I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had (17 page)

And then Ms. Carroll informs me that she’s decided to come. Nothing against Ms. Carroll, but she’s the school principal. When I break this to the kids, they respond with a predictable chorus.
NOOOOO! It’s our trip. The principal can’t come. It’s not fair, we won’t have any fun with Ms. Carroll along. She’s the
principal!

You just never know when you’ll get a teachable moment. As a teacher, I’ve learned to look for them because, as a student, I so often failed to see how school could possibly relate to my life—and that disconnect allowed me to rationalize that school didn’t matter. I know that some of my students think the same thing: So what if I’ve read
Of Mice and Men
? What does it mean to me? One of my jobs as a teacher is to open their eyes to the life lessons contained in the tenth-grade English curriculum. Lessons about friendship and heroism, treating people as you want to be treated, and walking in another man’s shoes before you judge him. The teachable lesson today is one that we will read about, in various stories, all year long.

I quiet them down. “The following lesson will serve you well your whole life,” I tell them. “I want you to say it along with me now: ‘Make the best of a baaaaad situation.’ Come on, say it with me.”

We begin to chant. Pretty soon it sounds like a classroom of sheep as they bleat
baaaaaad
at each other for laughs. It takes their mind off the principal, anyway. Then I go for the lesson. “What’s a baaaad situation?”

When the principal comes on your trip!

I hold up my hand. “A baaaad situation is when you don’t like what’s going down but you have limited options. When you run into these kinds of situations—and trust me, they come along often—you should try to make the best of things and even look for a way to turn them to your advantage. I want you all to understand something here: she’s coming, and we can handle it in one of two ways. That’s what I mean by limited options. We can tell her we don’t want her on our trip, and hurt her feelings—I hear she has a great memory. Or, we can write her and say we don’t want to go to New York without her. Maybe then we’ll have a friend in the principal’s office, and you just never know when we might need her help.”

They toss this back and forth, grumbling and protesting. Fortunately, most of them actually like Ms. Carroll. It’s not personal; it’s just the idea of the principal on their trip that gets them. It takes a while, but eventually they come around. We write the note, and Emmanuel volunteers to play ambassador and deliver it to the office.

Principal Carroll is no fool; she knows a suck-up when she sees one, but she does smile at the invitation. Later she tells me she’s looking forward to spending this time with my kids. That, however, is before the trip.

On Wednesday we assemble in the school lobby at nine, and this time we’re by the book. I’ve instructed my kids to excuse themselves from their first-period classes, having notified all their other teachers
that they’ll be gone on a field trip the rest of the day. The ratio of students to chaperones is just over three to one, not including the camera crew, and when the kids realize this, some of them say they’re not so sure they can still make the best of this baaaad situation, but I counsel them to just enjoy the adventure, and as soon as the bus arrives they cheer up. Fred the driver greets the kids like they’re his own, and the kids give him fist bumps and hugs as they scramble onboard and find seats. The premium seats are way in back, since the front belongs to the chaperones.

We luck out on traffic and weather, and reach the city around eleven, giving us time to sightsee before the play. The kids’ noses are glued to the windows as we ride up the West Side Highway and across town on Fifty-seventh Street. Philly’s historic towers are no match for Manhattan’s skyscrapers, and as my students gasp and point, I marvel all over again that so few of them have ever been here. I cannot wait to show them Central Park on this picture-perfect winter day.

We leave the bus at Sixty-seventh Street and walk into the park from the west side, strolling around the small loop, stopping at the fountain by the pond to snap photos. The kids climb on anything that doesn’t move, and I’m absolutely loving it—for about five minutes. Then the usual suspects start acting up. Al G wanders away from the group. Matt is getting physical with some of the other guys. I take both Matt and Al aside and remind them that we’ve all got to work together here, that I don’t want to waste everybody’s time chasing after the two of them. In truth, I’m a little angry with them both for threatening a day that I badly want to be a highlight of my students’ year. This is my city, and I want to show it off to them. The last thing I need is for these two students to spoil the experience for everyone else—or for me. Yeah, me!

After the kids burn off a little energy in the park, we take a group picture by the Angel of the Waters fountain, then ride the bus down
to Times Square. The kids are climbing the TKTS bleachers and checking out the huge digital billboards when I notice Al G slinking away again. I call after him, but he ignores me.

Suddenly I realize why his behavior makes me so angry—and anxious. I remember something that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. When I was a little boy, about seven years old, I got lost in the city right near here. My grandmother, a short, roundish woman who hardly spoke any English, had brought me with my brother and my two cousins, Patty and Vivian, to see the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. I think now how brave my grandmother was. The streets were jammed, and the Christmas season was in full swing. On the way into the show, Patty tapped me on the shoulder. He’d noticed the Automat across the street. When the show let out, we slipped through the crowd to see this marvelous place, like a cafeteria except that all the food was served from vending machines. Ah, the future. To us, the Automat seemed like the giant toy of tomorrow. But our delight evaporated when we turned around and couldn’t find Grandma. We stood there petrified, the Christmas throng swirling around us, my older cousin trying unsuccessfully to stop me from crying. Finally a kindly NYC cop spotted us. He took us back to the theater, where we found Grandma—beside herself. First she acted about as furious as a person of her stature could be. Then she burst into tears as she hugged me.

Right now I feel only the fury as Al G forces me to chase him down in Times Square. “You’ve got to stay with the group,” I tell him. “I don’t want to lose you in these crowds.”

Damned if he doesn’t keep walking! I reach for his arm. When I touch it, Al turns as if I’ve scalded him. He yanks his elbow away and pivots to confront me. “Don’t put your hands on me!”

Now what do I do? For months I’ve tried with this kid, putting up with his behavior, his missed assignments, his showing up late and
not participating, and worst of all his loud and exaggerated yawns. I am sorely tempted to show him he’s not so tough.

Fortunately, the impulse passes. I back down, and he turns and keeps walking. I stand and watch. He knows and I know this won’t be good if I lose sight of him and have to chase him again. He strays just far enough to feel he’s sufficiently won the round, then he slowly comes back on his own. But I’m on notice: it’s going to be a long day with young Al.

Finally we make our way across Broadway to the Palace Theatre. The seats in the second balcony are not the best, but the Palace is one of those old showboat playhouses, all polished brass and gold leaf, red velvet curtain, plush carpet, and the sizzle of preshow energy that seems somehow unique to Broadway. The kids are already looking impressed when our usher leans over and reminds me that she worked at the St. James Theater when I played Max Bialystock in
The Producers
.

Katerina asks, a little breathless, “Was that a theater like this one?”

The usher nods and says, “Your teacher was the star of the show.”

The kids seem awed. I could kiss this woman for giving me this extra and badly needed street cred, but all I can do is thank her.

Al G, who’s sitting with me at my insistence, lets out one of his exaggerated yawns. Then, without looking at me, he says, “You did a play like this?”

“No,” I say, without looking at
him
, “I planted that usher and told her to say that.”

He turns and takes me in for a second, not sure if I’m on the level, then he laughs and turns away. I can’t read him, either.

“Yes, Al,” I tell him after a beat. “I did a big Broadway musical.” I wait for a response, but before either of us can say anything else, the lights go down.

My irritation with Al compounds my annoyance at being up in
the nosebleed seats, but once the play begins I appreciate that we have a great overview of the action. The gang members in the show don’t look like the ones my kids are used to. The Jets and Sharks are old school, no dreadlocks, rags, saggy pants, ball caps, or tattoos. Nevertheless, the kids can identify with the love story, and the music and dancing quickly enthrall them. They’re so caught up in the play that when Tony is shot at the end, half of them scream and jump out of their seats.

It’s as dark as it can be in Times Square when we emerge from the theater. My friend Sal’s restaurant is only nine blocks north, theoretically an easy walk, but the streets are packed and not altogether savory. Times Square is the land of the come-on, and the kids are soft targets. Sidewalk salesmen shove flyers for girlie shows into the boys’ hands, and too-eager merchants try to lure the girls into souvenir shops. Making sure that everyone’s safe and together in this evil carnival atmosphere is nerve-racking, even with the extra chaperones.

One particularly friendly homeless person, who smells like he’s made of marijuana, pleads with the girls to donate money for his “college tuition.” A couple of the kids give him some change before I can pull them away. By the time we arrive at the restaurant, I could really use a drink.

Patsy’s is a family-owned white-table cloth restaurant that’s been in operation for almost seventy years. My friend Sal’s father and mother still work there with him, and his cousin Frankie is the maître d’. A statue of Frank Sinatra is on the bar, he ate there so often. Sinatra had a special table upstairs where he sat when he didn’t want to be bothered by fans, and that’s where Sal sets us up, the kids together at tables along the wall and us adults at a large round table toward the front of the room. Since I go back a long way with Sal and his staff, and I want them to know how proud I am to be a teacher, I make a big deal of introducing them to Northeast’s present and
past principals, Ms. Carroll and Mr. Barton. Also, since I’ve talked a lot about Sal to my class in the days leading up to this trip, I want him to meet the kids. After Nakiya shakes his hand I say, “Now you know Sal.”

Nakiya decides to get cute about it. “I know Sal,” she says as if it’s a Marx Brothers routine. “Hey, you know Sal?” Sal and I laugh, but my principal thinks that Nakiya’s being disrespectful and also that I’m favoring her. Ms. Carroll warns me to treat all my students the same. I decide it’s time for that drink and sneak off to the bar for a quick one.

When I get back, everybody’s happy. The kids have a short discussion about what happened in the play and why, but literary considerations are short-circuited when Nakiya breaks into “I Feel Pretty.” Two other girls join in. Then Howard, too, starts singing. Everybody applauds as he pretends to curtsy.

Sal has put out a beautiful spread for us, and good food always soothes the spirit. Inevitably though, as dinner wears on, the kids get restless. Nakiya, Matt, and a few others initiate a hot sauce eating contest. I find it funny, but once again, my principal fails to see the humor. After dinner, when we take a group picture in front of the restaurant, Ms. Carroll looks anything but relaxed. As we board the bus, I wonder if the kids were right to object to her coming. But surely, I tell myself, everyone must be exhausted, so the worst has to be over and I can hope they’ll sleep all the way home.

An hour into the trip home, someone lights a match. I can’t see it, but I smell it. One of the kids must have taken a matchbook from Patsy’s. I have my suspicions, and when Matt locks one of the girls in the bathroom, I go back to confront him. “Let her out now,” I warn him under my breath, “and give me the matchbook.”

Matt looks a little sheepish and a little defiant, but he obeys me on both counts. Back up front, Ms. Carroll is seething. She wants to
hang whoever lit that match, and I wouldn’t wish her on my worst enemy right now. I keep Matt’s tacit confession to myself.

It’s around ten when we pull up in front of school. None of the teachers can leave until all the kids have been picked up. While we’re waiting, the principal pulls me aside. “I should have said something earlier, Mr. Danza.”

Uh-oh. What did I do now?

“If any of the kids says anything, you know, we could both be fired.”

A mental slide show begins to play: the homeless pot guy getting too close to Chloe, Al G pulling his arm away, Matt lighting a match, Nakiya teasing Sal. “Complains about what?” What did I miss?

Ms. Carroll lowers her voice. “Alcohol.”

Is she kidding me? It was a long day, and I had only one drink. I am legal, and I wasn’t even in the same room with the kids. How’d she know, anyway? All this explodes in my head along with a burst of frustration like I haven’t felt since I was sixteen years old. Again, I’m one of the principal’s misbehaving students—that’s exactly how it feels.

I mutter something about being sorry. At least I knew enough to sneak off to the bar. But then, once I get ahold of myself, I have to wonder, What was I
thinking
when I did that? The truth is, I wasn’t thinking. And because my principal let me get away with it, her head could be on a plate now, too. Teachers and administrators are always worried about being fired. One complaint from a child or parent can be the end of a career.

I apologize again. Ms. Carroll just stares. After a second she says, “Good night, Mr. Danza.”

After the last charge is picked up, I go home, but I have a hard time sleeping. I tried to speak to Al G after the play and again in Patsy’s, but he would have none of it. What if he saw me at the bar?
What if he sees my slipup as an opportunity to give me a really hard time?