I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had (28 page)

I
N
M
AY
, we enter countdown mode. I have just six weeks to wrap up the curriculum and get my class through finals—which seems like plenty of time until David clues me in to the year-end realities at Northeast. He says that attendance typically plummets during the last month of school, and in the last two weeks, most classes are more than half empty. To counter this trend, the administration is planning to drop the school uniform requirement in June, but I don’t really see how this will help with attendance—and I know, based on the beginning of the year, that free dress will make the place crazier. Suddenly, the pressure to wrap early just got a lot more intense.

Strangely, nobody else seems to feel this pressure. When I ask other teachers what they’re doing for year-end reviews, they shrug or tell me they don’t bother. I don’t get it. How do the kids survive finals if they don’t review?

Then David informs me that Northeast has no finals week. “Graduating seniors have to present a final multimedia project to a panel of their teachers, but in the lower classes, most teachers base grades on work done throughout the quarter.” Finals aren’t required
by the district, he explains, and since they’re not required, most teachers don’t give them.

I’m still confused. “I’ve assumed from Day One that I have to give a comprehensive exam covering everything we’ve learned all year.”

David sighs. “Nope.”

It’s true, I realize; no one ever said a word to me about finals. “But why not?”

He points to the stacks of printouts and academic assessments in the corner of his office. “Because the system only cares about standardized tests.”

“Aah.” By
standardized tests
, David means those PSSAs that dominated the collective consciousness of the entire school back in March and April—the general proficiency tests that determine whether the school “succeeds” or “fails.” But only eleventh graders take the PSSAs! Also, the tests bear little, if any, relation to a teacher’s individual curriculum. “What about all the books and debates and projects we’ve done this year? Doesn’t anybody care how much actual knowledge the kids have retained?” I sound plaintive, I know, but it seems as if a year’s worth of work is about to vanish into quicksand. Without a final, how can I gauge my effectiveness as a teacher?

David assures me that no one will stop me if I want to give a final exam. “Go for it.”

J
UST A FEW DAYS
later, Katerina informs me that she’s going to spend the summer in Russia. “We will be with my family in Moscow,” she tells me in her breathless, little-girl way. “I cannot wait to see them.”

I try to imagine summer in Moscow. Russia’s a place I’ve always wanted to see—I guess because of the Cold War. “You’re lucky,” I say. “I envy you.” Then, without giving the question much thought, I ask, “When are you leaving?”

She answers, also without appearing to give it much thought, “The Friday before Memorial Day.”

The banter goes right out of me. “
Memorial
Day? That’s two weeks from now! You’re going to miss the whole last month of school?”
What is her mother thinking?
I manage, just barely, not to say that last part.

Katerina seems surprised that I’m upset. “I don’t mind.” She giggles. Then she says something about cheaper airfares and family commitments. I don’t get it, but I also can’t do anything about it. In this case as in so many others, parents call the shots, and teachers just have to work around them. If we get through our comprehensive review, maybe I can give the final exam before Katerina leaves.

We spend the third week of May reviewing with handouts and a PowerPoint presentation, to be followed by another scavenger hunt like the one that prepped the class for their
Mice and Men
final. But this hunt will cover much more material, take more time, and be more challenging—ultimate, in more ways than one.

I use the same design as the first hunt, starting and finishing on the baseball diamond behind school, with stations all over campus. I enlist many of the same teachers and school workers who served as monitors before and tap my unofficial advisory kids to help set up the stations. Teachers need helpers. And there’s a buzz; word has gotten around that Mr. Danza’s scavenger hunt is fun. Other kids who aren’t even in my class offer to field a team. Ms. Carroll and Ms. DeNaples wish me luck. It’s all much easier than the first time, when I set up everything myself, though I still work up a good teacher sweat.

As before, the teams will have to get their passports stamped at each station. But there are a lot more stations. There’s one where the kids have to tap out the rhythm of a sonnet, and another, titled “Five-Paragraph BFF (Best Friend Forever),” dedicated to our nemesis, the five-paragraph essay. In the gym, the station requires the team to make a human pyramid, the levels from base to top mirroring the
class system of Maycomb, Alabama, in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. The monitor there will take Polaroids of the kids’ pyramids and tape them to their passports. And at my favorite station, the kids in tandem have to recite “If,” the poem by Rudyard Kipling. Each kid will recite a line, and the monitor will judge if it’s correct and understandable. If not, the team has to do it again.

The final challenge is Nakiya’s idea, based on a race she ran at summer camp. “It’s a scream, Mr. Danza,” she assures me. The game is to take a baseball bat, put one end on the ground and place your forehead on the other end, then circle the bat five times before dizzily running to a marker on the field and back to the finish line. I agree, with one special educational wrinkle: each team member must wear the costume of one of the characters from our reading. I pull together a toga for
Julius Caesar;
a sheriff’s outfit for Heck Tate from
Mockingbird;
overalls for Lenny from
Of Mice and Men;
a silver sweat suit for the pig in
Animal Farm
, which we’ve just finished reading in class. The first member of each team will pick a costume, put it on, race to the finish line, and then run it back to the next team member in the relay. First team to get everyone to the finish line and out of costume wins.

T
HE DAY OF THE HUNT
dawns hot—and
hot
in Philadelphia means blistering. We’ve set up as many stations as possible indoors or in the shade and made sure to have water at every station, but I caution everyone that there’s to be no running, especially because of the heat. Good luck. The kids are excited. There’s extra credit on the final at stake, and once again, competition works. When I say, “Go!” they’re off like a shot—every one of them running.

I spend a few minutes setting up the final challenge and laying out the costumes, then walk around to the stations to see how it’s going.
The kids are so fast, it’s as if they studied for the scavenger hunt. They help their teammates when they get stumped, and I’m feeling so proud of us all that my doubts about my final actually slip away for a time. In the gym the human pyramids have even Monte and Eric Choi laughing. Unfortunately, the station monitor there doesn’t use the right setting on the camera, and the pictures all look like shadows, but I figure if that’s all we get wrong, we’ll have done all right. Listening to my students trying to quickly recite “If” puts me over the moon.

I get back down to the field just as the teams are closing in on the final challenge. It’s a tight race and the costumes are even tighter—tough to get on over shirts and shoes. The kids are still running, bearing down, and Al G really makes quite a sight in his toga. In second place, Ben-Kyle Whatever Your Name Is pulls on Lenny’s overalls and spins the bat around one, two, three, four, five times.

He starts to run and halfway to the finish goes down so fast I’m sure he’s fooling around. Great pratfall, I think and turn to make sure there’s a costume for the next incoming team. But when I glance back, Ben-Kyle hasn’t moved.

Time suddenly slows down. He’s got to be faking it.
Smart to cover your face with your hair so I can’t see you laughing
. But his chest isn’t moving, and I’m holding my own breath as I sprint to reach him. Seconds split.
Stop goofing around
. The thought sticks in my throat. I’m close enough now to see his feet splayed sideways, dead still.

I’ve seen my share of guys knocked out. I’ve gone down more than once myself.
This kid is not moving
.

This cannot be happening. Kids don’t die on teachers. Sixteen-year-olds don’t just drop for no reason. I cannot lose this student.

Confusion is scrambling my brain. Everything is happening in slow motion and high velocity. I drop to my knees beside Ben-Kyle and brush his hair off his face. He’s out cold. I search for a pulse. I think I feel it.

He’s out … but breathing, a little.

Everybody on the field has converged as I kneel beside Ben-Kyle. I say what I’ve always heard you say in a situation like this: “Stay back, give him some air.” I sound ridiculous. All I know is what I’ve seen on TV. What would a real teacher do?

One of the kids hands me a bottle of water while the rest just stand and stare. I wet a towel and lay one end across Ben-Kyle’s forehead, wipe his face with the other. It seems like a lifetime passes before he slowly starts to come to. I finally exhale.

“Hey, buddy.” I try to cover my terror with a smile. “You all right?” Stupid question.

He seems to know where he is, but not what happened. I tell him he fainted as I give him a sip of water. We get him to sit up and drink some more, and eventually we help him to his feet.

I have a déjà vu memory of being knocked out in a boxing match in my twenties. What we’re doing is just how they revived me. The memory jars me even as the kids cheer Ben-Kyle, the way they would a football player who walks off the field on his own after being hurt. Only Ben-Kyle still isn’t walking on his own.

Daniel and I sling his arms over our shoulders and walk him unsteadily into the building. In the nurse’s office, Ben-Kyle lies down. While the nurse calls his parents, I stay with him and ask dumb questions to make sure he’s fully conscious. How am I going to face this boy’s parents?

Ben-Kyle’s father arrives in a panic. My own pulse still is racing so hard that I can’t fully take this man in, but he’s older than I expected and has rushed from work wearing some kind of uniform. The main thing, though, is that once he sees his son he calms down.

I tell him what happened and apologize profusely. He’s more understanding and gracious than I probably deserve, and Ben-Kyle seems to feel better as well, now that his dad is here.

The nurse suggests that Ben-Kyle should be checked out at the hospital, just to be safe. But his father came on foot; the family has no car.

Finally I can do something to actually help. I get clearance from the office and drive them to the hospital, where Ben-Kyle is examined and tested. I’m not sure who’s more relieved when he’s released with a clean bill of health—Ben-Kyle, his father … or me. On second thought, I’m sure, it’s me.

A
FTER THIS NEAR-DEATH
experience—or what felt to
me
like a near-death experience—the final exam looks like a cakewalk. It’s eleven pages, including essay as well as multiple-choice and fill-in-the-blank questions. The test is long, but fair and comprehensive. When I show it to some of the other teachers in my SLC, most commend me. Only one has reservations.

Vanessa Detolla is a veteran English teacher, and I respect her opinion immensely. She’s also helped me throughout the year, which is why it throws me when she glances up from my examination and says, “Pretty risky.”

I can’t help asking, “What do you mean?”

“What if you’re reaching too high? There’s no time for second chances.”

I know Ms. Detolla has a point, but I’ve reviewed everything with the kids backward and forward. And I need hard evidence that the knowledge has stuck. “They’re going to do well,” I declare, more out of hope and bravado than out of conviction.

Silently, I decide to spend more time on review. Katerina will just have to take the exam in cyberspace from Russia.

I
T HAD TO HAPPEN
. Eric Lopez finds me alone in my room, and one look tells me all I need to know. Gone is the ebullient kid who demonstrated his break dancing on the first day of class. Actually, he stopped dancing and broke up with his Renegade Break-Dancing Crew as soon as he started spending all his time with Ileana, but first love kept him fired up in other ways. Now the light’s gone out. His face is ashen, and he leans against the doorframe as if it’s all that’s holding him up. He’s been dumped.

“Come on in, Eric.” I coach him into the room. “Park it.”

How well I remember what it feels like to be fifteen years old and in love for the first time. You can’t think of anything else. You can’t imagine life without her. In my case, her name was Millie Zizzo, and she was as delicate as Ileana is tough, but she broke me just the same. With Eric, I’ve been expecting this for days now. He’s been lethargic, ignoring his classwork, and hiding behind his long hair. And Ileana acts as if she doesn’t even know his name.

“I just saw her with another guy,” he blurts, sounding as if he’s been stabbed. Then comes the killer: “He’s a senior!”

It’s the end of his world. I assure him that first love always feels this bad when it ends. In fact, all love feels this bad when it ends. I don’t tell him just how well I know this, but I try to sound consoling and encouraging. “It gets better, Eric. It really does.” Unfortunately, I don’t really believe that, and it’s not making a bit of difference.

Eric’s not a scary kid, but broken hearts can make boys desperate. His pain turns into obsession. During the next couple of days, Eric starts following Ileana, showing up at her house uninvited. After the episode with Stephanie, I’m impressed by the power Ileana seems to exert over her friends, especially when she turns on them, but Eric’s only going to hurt himself if this keeps up. I call his father.

Eric’s dad and I double-team him. His father pleads with him to open up and talk. I stop pulling punches. My love life is in a shambles, too, and if misery loves company, I have more than enough to share.