I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had (29 page)

I sit Eric down and level with him. “You think when you fall in love it’s going to last forever, and if you’re very lucky and really work at it, sometimes it does. But there are a million things that can go wrong, and a lot of them are out of your control.” I take a deep breath. “I’m actually in worse shape than you, pal. If you think it’s bad breaking up with your girlfriend, try it with your wife and kids.”

Eric pushes a hand through his hair, getting it out of his eyes. His head is tilted like a parrot’s. I wonder if there’s a rule against teachers sharing personal information with their students. I decide I don’t care since I have his attention for the first time since his breakup.

“You know I’m living three thousand miles from home, right?” I ask, and he nods. “Well, this isn’t the first year I’ve done that. I had a TV show that I did for two years in Manhattan, and while I was there, my family got used to living without me. After that show ended, I tried to put it all back together, but I couldn’t seem to make my family understand how much I needed their help. The more I didn’t feel I was getting that help, the more I demanded and begged for it. That’s never good. I was way too needy.”

I let that sink in. No need to point out that Eric now knows a little something about demanding attention, too.

“My wife and I have been married over twenty years,” I tell him. “We’ve had lots of ups and downs, and we should be able to weather this stretch, but this time I don’t know.”

Suddenly Eric is worried about me. “But you’re going back, Mr. Danza. You’re not getting a divorce or anything.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Eric. Whenever you have two people, there are a lot of variables. Like they say, it takes two to tango, and if one person refuses to dance, the other person eventually has to make the decision … and it’s that decision that’s the hard part.”

I notice that Eric’s gaze has dropped to the decal on his notebook for Breaksk8, an MTV break-dancing crew. “The choice is yours, Eric,” I say. “At a certain point, you just have to decide this is not
good for you. Once you’ve made that decision, you can move on with your life.”

I wish I knew how to take my own advice, but amazingly, Eric needs no further encouragement. The next day he walks into class with a new short, very sharp haircut and a kick to his step. Ileana is clearly miffed, but I’m elated to have the old Eric back.

K
ATERINA’S LAST DAY
sneaks up on me. When we say goodbye, I tell her I’m going to miss her, and I mean it. But after she’s gone, I feel guilty. I worry that I didn’t show Katerina how much I truly appreciated her, or how much I hope she does well in life, or how badly I want her to stay safe and healthy and happy despite all the unknowns in her future. I realize, I’m not anywhere near ready to say goodbye to my kids.

After Memorial Day, however, guilt is the last thing on my mind. The kids go wild. On June 2, Paige blows me off, Charmaine chews me out, and Russian Playboy and Pepper waste the whole class swapping stupid jokes. Worse, I can’t even ride them for it, since the entire school acts as if the year is already over. What’s my leverage? I can stage a walkout.

Knowing that there’s only four minutes left before the end of class, I get up and make a scene of leaving. “All right, that’s it. I’ve had it. You don’t want to listen? I’m not fighting this battle anymore. You’re on your own. You want this class, you can have it.”

I shut the door hard behind me. Not a slam, but hard. I’m really just acting to make a point. But they don’t know what to think.

Out across the hall, I stand against the lockers and wait for the bell to ring. When it does, instead of the usual rush, they peek out the door to see if I’m there.

I play it cool. Say nothing. They edge toward me, still trying to figure out what’s going on.
We’re sorry, Mr. D. We didn’t mean nothing
.

But then, as they close in, everything shifts.
We love you, Mr. Danza. Don’t be mad at us. Are your eyes watering?
And then, boom. I’m dissolving in the middle of a twenty-five-person group hug, and the emotion is so overwhelming, there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I weep. I sob. I hiccup.

Now everybody else is laughing. Of course, they’re laughing at me.

Count on it: just when you think you can’t stand the sight of them, your students will do a one eighty and suddenly you’re in love again. The next night is Senior Prom. With some trepidation, I volunteer again to chaperone, but this dance is nothing like the Winter Formal. Instead of dirty dancing, Northeast’s young men and women waltz through the lobby of the Bellevue Hotel in tuxedos and evening dresses. Chloe, Tammy, and several other sophomores in my class turn up looking radiant and sophisticated on the arms of seniors. I breathe in the perfume and aftershave, dance to the beat of oldies that I actually can dance to, and wonder what I’ve done to luck into a night like this. When Katerina’s boyfriend videotapes us for her, I feel like we’re sending her a digital valentine from a high school prom paradise.

T
HE DAY OF OUR FINAL
, I wake up at 4:00
A.M
. The sunrise through my magic window seems to coat the city in gold, and I can’t help but view this breathtaking dawn as an omen. I’ve done everything in my power to prepare my students. They know the work. They’re good kids. They’re smart. I tell myself they’ll do fine.

For the first time all year, every single student, minus Katerina, is present for the test. When I hand out the final, the kids are less indignant than I thought they would be at the sight of eleven pages. They have both periods to complete the test, and nobody but me seems nervous.

Those ninety minutes simultaneously crawl and speed by. I walk around the room to see what they’re writing, and try to help without actually helping. I tell Matt to bear down when he wants to give up, and Daniel to think before he writes, but generally I just encourage them to stay on task. I may not be able to tell what they’re getting right or wrong, but I take it as an excellent sign that they’re hard at work.

Monte naturally finishes early, but most of the others still are at it when the bell rings. I have to restrain myself not to give them another fifteen minutes; the whole point of a final exam is that there is no more time. And no makeups.

As they hand in their tests, some kids smile, and some grimace. Al G wears his usual smirk, and Charmaine and Paige flip their tests onto my desk, then start trash-talking about who did better. But basically everybody seems okay. No one appears upset with me, and that alone seems like a huge triumph.

Nakiya’s the last to leave. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Danza. Nice test.” She gives me two thumbs-up. The instant she’s gone, I sit at my desk and get to work.

With every other test all year I’ve stalled, taking the papers home to grade later and then stalling some more for fear of seeing the results. This time’s different. I can barely wait to stack the exams in front of me before tearing into them.

I start with Daniel’s test because he’s usually my bellwether. A good student, he pays attention, but at times he struggles. If he does well, I can maybe breathe. If he does well, there’s a good chance I’ve actually done my job.

I race through Daniel’s eleven pages, red pen working the margins. The test seems to have lengthened since I wrote it. Maybe Ms. Detolla was right and I have overreached. But then I reach the end. Danny’s grade is good. I exhale.

Another fear strikes. Is it too good? In my eagerness for a positive result, did I go too easy on him? I take it from the top and double-check my work. No, there’s no question, Daniel has a solid B. I shut my eyes and say a little prayer of thanks, then plunge ahead.

Two hours later I can say with certainty that no one has failed my class. Matt’s grade is not what it should be, but many of the others, including all three of my IEP students, have done better than I dared hope. My relief leaves me dazed. I didn’t even realize how much I had riding on this thing. Now I’m spinning between exhilaration and exhaustion.

The final essay question asked, “What was the most important lesson you learned in class this year?” I go back now and flip through the answers again. It shouldn’t amaze me that the students all used correct essay form, but it does. It shouldn’t surprise me to see some of my own phrases in their handwriting, but it does. And it certainly shouldn’t touch me to know that the lessons many of my students consider most powerful were not scripted in any book, but this in particular shakes me to the core.

“Make the best of a baaaad situation,” Nakiya wrote.

“Take part in your own education” appears in Al G’s loopy cursive.

And for Ben-Kyle, the most important lesson was that “books are more than books. They are stories, too.”

In almost every essay, I find advice that I’ve given them, almost verbatim. This is why people teach, I think. This is how you make a difference. They heard me and they remembered. That is one thrilling accomplishment.

Another is the sweetness of silence. The next afternoon, after I’ve given the finals back to the kids and we’ve all danced and traded high fives, I’m starting in on end-of-year paperwork when who should
shuffle into my room but Al G. He lifts his chin in greeting and plunks down in a chair, as always with his backpack on. I wait, but he doesn’t seem to be particularly agitated. He heaves a sigh and lets his body settle. I get on with my paperwork. It’s taken the whole year, but I’ve finally learned to hold my tongue with Al, let him initiate. I’m here if he needs me. He never says a word.

Occasionally I look up. He’s twisted around and is gazing out the window. The air conditioner is droning. It’s sweltering outside and cool in here. If that’s the only reason he’s here, it’s enough. Forty-five minutes pass. The bell rings. Al G gets up and nods at me on his way out.

“I’m wearing him down,” I tell David Cohn when he stops by a few minutes later.

“Sounds more like you’ve worn each other down,” David says with a rueful smile. “But in a good way.” He hesitates, and I realize the same could be said about David and me. He’s been there every step of the way this year, putting up with my angst and patiently saving me from myself on more occasions than I want to admit. And now he’s leaving before I am.

David’s moving to a school in Vermont. Tomorrow is his last day. “I can’t believe you’re not going to see this thing through to the finish,” I tease him.

He tips his head. “I never thought I’d live to say this, Mr. Danza. But you don’t need me anymore.”

I grin. “I never thought you would, either.”

“Keep it up and maybe one day we’ll open a charter school together.”

That is a compliment of such a high order that, for once in my life, I’m speechless.

T
HE NEXT WEEK
is reserved for celebration, as far as I’m concerned, but everyone else is way ahead of me. My prediction that free dress would make Northeast crazy has more than come to pass, and not in a good way.

On Thursday, all the eleventh- and twelfth-grade students assemble in the auditorium for the ceremonial passing of school leadership from seniors to juniors. The two classes are seated on opposite sides of the audience. First the senior football players hand over a ceremonial torch to the junior players, then the other senior sports teams, cheerleaders, band members, choirs, academic and social clubs follow suit. The ceremony takes place on the stage, and with each passing there is a tremendous ovation of cheers and calls of “One Six Nine” and “One Seven O,” the numbers of the graduating and rising senior classes.

The glow is good until someone from the senior side of the auditorium throws a water balloon at the junior side. War must have been declared in advance, because one second later all hell breaks loose. Both classes have come to assembly armed, and the balloons fly fast and furious, drenching everything and everyone in sight. When the supply of missiles is exhausted, the kids start spraying from water bottles. Then the battle escalates. One person throws a bottle, then another, and pretty soon the air is filled with plastic projectiles. Kids start screaming and running for the exits. From water balloons to stampede inside of three minutes.

Standing in the back, I try to slow them down, but the crush of students quickly overwhelms me. I grab another teacher out of the aisle and pull her to safety. The kids are piling up on each other, yelling. Panic is rising. Then Ms. Carroll’s voice bellows from the stage. “That’s enough! You will sit down and be quiet, or I will cancel everything planned for the rest of the year—including graduation!”

I’ve seen this principal handle all sorts of situations this year, and
there were times when I thought she was a pretty good actor. There’s no faking it this time. She’s on fire. The kids stop in their tracks, seniors especially.

Luckily no one is hurt. Soaking wet, yes, but not hurt. The kids sheepishly return to their drenched seats. Later, Ms. Carroll chooses not to cancel graduation.

The next to last week of school, Rob Caroselli approaches me with the news that I’ve been tapped to join the Sons of Happiness, a fraternal society for men at Northeast High. The concept of a fraternal society of high school elders is a new one to me, so I ask Joe Connelly about it. He says they tapped him, too, but he knows no more about it than I do. We’re both surprised that Rob never mentioned this group before. Maybe it’s secret. We decide to just take it as an honor and try not to think about what the induction ritual might involve. At least Joe and I will go through the hazing together.

On Saturday, Joe drives us to the designated address, a trim white house with a big yard in a pleasant neighborhood. The home belongs to one of the Sons and looks anything but threatening. Still, it feels a little creepy when we’re greeted by two teachers who usher us into the garage and tell us to put on the caps and gowns provided and stay there until we’re called.

Two other inductees are already waiting. Both are slight middle-aged math teachers who seem even more nervous than we are. They also know enough to fill us in on this fraternity’s brief history. The group was formed a few years ago by a small cadre of veteran teachers and retirees who’d noticed that camaraderie among men who work at Northeast—especially male teachers—was sorely lacking. Their idea was to provide an outlet for guys to let off steam outside of school. Now, members get together for dinner every few weeks, and at the end of every school year they induct a handful of new victims. Mentioning the society at school is strictly forbidden.