I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had

by Tony Danza

  As luck would have it, a big PowerPoint project is due this morning. I wanted to deepen my students’ understanding of the history behind To Kill a Mockingbird and give them practice doing research on the Internet, so I divided them into groups and assigned each group one of seven topics: (1) The Jim Crow Laws, (2) Harper Lee, (3) A Trial in the U.S. Legal System, (4) The Great Depression in Alabama, (5) The Effect of the Depression on the Black Community, (6) Capital Punishment, or (7) The Scottsboro Boys. The kids were to visit preassigned websites for information and then create PowerPoint presentations. Of course, since you can’t assume that public school kids have access to computers, I had to bring in a COW—computers on wheels. This cart of thirty Apple laptops shuttles around the school, which makes the process cumbersome and progress on projects slow, so I expect one or two presentations to come in late, but since there are seven groups and this creative stuff is what the kids love, I’m not worried. In fact, I’m almost looking forward to showing off to this reporter their talent and my classroom management skills.

  As we wait for the students, I hook up my computer to the projector. The presentations were to be emailed to me before class, and of course, my in-box was empty last night, but the kids always wait until the last possible second. I fiddle with the cables and ask this not unattractive young woman what section of the paper she usually writes for. She reminds me that she’s the education reporter—as requested by my network. Extracting my foot from my mouth, I mutter something brilliant like “How nice of you to be here” and direct her and her photographer to seats at the side of the room opposite David Cohn.

  The kids have been told about our guests and file in on their best behavior. I open my email, and as they settle down, I tell them we’re skipping today’s do-now exercise so we can get right down to their presentations. The class grows eerily quiet, and a second later I understand why.

  Exactly one project has been submitted. One!

  I lose focus for a second, and when I look up, the excuses start to fly. More than Carter has pills, as my father used to say, but I put my hand up to silence them. The reporter is having a fine old time scribbling all of this on her pad. I know I must not panic, but I have no backup plan. Zip. As an actor, I’d call this “dead air.” As a teacher I call it “death.”

  Stalling for time and scrambling for ideas, I happen to look down at my desk. There in my physical in-box lies a printout my daughter Emily sent for my birthday a few days ago. It’s a short story with an accompanying lesson plan that she found online. Unrelated to anything I’ve been teaching, “Frank Sinatra’s Gum” is a story about a high school girl in 1945 who poses as a reporter for her school paper so she could interview Frank Sinatra, who at the time was the biggest star in the world. The kicker is that somehow she winds up with Sinatra’s chewed gum in her mouth—without kissing him. My daughter grew up listening to my own Frank Sinatra stories—about the time he yelled at me on national TV for trying to take his arm when I thought he might fall, or the time I introduced him to my former bobby-soxer mother, who used to say after I’d been on TV for a few years, “Big shot, when you introduce me to Sinatra, then you’re a star” (Frank Sinatra treated her like a queen). I was lucky in Hollywood to become part of a social circle that included Sinatra and other maestros such as Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Gregory Peck (yes, I actually knew Atticus), and the great director Billy Wilder. My daughter hasn’t met many of them, but she knows her father. “Happy Birthday Dad,” she wrote on the printout. “You’ll like this.”

  The sight of Emmie’s handwriting calms me down. It occurs to me that this short story is all about the character’s quick thinking and improvisation just as she starts to panic. It’s filled with figurative language and imagery. And it comes with a list of questions to prime students’ critical thinking. I pick up the story, turn to the class, and begin to read.

  The kids nearly gag when the girl in the story reaches under the table to pry off Sinatra’s just-chewed gum and then pops it into her own mouth, but they can identify with a kid who’ll do almost anything to impress her more popular classmates. They also notice that she gets the better of Sinatra because she’s done her homework on him.

  After finishing the story, I ask, “How many of you know who Sinatra is?”

  They give me blank stares. Then Al G mutters, “He’s that old guy P. Diddy likes.”

  All right. Whatever it takes. “Who’s the Sinatra of today?”

  Jay-Z! Beyoncé! Eminem! Other rappers they name I’ve never heard of. Not for the first time this year, I’m struck by just how unfamiliar I am with my students’ culture—and not only because I’m older.

  “Okay, say you were interviewing that person for your school paper. What questions would you like to ask?” That one’s for the Inquirer reporter, who’s still busily writing. But there’s also something serious that I’ve been wanting to discuss with the kids all year, and the short story sets it up beautifully. “Why do you think some people wind up as superstars?”

  They all jump at once. They just got it! It’s a gift. Nah, it takes talent! You got to be beautiful. No, man, you just gotta know people.

  Many kids are fame-crazy. How could they not be? Our society celebrates and venerates celebrity, and the rise of reality TV has only stoked the idea that anyone and everyone can “get famous,” regardless of smarts or talent. This is a particularly thorny issue for me as a teacher because reality TV brought me here, and although my students were not paid to be on the show, when it airs they will undoubtedly have a small taste of celebrity. So throughout the year I’ve pushed the kids to think about true success and what that really means. Whenever they answer, I just wanna be famous, I stop them. “What are you going to be famous for?”

  Some will say they want to be movie stars and athletes. Emmanuel wants to be a real estate entrepreneur. Chloe wants to be a model—and/or ambassador to China or France. And Monte wants to be a pediatrician. But reality TV is an unmistakable magnet. “That Jersey Shore gang is making big bucks,” one boy told me. Unfortunately, he’s not wrong, and this represents a huge and barely acknowledged obstacle to education. I tell my students that good behavior will pay off, but then they go home and watch television and tell me I’m wrong. “Bad behavior pays off, Mr. Danza.” Where’s the motivation to pay attention in school when you can get rich just by letting a camera crew into your living room and acting out?

  Now I try to help the kids see that there are actually two types of fame. “Reality TV fame is meaningless because it requires no skill, talent, or accomplishment. Meaningful fame, on the other hand, shows that you’ve done something truly special and good.” I reference Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers, which shows that many of the successful people we think are just gifted or lucky actually had to work very hard. “If you’re going to be famous, be famous for something you’re willing to work for. You’ll feel better about yourself.”

  Next we consider the actual experience of fame. “What are the pluses and minuses of life as a celebrity?” I ask.

  They start with the assumption that fame is all about money, attention, and freedom, but the more I draw them back to the story “Frank Sinatra’s Gum,” the more they have to admit that it’s not always so great to have fans constantly after you for autographs—or your gum—and maybe the paparazzi could be pretty annoying, and maybe sometimes you just want to hang out and not get all dressed up for the camera. Maybe there are even some responsibilities that come with fame. “When you’re famous,” I suggest, “you have influence. But how do you handle that influence? What happens if you don’t work hard or perform well?” We talk about the pressure—and opportunity—that comes with fame, especially the opportunity to share your good luck with people who are not so fortunate. I’m not sure everyone is convinced that celebrity is a mixed bag, but it turns into a spirited discussion, and I feel like a real teacher.

  After the bell rings and the students leave, the reporter and photographer thank me for an entertaining c
lass. When they, too, are gone, David Cohn throws an arm around my shoulders. “Mr. Danza, you sure pulled that one out of your ass.”

  I grin. “Emmie came through for me, Mr. Cohn.”

  The next morning I open the Inquirer to read:

  Mr. Danza was having a bad day. The laptop acted up. Few students were ready to present their projects and the group was restless, giggly, and distracted. A few snickers and moans erupted when the new reading assignment was announced.

  In other words, a typical day in a typical high school class—with a typical teacher. And all the groups eventually do turn in their PowerPoint presentations.

  TEACHERS’ LOUNGE

  Fight Night

  Petey Pop, the manager at the gym, gives me tickets to a boxing show that Joe Hand is promoting Friday night at Philadelphia’s legendary fight club the Blue Horizon. There’s nothing more fun than a local fight club. It’s the type of club where I had most of my fights. Even if the fighters aren’t world class, there’s an immediacy and excitement that you just can’t duplicate in a big arena or on-screen. In a small club, you can actually smell the sweat and feel the heat from the ring. Since neither Joe Connelly nor Rob Caroselli has ever been to the Horizon, I invite them to make a night of it.

  After some great Philadelphia Italian food, we arrive at the Blue Horizon. It’s already packed to the rafters, with people hanging over the balcony railings, but with Petey taking care of us, we’re in luck. Our seats are ringside. A referee and judge I know from my own fighting days, Frank Cappuccino, comes over to say hello. And sitting next to us is Tex Cobb, who fought Larry Holmes in 1982 for the heavyweight title. He took quite a beating. In fact, that bout was such a brutal mismatch that Howard Cosell, who was calling the fight, quit in disgust and never returned to cover boxing. Fortunately, Tex can now laugh about it. “I’m your man if you need someone to come to school and straighten out the kids,” he jokes with Joe and Rob.

  “Yeah, some days we could use your kind of help,” Joe says.

  Rob smiles but shakes his head. Though as young as Joe, Rob has a privileged view of the kids who most need straightening out at school. It’s his job to find ways of dealing with them that do not involve fists. A cheer goes up over the action in the ring, so I can’t hear what Rob and Joe are now saying, but their conversation has their full attention. Then I catch the name of another Northeast teacher, Mr. Grant.

  Joe smiles. “Well, sure. That’s why we need Tex here, to save us from ourselves.”

  “Hey,” I interrupt. “What are you guys talking about?”

  Joe asks me if I know the teacher Rob just mentioned, but I know only that Grant’s another first-year hire. “Well, he’s a hothead.” Joe glances at Rob to see if he’s talking out of turn, but Rob motions him on. “Frankly, I’ll be surprised if he makes it through the year.”

  “Why?” I ask. “What happened?”

  Joe says, “I passed him and a student in the hallway a couple of weeks ago and heard the kid mouthing off. Next thing I knew they were yelling at each other.” Joe stopped and turned back just as Mr. Grant stepped toward the kid. “You get in some of these kids’ faces, and they feel they have to respond.”

  I shudder, remembering my own near dustup with Pepper’s personal bully, Elvis Jones.

  “Fortunately,” Rob says, “Joe suggested a different solution. Otherwise, Mr. Grant wouldn’t have made it through the day, let alone the year.”

  That makes Tex laugh hard. Everything makes Tex laugh hard. But it doesn’t sound funny to me.

  After the fights, we stop for a nightcap at Nick’s Roast Beef. We want to celebrate Joe’s wins on five of the six bets of the night, but all we can talk about, as usual, is school.

  “Hey,” Joe says, “something happened this week that really made me feel good. My sixth period is crazy. There are too many big personalities in that class and they see me right after lunch. So during sixth period on Monday some of these kids banged on my door and ran away. With help from security I got them back into the classroom, but after security left, I was asking for their IDs to write them up when one of the kids ran his mouth. He refused to give up his ID and walked out of the room.”

  “I’m waiting for the part that made you feel good.” Rob rolls his eyes at me.

  Joe waves his hand for us to listen. “The great part is that two of my more difficult students—I suspended both of them earlier this year—they went into the hall and squared off with the kid and told him he can’t speak to Mr. Connelly like that. They were my enforcers! Of course, I was glowing with pride, but I chased all three back into the room, and now the holdout handed me his ID. It made me feel like sixth period might be going better than I thought.” He grins as if the payoff of this story were a badge of honor.

  “You’re a good guy, Joe,” I say.

  “Small victories.” Joe shrugs.

  A common refrain, I think. In fact, I’ve heard it, or something like it, almost every day lately. I’ve taken to using the bathroom in the teachers’ lounge on the second floor—not much of a lounge, really, just a cubicle with a table and chairs and a bathroom, but space enough for a handful of teachers to hold a private conversation—and the most frequent concern I hear there is teachers’ doubt about whether they’re still making a difference. Unlike the gung-ho first-year teachers I met at the start of the year, many in the lounge are discouraged veterans, including retirees who’ve come back to substitute. Some blame the administration, district, or superintendent. A few blame the current culture of violence and disrespect. But most blame parents for checking out and expecting teachers to do the family’s work.

  “How many parents did you get for parent-teacher conferences?” I ask Joe.

  “Me?” Joe lets out a grunt and shakes his head at Rob. “Not many. I’m not sure they care whether their kids learn math. But, Tony, you must have had them eating out of your hand, coming in to check out the Boss.”

  “One,” I tell him. “I counted. One.” In fact, the school was like a ghost town on the afternoon of the conferences.

  “In the parents’ defense,” Rob says, “most have to work, sometimes more than one job, and it’s tough to get off during the day. We do schedule conferences at night, and we see more parents then, but not that many more.”

  “I hate to say it,” I say, “but in private schools the teachers practically have to fight the parents off with a stick. I remember cooling my heels out in the hall more than once while the parents ahead of us monopolized the teacher. It’s not just that you get what you pay for. There’s a whole different attitude.”

  “Dream on,” Rob says. “Did you see the article in the paper the other day about the public middle school where the teachers made gift baskets to entice parents to come in for parent-teacher conferences?”

  I start to laugh until I realize Rob’s not joking. “You mean the teachers are bribing the parents to come in and talk about their own children’s education?”

  “Afraid so.”

  I nurse my beer. “Maybe Dinh’s right.”

  “Dinh?” Joe asks.

  “He’s that Vietnamese math teacher who hangs out in the teachers’ lounge on the second floor. He’s always talking about how much better schools are in Asia, where the students respect the teacher and the parents make sure the children know they have to learn.”

  Rob nods. “He’s got a point. Most of the students on our honor roll are ESL students.” English as a second language. “Many of them have recently arrived from Asia. And unfortunately, the longer the kids are in this country the more their grades tend to drop. What’s wrong with that picture?”

  All three of us stare glumly up at the television above the bar. Sarah Palin is pumping her fist and winking at her supporters in front of a huge red, white, and blue banner. When Anderson Cooper cuts to a commercial, the bartender changes the channel to a fight on ESPN.

  “Which do you think is tougher,” Joe asks me, “boxing or teaching?”

  No contest.
“Admittedly,” I say, “boxing is a tough way to make a living, but I honestly think teaching is harder.”

  “Mentally, anyway.” Joe glances up at the two welterweights dancing around the screen. The fighters are mixing it up pretty good.

  Rob grunts. “The real difference is that you can’t fight back, you have to stand there and take the punches.”

  “Like I said,” I say, picking up the tab, “teaching’s a tough way to make a living.”

  Rob finishes his beer and smiles.

  Eleven

  Finals

  IN MAY, 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.