I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had (5 page)

I look at Al G as I say this, but Al’s in his own world. I need to get back to the lesson, but then I remember that their homework was about personal experience, so I console myself that I’m just demonstrating the assignment. If I tell them about an experience that they can relate to and that teaches them a lesson, I’m doing my job!

“Unfortunately, sixth grade was the end of my stint at Blessed Sacrament. I had a series of incidents that culminated in a little knife fight on the school playground. I’d been beaten up by a bigger boy, and my friend came to my defense, pulling out a small pocketknife. I called out for him to put away the knife, which he was doing when the other boy jumped him with a flying kick.”

The big bruiser Matt and his buddy Howard a.k.a. Frankie (another kid with two names) are suddenly listening with their mouths open. Pretty Chloe has a hand over her eyes, anticipating the cut. I smile and shrug so it doesn’t sound quite so bad. “The knife found its way into the backside of the kicker. Got him in the butt. My friend and I ran and hid until it was time to go home for dinner. In those days, kids left the house in the morning, and after school we all hung with our friends in the street until dinnertime. Hiding didn’t help. I had to go home eventually and confessed in tears. The pastor told my mom to take me out of his school and he also expelled my younger brother, who was only in the second grade and hadn’t done anything yet of note. Thanks to me, the priest felt compelled to purge my whole family. I felt like a real schmo. You guys know what a
schmo
is? It’s a Yiddish word that literally means jerk, but it’s a pretty good all-purpose put-down.”

I had them; now I’m all over the place again. I’ve heard ADHD is a sign of intelligence, but that doesn’t help when I’m supposed to be teaching a lesson. During orientation we were warned that students will try anything to get the teacher off topic and waste time. My kids will have the opposite problem: they’ll beg me to stay
on
topic.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” David says. As we walk downstairs, he continues, “Another first-year teacher, Philadelphia native. He built a successful local contracting business by his early thirties. Then, having saved up some money, he sold his company and became a teacher.”

I understand now why David wants me to talk to this guy. He’s my reality without the show. Maybe I can learn something.

As we enter a basement classroom, a young teacher in shirtsleeves looks up from erasing the blackboard. He gives me a broad grin. “Hey, Tony!”

“You guys already know each other?” David looks confused.

“Old buddies,” I lie as Joe Connelly and I fist-bump. “Thanks for trying to save me from Ms. DeNaples, even if it didn’t work.”

Joe laughs. I’m glad to know he has this period free. Since I have only one academic class and most other teachers have as many as five, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find anyone to schmooze with—even if they were game. Joe says, “Welcome to the dungeon.”

I glance at the windowless walls and feel a pang of guilt over my room’s view of grass and trees—another benefit of the show. But as Joe tells David how well his first classes have gone, I wonder if his more sterile surroundings might be an advantage. At least they reduce the distractions.

David suggests we compare notes and excuses himself. I pull up one of the student chairs. “So,” I ask, “what made you want to be a teacher?”

Joe perches on the corner of his desk and rubs the chalk from his palms. “Mainly because it always bugged me that I didn’t finish
college. I was mildly successful as a contractor, but as time progressed, I started to think about what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

“Hey, me, too!” I grin.

“My wife, Sam, is a middle school English teacher,” he continues. “I always thought I’d enjoy teaching math, if I ever had the time to finish school. But once I bought a house, I shelved the teaching idea and focused on what I thought of as ‘real’ work. I wanted a storefront, some good installers doing the work for me as I focused on sales. But then my protégé left and started his own business. This opened my eyes to how hard it is to keep good help. And, what’s more important, my son was born.”

“Didn’t that just make you more anxious about earning a living?”

“Yes and no. Becoming a father changed my ideas about what’s important in a man’s life. All of a sudden, I realized that I wanted my son to view me in a better light. How would I be able to ask him to finish school when the time came if I didn’t finish myself? How could I expect him to hold principles above financial gain if I chose the money route? So when Joey was one year old, I went back to school to become a father. I went back to school to become a contributing member of society. I went back to school to help influence slackers like myself to buy into their own education.”

“I know just what you mean!” I exclaim. I want to hug this guy. “I was a slacker, too. If there’s one thing I want to do this year, it’s try to reach the kids who remind me of me and
wake them up
so they don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

Joe runs a hand over his crew cut. “Sometimes when I tell my story, I feel like I’m being too dramatic.”

“Hell, no! You’re not being dramatic, my friend, you’re being
real
.” And then I think again. “I take that back. It is dramatic, but it’s the kind of dramatic commitment we need to turn our schools around.”

“So.” He glances at the cameras that, of course, are filming our every move. “You’re really here for the whole year … teaching?”

“I really am,” I say, but then I remember Ms. Carroll’s warning and the two days so far. “Unless they throw me out.”

Joe looks across the room as if seeing his first teaching attempts, too. “The kids don’t make it easy. Sam warned me.”

“I think I’ve got to channel more of my father. He was a knock-around guy with a saying for every occasion. ‘Finish strong.’ ‘Two wrongs don’t make a right.’ ‘Keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.’ ”

“Those would all work in the classroom,” Joe agrees.

“He was a tough, honest, hardworking city sanitation man. I listened to him get up early, every morning—rain, shine, or snow—and leave for work. When it did snow, we might not see him for days. He would walk out of the house, down the snowy street, and then hitchhike to the sanitation garage in Brooklyn. On the kitchen table, he would always leave half of his egg sandwich for me. It was his way of saying good morning and letting me know he was thinking of me.”

Joe smiles. “Sounds like you had a good dad.”

“Any time you feel like coming up to my room for fifth period,” I say, “we can eat lunch together and discuss our day, school, the kids. I’ll give you half my sandwich.”

“That’s nice of you—” Joe begins, but the bell rings and we both bolt upright. Enough shooting the breeze. Back to work.

W
HEN I GET HOME
to my apartment at the end of the day, I realize that, in my haste to get to school this morning, I forgot to tear off yesterday’s thought for the day from the calendar on my desk. When I remedy the situation, today’s thought appears: “Encourage a good student to become a teacher.” Perfect, I think, but what about not-so-good students, like me?

And with that I open an envelope that was sitting in my mailbox at school this morning. Talk about timing.