by Tony Danza
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.
THE 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.
TEACHERS’ LOUNGE
The Sons of Happiness
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 be
longs 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.
A voice outside summons one of the other novitiates, then a few minutes later Joe. I put my ear to the door, but we’re too far away to hear what’s happening. I can make out what sound like cheers, but that’s it. The other math teacher is quaking now. He asks if I’ve ever been through a fraternity hazing. I say yes, when I was in high school. He hasn’t but now starts reciting a litany of news reports about young men who’ve drowned, suffocated, or died of alcohol poisoning during fraternal inductions. I tell him I don’t think there will be anything like that today. Still, he has me spooked enough that when my name is called, I practically leap out of there.
In the yard behind the garage stand some twenty men, including Joe and the other new member—who both appear to be just fine. I relax. Mr. Smith is here, and Rob Caroselli. Most of the others are guys I’ve seen around school all year.
The group speaks together in a kind of chant, instructing me to stand and state my name. Then they ask if I’m sure. Okay, they’re messing with me. “Yes, that’s my name,” I reply, trying to catch Joe’s eye, but he’s now one of them and playing it totally cool.
Then it’s one crazy question after another. Some are vulgar frat-boy jokes, but there are also a couple of serious questions about being a teacher. Why are you here? What can you offer to students that someone else can’t? I answer as best I can, attempting to be clever and impress the club, but after a while it becomes a real grilling, with a free-for-all of follow-up questions. Mostly they’re silly, but I can’t help feeling as if I’m on trial for the crime of impersonating a teacher all year. Even here and now, trying to have fun, I still feel the need to prove myself to this group of veterans. The questions continue until finally the men seem satisfied with my answers. It’s time for the open vote.
“Should Mr. Danza be admitted to the Sons?”
To my relief, everyone yells, “Aye!” Joe and Rob clap me on the back, and I scramble out of my induction costume as fast as humanly possible, then grab for a beer like a drowning man.
Seconds later, I’m one of them, hazing the last candidate, who somehow makes it out of the garage without needing to be carried. I have substantially more sympathy for him now.
Afterward we have a barbecue and sit around talking about—what else?—teaching. To these guys, their profession is both a calling and a way of life. The mood is good and bad. The retired teachers all seem to miss the classroom and look back on their careers fondly. The current teachers love their work, but everybody’s concerned about the way teachers are portrayed in the media and in our culture.
One retired teacher, a tall man with a mustache, waves his cigarette and reminds me about the letter he sent me at the beginning of the year. I remember! This is Harry Gilbert, who retired three years ago after over three decades in the classroom. How can I forget the suggestion in his letter to always carry a shield in case of an unwanted woody—or his more heartfelt advice never to embarrass a student? It’s good to finally put a face to his words.
“I voted to tap you for the Sons,” Harry tells me. “Figured you deserved that much for sticking it out all year. Wasn’t sure you would.” I thank him for his vote and for his letter.
But they’re not done with me yet. After Joe has a few drinks in him, he lets me know what he and the other teachers really thought when they first heard I was coming to their school. It turns out Harry wasn’t alone in his predictions. I’ve climbed an even steeper hill than I realized. Back in September, not one of them would have called me a future Son of Happiness.
Then Joe asks the fateful question. “So, Tony,” he says. “You coming back next year?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, but even as I say it I know I do.
I need to go home. I need to work on being a husband and a father. Also, I have to admit it, teaching is awfully hard work.
Twelve
If …
ALL OF A SUDDEN it’s the last week of school. I wake up on Monday fuming. Mondays annoy me anyway, what with the whole week of work and uncertainty bearing down, but today I’m radioactive. I don’t really know why, though the TV production is one logical scapegoat.
The camera crew needs to film the end of the year, just in case the network orders additional shows, so I have to go back on camera for two more days. They’ll shoot commencement, which is Friday, but Leslie also wants a goodbye in the classroom, and because the vast majority of students skip the last couple of days, he wants me to pretend to say goodbye today. All the old arguments about cooking reality come back to haunt me as I drive to school.
What I’m feeling is out of proportion to my anger over the shoot, and I’d do well to figure out what’s really bugging me. When I get like this, I can be unpleasant. But I can’t figure it out, and when I arrive at my room, the crew bear the brunt of my mood as they set up and mike me. Then I start in on the kids, who turn up behaving like their usual rowdy selves. I actually drag Eric Choi’s chair out into the hall with him in it.
But it’s when Les Grief appears and takes me aside that I really snap. “Ready to shoot your goodbyes?” he says, as if inviting me to dance. And that does it.
“No,” I tell him, under my breath but coldly and right in front of everyone. “School’s not over. We’ve still got this week. I’m not going to say goodbye now. And I’m not going to fake it.”
“Then what are we here for?” he challenges me.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
The kids are watching this family feud with their mouths gaping, loving it even though they’re not sure who to root for. When Les storms out, there’s dead silence. The cameras are rolling.
I really don’t care. I turn my attention back to controlling my unruly class.
Charmaine asks, “Mr. Danza, what’s wrong with you? Why are you so crabby?”
Two other kids chime in, “Yeah, what’s up with that? School’s practically over.”
I glare at them. “Because for some unknown reason, I’m going to miss—”
That’s as far as I get. Out of nowhere and yet again, I break down. The sobs come up in great choking waves, the tears worse than ever. How can I not return to these kids next year? What’s wrong with me?
My waterworks get them up out of their seats, and before I even know what’s happening, we’re locked in another huddle—even Al G is hovering close. Some of them are crying with me, this time. I sputter how much I love them, how much I’m going to miss them, how they’ve changed my life. They pat my back and squeeze me tight. They take all the anger out, and Leslie gets his goodbye.
THE REST OF THE WEEK only a handful of kids come to class, and most aren’t even my students. The air-conditioning is on strike again, and I’m pretty much resigned to just shooting the breeze with the kids. Two of my girls, Paige and Tianna, show up with a DVD and ask if we can watch a movie. They’ve been nagging me to watch this film all year. “It’s so good, Mr. Danza.”
What I know about Freedom Writers is that it chronicles the true story of a young teacher, played by Hilary Swank, who goes to an inner-city school and tries to make a difference. It’s a by-the-numbers tale of rough kids and a caring teacher who refuses to give up on th
em. “I don’t want to see some sappy movie,” I say over and over.
“No, Mr. Danza,” Paige insists. “It’s real good. You’ll like it.”
Finally, they wear me down. “Okay, put it on.”
They jump up, put it in the computer, turn on the projector, and then take seats directly in front of me. For the next two hours I sit at my desk and sob as the movie plays on the front wall screen and Paige and Tianna watch me as if I’m the show. They love that it gets to me. That’s just what they hoped would happen.
Afterward, they hand me Kleenex and pat me on the back. I seem to have passed some kind of challenge. Belatedly, I get it. That movie was their final test for me. If the story touched me as it did them, that would mean I really do care and they’re right about me. They are right about me.
There is one moment in the film, though, that resonates with me in a way I cannot explain to the girls. Swank’s character, Erin, is arguing with her husband, who just does not understand her all-consuming zeal for teaching.
Erin turns to him and says, “I don’t know, but in that classroom my life makes sense.”
BLINK TWICE, and it’s graduation day. Technically, it’s a regular school day for the few underclassmen who deign to show up, but all the energy on campus swirls around commencement. At noon I head down to the football field, excited and honored to be the commencement speaker.
The mood is electric. Philly has pulled out all the stops, weather-wise, and the stadium shines under a bright blue sky. The stands are full to bursting with proud parents, relatives, and friends, and chairs have been set up across the field, waiting for the graduates to file in. Self-conscious in my cap, gown, and even a turquoise blue cowl, I share the dais with Ms. Carroll, the district officials, the senior faculty adviser, and the senior class president.