Reading Passage: How Jaime Escalante Transformed Lives Through Calculus

 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.