I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had: My Year as a Rookie Teacher at Northeast High

by Tony Danza

  My lesson plan calls for a do-now about physical fitness and nutrition. I do want my kids to begin thinking about their health as a component of their educational and intellectual fitness, but today is clearly not the day. Eric Lopez and Matt start ranting about the uniforms. They ask me what I think, and as I’m about to answer, Monte announces that he likes the new policy because it makes everybody look as serious as he is about school. Eric Choi agrees: “Now I don’t have to wear the dorky shirts my mother always buys for me.” But Chloe and Katerina groan. They’re already in mourning over the shopping they’ll be deprived of for the rest of the year. Ileana and Ben-Kyle grouse about free expression.

  How about this? Disagreement! Strong opinions! I erase the fitness do-now from the board and write a new prompt: “How do you feel about the uniform policy? Explain why.”

  The kids eat it up. They get right to work and, minutes later, are eager to read their opinions out loud. The compositions have more energy and conviction than almost anything they’ve written so far this year. So I divide them into teams to debate the issue. In one of my first professional development seminars, I learned that students retain ideas best through discussion, especially debates. And the uniform policy seems ready-made for this. I can just sit back and let the sparks fly.

  Charmaine speaks first. Because of her eclectic fashion sense, I have a feeling she is in the con column, and I am so right. “I know I am still a minor, but this is America and I should be allowed to dress any way I want to.” I love when kids play the America card. Patriotism, the last refuge of a scoundrel.

  White Nick (so named because Nakiya is our Black Nick) counters with a question. “What if what you’re wearing is distracting?”

  Al G chimes in. “Yeah, some of these girls wear crazy stuff. I like it, but it’s crazy.”

  Paige begs to differ. “Why should I be punished because some girls dress like sluts?”

  “I thought you were talking about my two different socks,” complains Charmaine. The class laughs hard at that.

  “What about the cost?” I ask to stir the flames.

  “My mom is worried about that,” Daniel says, and several other kids say theirs are, too.

  “How much does it cost to buy your school clothes now?” I ask.

  Monte jumps on this. “I would suggest that we will save money in the long run, and just think about the energy you save by not having to worry about your clothing selection.” I picture Monte in front of a closet agonizing over the selection of outfits that will make him look neat, smart, and college-bound.

  The discussion goes back and forth for the whole period, and the kids are so engaged that I decide to make debates a weekly feature in my class. We may not resolve the uniform issue, but when we take a final vote, the pros actually edge out the cons. Even Pepper seems more thoughtful about the policy by the time the bell rings. Nevertheless, as he’s leaving I remind him about our date. We still have business to attend to.

  When Pepper arrives at the start of fifth period, I’m sitting at my desk. I ask, “You ever write an apology note?” He shrugs and looks down at his shoes. I hand him a piece of stationery and an envelope. “Well, you’re going to write one now.”

  I sit him down and tell him to pull out his pen, to use his best handwriting. To do it right I probably should let him choose his own words, but I don’t want to take any chances. I dictate: “ ‘Dear Ms. DeNaples,’ comma.”

  He puts his head down and writes exactly what I tell him to. Not even a whimper. He knows he has to do it. And when it’s done, he delivers the note to Ms. D. in person. I watch from outside the office as she reads it in front of him. All is clearly not forgiven, but she sighs and dismisses him with a warning. “Disrespect is no laughing matter.”

  When Pepper comes out of the office, we stand there for several seconds looking at each other. Then I ask, “You going to lunch?”

  “Yeah.” He turns and heads for the cafeteria, looking as disheveled and hangdog as always. But as he enters the stairwell, he gives me a little backward wave over his shoulder. We’re off the hook, and at least some modicum of Ms. D.’s dignity is restored. I call that even.

  TEACHERS’ LOUNGE

  No Fear Shakespeare

  “Why do we teach tenth graders Shakespeare?”

  David Cohn must hear the anguish in my voice, but he still insists on answering my question, as teachers will do, with another question. “Why do you think we teach Shakespeare?”

  “No way! You’re not going to pull that one on me.” Tomorrow I’m supposed to start the unit on Julius Caesar, and I’m as intimidated as my students by the Elizabethan verbiage and just the thought of teaching Shakespeare. I need to know why we’re doing this. “Seriously.”

  “Mental gymnastics,” he says.

  I don’t get it.

  “The work Shakespeare puts them through will serve them when they’re older.”

  “Come on. That’s a hard sell for me, forget the kids. David, I have to convince them and myself this is worth the effort.” The truth is, I’m not sure I know enough to teach Shakespeare.

  “Front-load the unit.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Get them to think about who Shakespeare was, and his historical context.”

  It occurs to me that David Cohn himself, with his pale features, sad eyes, and well-trimmed brown beard, would make a good stand-in for old Will. The Shakespeare of Northeast High. “You mean,” I say, “find a way to feel connected to him, like having them do a research project on his neighborhood?”

  “That’s one approach. It’s okay to get creative.”

  “Maybe have them draw the playwright at work, or the Old Globe? Poster board displays?” I think of all the class projects I wish I’d taken seriously in my day. “I bet Eric Choi could make an origami Shakespeare.”

  “How about library exercise? They can use the computers,” David suggests.

  “Yeah. Rotten kids get to use the Internet. All we had was the encyclopedia.”

  “Just make sure they don’t discover No Fear Shakespeare,” David deadpans.

  “What’s No Fear Shakespeare?”

  He lets out a laugh and shakes his head. Gotcha! “Translates the old English to modern English.”

  “Really? I love it.” I make a beeline for my laptop.

  “And you, too, Brutus?” doesn’t have quite the ring of “Et tu, Brute?” but No Fear Shakespeare immediately makes my life easier. For the zillionth time since school began, I give thanks for the World Wide Web.

  I’ll admit it: I have help. I’m determined to do as much of what a teacher does as I can without extra assistance, but there are times when having the production company behind me does make my life easier. Unlike other classes, we have our own ultrafast Wi-Fi connection, which gives me access to the whole Internet, including YouTube, to enhance my lessons. I’ve found that YouTube is loaded with videos on every great work of literature. Some comic, some serious, but all certainly interesting to the kids. I think this gives my students an advantage over other classes, which have only limited access and certainly can’t tap YouTube, but I’ve heard teachers argue the opposite.

  “David,” I ask, “do you think all these electronics are changing the way kids learn? They do seem to have a shrinking attention span, and a lot of them couldn’t stay on task if their lives depended on it. We’re supposed to integrate technology into the classroom, but what if this technology is causing the shrinking? How do you use something that inhibits learning to aid education?”

  David finishes signing the form on his desk—another teacher’s evaluation, fortunately, not mine. “I don’t think we have a choice,” he says. “Technology is a fact of life. The kids are used to having constant stimulation. Advertisers, software companies, Facebook, television shows—” He throws a sidelong glance at our ever-present production crew. “Practically from the moment they’re born, kids have all these forces clamoring for their attention, begging to entertain them
and sell them something. Then they come to school, where they and their parents tell administrators that it’s the teachers’ job to engage them and break through all that other stuff. As far as the kids are concerned, they’ve done their part if they show up. They sit in front of the teacher the same way they sit in front of a computer screen, waiting for that instant message.”

  “But sometimes I can stand on my head and do somersaults. Nothing.”

  “The mistake many new teachers make is to confuse engagement with passive entertainment.”

  I grimace. “Kind of an irony for an entertainer like me to be here, then.”

  David looks at the ceiling. “You said it, I didn’t.”

  “Ouch. Well, you can’t say I’m not trying. What does it take to really engage them, then?”

  “Two words. Active participation. Look what happened when you got them involved in that scavenger hunt for Of Mice and Men. When they’re making it happen, they’re learning. When all that’s happening is you talking, chances are much lower that they’re learning. They tune out and look for their BlackBerries. Of course, it could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “You could be teaching math.”

  “Hah! Fat chance.”

  David pushes back from his desk and looks out the window at the football field, where Nakiya is conducting the Northeast marching band on the fifty-yard line. “They haven’t really changed that much, you know. If you can connect them emotionally to a moment in a book or a poem, the differences will melt away.” He sighs and brings his attention back to me. “But they have to feel it, Tony. No matter how much you may want to, you can’t feel it for them.”

  “I just asked about technology in the classroom.” I put my laptop away. “You don’t have to get all heavy on me.”

  Six

  Never Smile Before Christmas

  LIKE IT OR NOT, we’re on to Shakespeare, and I’m now excited about the challenge. I ask each student to create a project demonstrating the Bard’s importance and influence, and the kids actually come through. Eric Choi constructs a detailed model of the Old Globe Theatre entirely out of little pieces of paper. Others draw posters and dioramas. Daniel’s portrait of Shakespeare looks surprisingly like Mr. Cohn. Laura devises an ingenious board game tracing Shakespeare’s life and career, which everybody wants to play. But despite the fun they have with the projects, they’re still moaning and groaning over the language every time I tell them to read a scene, and we haven’t even gotten to the Ides of March yet—let alone Thanksgiving. Good thing David turned me on to No Fear Shakespeare, my inspiration for an exercise I call Shakespeare to Street.

  The idea is to have the kids rephrase Julius Caesar in their own lingo. “You know that language you kids all speak that drives me crazy,” I tell them. “Like ‘you be and I be.’ Well, here’s your chance to let it loose. I want you to do that to Shakespeare. Take a scene and act it out in street language. You’ll each perform a scene, and we’ll vote for the winners.”

  Success! Not that I always understand their translations. At one point in her performance, Paige says, “Caesar, don’t you be draulin’.” After she finishes, I ask what draulin’ means. Her reply: “It means when someone is acting completely off the chain.”

  “Oh.” I nod as if she makes perfect sense. Shakespeare would have liked that.

  Fortunately, it matters less that I understand my students’ translations than that they understand the play. I have high hopes when I test them on the first three acts. Everyone except Howard is present, and nobody just turns over the paper in defeat and stares at the ceiling. I give them our whole first period and collect their answers before the break. My plan is to review their answers as a group during our second period, but then Howard saunters in.

  He has an approved excuse—a morning doctor’s appointment—but now I have to figure out a place for him to make up the test. I’ve seen other teachers put a student’s desk in the hall for a makeup, and that seems like a reasonable plan. As long as the door is closed he won’t hear a word inside, and we can go ahead with our review. Howard gives me his usual goofy grin and shrugs. “Okay with me.”

  The test review doesn’t disappoint. The kids are able to identify the date of the Ides of March and the first man to stab Caesar, and they’re into the story. I tell them we’ll wrap up the last two acts by watching the movie with James Mason as Brutus and Marlon Brando as Antony. We’re having a good discussion when I notice Matt has his phone out. “Matt, put the phone away.”

  He ignores me. He’s texting.

  “Matt, put your phone away.”

  “Uh-oh, Matt,” the others cry.

  I don’t see or suspect a thing until that night, when I grade the individual tests.

  Matt and Howard are good friends. They’re both solid athletes, and by some outrageous fortune, their Julius Caesar tests contain almost identical right and wrong answers. I begin to think they cheated several hours before I figure out how they did it. Matt was texting Howard in the hall when I was telling him to put away his phone. Clearly, you can’t be a Luddite and also be with it as a teacher today.

  In the morning I ask our production office to show me yesterday’s tapes. We had two cameras going, one inside the classroom and one to shoot Howard taking his test. The camera outside was positioned at the end of the hall, to be unobtrusive and get a long shot. “I knew he was up to something,” the cameraman says as he racks up the shot.

  There it is. Howard is dropping the phone from his pocket, checking the screen, then writing on his test. Phone from the pocket, checking, and writing. Over and over again. Worse, he’s got that Cheshire cat grin on his face, like he’s pulling off a heist. They really did forget there were cameras.

  When I get to David Cohn’s office, I’m steamed. “Matt and Howard cheated on the test.”

  David closes his laptop and leans back in his chair. His face betrays nothing. “How do you know?”

  “Well, their answers match up exactly. Matt was texting him the answers from inside the class. We’ve got it on tape.” I’m pacing.

  David takes his time answering. “Did you personally see anything?”

  “No. I can’t believe it, but I totally missed it.”

  “In a real-life situation without cameras, if you didn’t see it, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  I feel my mouth fall open. “So what do I do?”

  He folds his arms and doesn’t answer. It’s clear that he has no intention of using the taped evidence against the boys. His deal is teaching for real. And he’s right. I wanted it this way.

  I confront Howard after class alone and ask him baldly, “You cheat on the test?”

  Just as brazenly, he denies it. “What?” he sputters, with a look of offended innocence. “No!”

  “How do you explain the fact that your answers and Matt’s are identical?”

  He shrugs. “Coincidence.”

  I keep it up for a while, but he doesn’t give an inch.

  I corner Matt. “You think you were doing your friend a favor? Cheating is no favor and just gets you in trouble.”

  Matt won’t meet my eyes. He shifts his feet. His hands dig deep into his pockets, but he won’t cop to it, either. Finally I let him go.

  One of the girls in the class later lets me in on the boys’ conversation after Matt’s meeting with me:

  Matt, all over Howard: “Didn’t you know they had a camera on you? What were you thinking?”

  Howard, genuinely shocked: “No way. They were all the way at the other end of the hall.”

  I have enough evidence to put it behind me. I’ve learned a valuable lesson about the downside of technology in the classroom. After this, I’m much more vigilant about turning off cell phones in class, and no one is allowed to bring any electronic devices into the hallway when taking a makeup test. Unfortunately, my kids have also just proven that cameras in schools aren’t always a bad idea.

  FROM THE BEGINNING, I’ve planned to fl
y home to be with my family for the Thanksgiving holiday. I love Thanksgiving—no gifts, just great food, family, and friends. Plus, I miss my daughters and my wife, and I need to find out if they miss me. Back in September, Thanksgiving promised to be a natural break, an automatic trip, a no-brainer. But student events have a way of overtaking the calendar. As November arrives, I realize we have a big football game scheduled for Thanksgiving Day against our archenemy, Central High. This is the oldest public high school rivalry in the country, and I really should be there for the three boys in my class who are playing, as well as for the rest of the team. Also, if the marching band keeps winning, they’ll be competing in state championships that weekend, and Nakiya has made me promise to come. Simple logistics don’t help, either. Even if the school calendar were empty over the break, it’s a long trip for a short holiday. To get to California, I’ll have to leave late Wednesday, after school. It’s a six-hour flight. Then I’m home three days, and early Sunday morning back on another long return flight. And that four o’clock wake-up on Monday won’t adjust for three hours of jet lag.

  There’s another problem. I’m so wrapped up in my responsibilities here that at home I’ll probably spend the whole time talking and thinking about my students. At this moment that might not go over too well with my wife and my real kids. I don’t know how other teachers do it, even without the distance. Maybe this explains the clichéd image of teachers as spinsters. With everything you have to do for school, who’s got anything left for a marriage or family?

  When I phone my elder daughter early in November, I confess that I still haven’t bought my plane tickets because “I’m not sure yet when I can get home.” It doesn’t help at all when she says, “Oh, that’s okay, Dad.” It is? Is she telling me it’s okay because I’ve already missed so much of her life that it really makes no difference to her anymore whether I’m there or not? Does she have a new boyfriend I don’t even know about? Or does she mean it really is okay because she thinks I’m doing something important, giving my all to kids who don’t have the advantages she has? I’m trying hard to teach my students to read, yet I can’t even read my own daughter anymore.