I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had (22 page)

I try to separate them and quiet the situation, but the trash talk continues from both as I propel Matt back to his seat. “I didn’t do nothing, she’s a crazy bitch,” he says.

“Easy with the language.” Anybody can see I’m grasping for straws.

Then Ileana gets involved. “Why don’t you grow up,” she calls back to Paige, “and stop acting like a fool.” These two also have a running feud, so the effect is explosive.

Paige jettisons herself to the front of the room and gets in Ileana’s face. “I’ll show you who’s a fool!”

I leave Matt and try to pull the girls apart, but as soon as I do, he races around from the other side and gets back into the fray, which of course makes things worse. Meanwhile, the rest of the kids are watching, waiting to see what if anything I’m going to do to get this
mess under control.
This is pathetic
. I know that’s what they’re thinking. And they’re right.

“Paige, I want you to leave. Get out, and don’t come back.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve hit a trip wire that’s way out of bounds. I want to reel them back in, but the damage is done. Paige’s look cuts me to the core, and Matt and Ileana are practically high-fiving each other. I stand there, frozen, as the bell rings and everyone makes for the hall. Then I snap back. I shout over the passing noise for the three malefactors to stay put. But Paige is already gone.

“See, it’s her,” Matt says, and Ileana agrees.

I settle myself on the corner of my desk and am trying to debrief them calmly, find out what was really going on, when Katerina and Chloe burst in. “Al G’s been arrested in the cafeteria!”

I’m mystified. Wasn’t Al here just a minute ago? I release Ileana and Matt with a plea to find a more constructive way to work out their differences, and head for the basement. Al G is in handcuffs in the holding cell.

One of the policemen tells me, “I asked the young man to put away his phone, and he ignored me. I touched his arm, and we got into a wrestling match.”

Al G hears this and yells, “You grabbed me, and you not allowed to touch me.”

I remember the expression on this boy’s face, the fury of his body language when I touched his arm in New York City. “Al, please,” I say under my breath as I approach his cell. “The cop doesn’t want to make this a big thing. But if you want him to press charges, I’m sure he’ll oblige.”

I turn back to the policeman. “Is there any way we could take off the cuffs and talk this out?”

“I’ll do it if he apologizes.”

That sounds like a long shot, but I give it my best. Losing the handcuffs helps. Al’s anything but sorry for his actions, and he’s not remotely interested in pretending that he is, but he admits that he’s not exactly enjoying himself in lockup. We negotiate an apology that passes muster: “I’m sorry I lost my cool.”

That gets us out of the cell, but I can’t take him with me. He still has to be written up, and his apology doesn’t spare him from suspension. At least there’s no assault charge, and before I go, Al promises me he’ll be cool. His expression, a cross between sneer and tears, tells me he means it—at least for right now. He doesn’t have to say thanks.

I’m pretty well wrecked as I step into the corridor, but not as wrecked as Matt, who’s hunched over in a corner, just out of sight of the hundreds of kids in the cafeteria. The blustery young man I left upstairs is now trembling with pent-up emotion.

“You okay?” I ask. Wrong. His face turns tomato red and tears flood down his cheeks. “What is it?”

This big, tough football player stammers through his sobs, “I’m-m-m so angry and I don’t know-w-w why.”

I hand Matt a tissue and put an arm around his shoulders. We take a back route up to my room, and I shut the door. I use every tool in my kit to get him to talk, but I’d be out of my league even if I weren’t exhausted. Since neither our boxing sessions nor school counseling has done the trick for Matt, it’s time to kick it up another notch. I promise to talk with his parents about getting him to a professional therapist. Matt not only accepts the suggestion but actually seems grateful for it.

After he leaves, I can’t move. I sit staring at the dust, thick as sand, pouring through the afternoon light. I imagine them burying me alive. I’ve been teaching for eight months, and right now, I feel more incompetent than I did the day I started. How does anyone survive this job, let alone succeed in it?

“Mr. Danza?” Nakiya and Tammy peek in the door. “We’re here to help you.”

I give them a feeble look. “You are?”

“Yes.” Tammy flashes her braces at me. “You have to grow some balls, Mr. Danza.”

I wince. They’re laughing, but they’re not kidding. Nicky says, “It’s not just for the bad kids. The good kids need to see you’re tough, too.”

I know they’re right. I let them talk. I even listen.
You don’t always have to be so nice. You can be friends with kids and still stand up to them. There’s no law against sending the bad kids down to the office
. The girls’ pep talk sounds suspiciously like other pep talks I’ve received from David Cohn.

“Well, thanks for caring,” I say at last. “I think.”

The girls give me fist bumps on their way out the door. They’re just kids. They’re all just kids. So why is this job
still
so hard?

O
NE REASON
it’s hard for both teachers and students is that there’s so little parental backup. Which is not to say that the parents are always missing in action. Sometimes they’re present to a fault.

Whenever I got in trouble as a kid, my parents always supported the teacher. That’s not what happens at Northeast in general, and it’s not what happens a few days later when Daniel, of all kids, gets in trouble.

The whole incident strikes me as bizarre. It starts with a party, of all things. The half-sandwich crew and a few other teachers and I are having pizza and drinks in the first-floor conference room when the Latin teacher Mr. Smith happens to walk past. Naturally, I invite him in. Smith, as the kids call him, is a good teacher and he cares, though as an old-school educator he has a hard time accepting the
behavior of today’s American kids. “Where I come from,” he told me at the start of school, “students stand and greet the teacher when he enters. ‘Good morning, Sir.’ ” He can be tough on the kids and has high expectations, which doesn’t sit well with a lot of them, including my student Daniel, who’s standing by the conference table reaching for a slice of pepperoni when Smith comes in. The Latin teacher takes one look at Daniel, and both of them instantly forget about the pizza. It seems that not only is Daniel in danger of flunking Latin but also he cut Smith’s class this morning. Smith wheels on the boy and orders him to the principal’s office. Daniel puffs up his chest and refuses to move. He also mouths off with a level of disrespect and meanness that’s totally unlike the Daniel I know. What is going on?

It strikes me that Smith’s out of line, since I’m technically the teacher in charge here, but Daniel’s behavior is even more unacceptable. I feel like I have to support the chain of command, so I tell Daniel to go with Mr. Smith. Still, I’m so shocked that my gentle student could act out like this, I can’t help tagging along.

Within minutes Daniel’s mother has been called. I know her fairly well because she works the concession stand at Northeast football games, and we’re on friendly terms, especially since I’ve told her that her son is one of the sweetest kids I know. Confident that I’ve got standing, I catch her before she goes into the principal’s office and try to explain what’s happened.

Immediately she cuts me off. Hands on hips, waving me away, she says, “Daniel has been complaining about this teacher from day one. I want him out of that class. This teacher should be punished.”

I’m dumbstruck. She’s so intent on protecting her son that she doesn’t even want to hear the facts, let alone ask questions. If Daniel says he’s in the right, that’s good enough for her. And since Daniel shows no remorse about his failing grade or the unexcused absence, as far as his mother is concerned, it’s the teacher’s fault. Does she
really think she’s doing her child a favor? Unfortunately, I have neither the ready argument nor the authority to lecture Daniel’s mother. After she sails on into the principal’s office, all I can do is turn to Glen Dyson, the piano-playing math teacher from our talent show, who’s just been appointed a dean of students.

Glen lifts his hands and drops them. “Because of all this bad press about bad schools, parents come in predisposed to complain about the teacher.” That empowers the kids to act out whenever a teacher is strict, Glen explains. The kid gets in trouble, but the parents blame the teacher. The school’s forced to reprimand teachers whose only crime may be high standards. “It’s an exhausting, destructive cycle.”

U
S AGAINST THEM
, us against them.
What’s wrong with this picture?
If only we could all walk a mile in each other’s shoes. The next day, when I run into the buzz saw of Monte’s disapproval, I realize that, at least in the classroom, we can.

To Kill a Mockingbird
, in Monte’s opinion, is too easy. The other students, of course, complain that it’s thirty-one chapters and way too thick. Monte also faults me for taking too long to get through the book and for constantly losing control of the class. Others say it’s not fair that they have to get their work in on time when some of their classmates don’t, and I agree, but if I come down hard on the problem kids, I’m afraid they’ll stop participating at all. That is my constant concern, since the last thing I want is for any of my kids to quit. But Monte’s grim expression reminds me that my focus on kids who can’t be bothered is compromising
his
scholarship to Princeton.

If I’d just put him in charge, Monte seems to think, he’d pull us all into line. So, remembering Crystal Green’s strategy with Al G, I grant Monte his wish. We call it our Student Teacher program. “One whole period will be yours,” I promise him. “You get to make up
your own lesson plan, and the assignments and standards can be just as tough as you like.”

Monte’s not a kid who shows excitement, but I do believe that, if he were, he’d be rubbing his hands with glee. Certainly, when he moves to the head of the class a week later, he’s well prepared. For his do-now, Monte presents everyone with a legal-term work sheet from the trial in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Then his main lesson focuses on the characters’ qualities and interactions during the trial.

Monte aims high, but he’s dealing with the same class I have to face every day, and they cut him no slack. Instead, they cut him off. And they cut up. Matt takes his usual stroll around the room, and when Monte tells him to sit down, Matt just laughs. Chloe and Katerina are talking about sandals for spring while Monte’s analyzing Atticus Finch and Heck Tate. Erik Choi is corkscrewed upside down in his seat, and Eric Lopez is lost in a love note he’s scribbling to his new flame, Ileana.

I’d like to lend Monte a hand, but I’m restricted by the rules of the Student Teacher program, which the other students are more than eager to enforce. When I do tell the others to pipe down and give Monte a chance, Charmaine shouts, “He’s the teacher, Mr. Danza. He’s gotta make us.” As usual, she’s got me.

Monte soldiers through to the end of class, but he reminds me of a tire with a slow leak. By the time the bell rings, he’s running lopsided and his treads are just about shot. While everybody else shoots off to lunch, Monte sinks into a seat and I debrief him the way David usually does me. We review what he did that worked, and what he would do differently next time. Then I ask him if he’s picked up any useful advice for me.

Monte looks down at his copy of
Mockingbird
. He leafs through it until he gets to a scene in which Atticus is explaining to his daughter, Scout, why it’s a mistake to judge people on the basis of their appearance. Monte reads, “ ‘You never really understand a person until you
consider things from his point of view … until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”

“Would you consider a truce?” I ask.

Monte gives me a sheepish grin, then he stands up and formally extends his hand. We shake on our new understanding.

One kid at a time, I think as I watch him head off to lunch. More and more that seems to me the essence of teaching: one kid at a time. The problem is that there are so many of them, and unlike most of them, Monte actually wants to learn.

A
CHIEVING PEACE
with Monte makes me feel good, but it hardly proves I’m the boss. Al G has just come back from this week’s three-day suspension when I catch him cheating openly on the makeup test I was nice enough to let him take. Even though he sits in the back of the room, I don’t need a telescope to see that his book is open on the floor beside his desk. I cannot get over his gall, cheating like that on his first day back, but I don’t speak to him until the next day, when I try, try again.

“I could write you up so you get another suspension,” I tell him, “or we can make a deal. First, you apologize for cheating. And you mean it. Then you say, ‘I want to do the work, and I will do my best the rest of the year.’ ”

Al G almost sneers in my face, but he manages to contain himself. I keep it up. “It’s not that long until summer, and the way you’re going isn’t working. How about trying something different?”

I think what finally does the trick is my reminder that the year’s almost over. Al won’t give in right away, but after a few rounds, he apologizes for cheating, and then says after me, “I want to do the work, and I will do my best the rest of the year.” I’m not fool enough to think this will be the end of my headaches with him, but at least he acknowledges that another suspension won’t benefit either of us.

It just so happens that the next day’s lesson plan calls for a conversation about moral education, which helps to seal my deal with Al. I’m working off a model that identifies six stages of moral development. In the most basic, first stage, behavior is motivated only by the desire to avoid pain; in the highest stages, action is motivated by a strong sense of personal principle and concern for the welfare of others. The class generally agrees that Atticus Finch, in our novel, represents the highest stages of moral development, while his daughter, Scout, moves up from the lower stages over the course of the book. Then I ask the kids to decide where they stand in their own moral development. This is just the kind of question somebody should have asked me when I was in tenth grade.