes ganas matter.
That's the truth the movie didn't tell you. That's the lesson we still need to learn.
