Free I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had by Tony Danza

don’t really expect him to, but the point’s been made. Now my job is just to be here and not say anything else.We sit in silence. Still nothing from him verbally, but I feel like he’s happy I showed up. It’s as if I’ve been suspended, too.
    After a half hour or so, I get up to leave. He looks up and says, “Thanks for coming by.” He speaks clearly enough that I can actually understand what he’s saying. No smirk. This is a considerable concession, especially in front of the other kids.
    As I return to my classroom, trying to figure my next move, I run into Al G’s math teacher, Ms. Green. She’s young, energetic, and generous, and I have a little crush on her. Oh, and she’s also concerned about Al. She reinforces what I already know, that he can do the work but doesn’t think it’s cool to excel. Her seventh-period math group is especially tough for him because he has friends in the class. She describes Al G as a show-off who can also be an endearing kid. I haven’t seen the endearing kid yet, but I know the show-off. We agree to work on him together.
    Ms. Green’s strategy for getting Al working is to have him teach her class. I ask her if I might come and observe that. We devise a game plan.
    The next day I enter Ms. Green’s class dressed like Al. I wear a backpack like his, a hoodie, and his brand of Nikes—shoe style being paramount to these kids. I take a student seat and put my feet up on a nearby desk, showing off those familiar sneakers. From the head of the class, Al spots them and smirks. Direct hit. I loudly unwrap a sandwich, which I proceed to eat as he watches from the teacher’s spot and tries to do his job. He writes a math problem on the board. I raise my hand, and when he calls on me I ask a question about bacon, which for some reason he’s always talking about. He ignores me the same way I do him when he asks dumb questions. Then I give him my Sunday punch: I yawn as loudly and demonstratively as I can. Just like him. He shakes his head.
    The math class is having a good laugh at Al G’s expense, but thenhe gets serious and really does try to teach. The kids continue to act out, and Al threatens to throw people out of the class and call the dean, all to no effect. I raise my hand and ask him to help me with the math problem sheet. Math is not my subject, and I’m not acting. He makes a real attempt to explain the problems to me, and like a real student, I struggle. He stays with it, attempting to get me to understand while trying to control the rest of the class, which is not easy. When I still don’t get it, he’s clearly frustrated. I know that feeling.
    I ask him, “What do you think about teaching now? Not that easy, right?”
    He won’t admit it, but his face softens. The bell rings, and his classmates razz him as they leave. They make Ms. Green promise, no more student teachers. Al G is complaining to Ms. Green, but when I get up to go, he stops me. “Thanks for coming.” That’s the second time he’s said that to me. Then he adds, “Keep working on that problem.” He can be endearing after all.
    Small victories, I think, as I make my way down the corridor in my cool sneakers.
    I N ADDITION TO all their other classes, most teachers are assigned advisory—today’s term for homeroom. I don’t have any official advisory students, but I soon begin acquiring unofficial ones, and as soon as I do, that term,
advisory
, makes perfect sense to me. This is the period when teaching is all about advice, when you serve as part counselor, part friend, part surrogate parent. As one of the teachers in my SLC told me, counseling can be a bigger part of the job than teaching. “In poor schools, the teacher has to pick up the slack created by less involved parents and more kids with problems.”
    My first unofficial advisory kids are strays. I meet them in the hallways or cafeteria, or when I’m working with one of the teamsor clubs. Then they start turning up and camping out in