I'd Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had Read Free Page B

motion him up front, he moves like he’s got years to get there. “I’m Al G,” he says. “I like to joke around. I get on people’s nerves. I can be pretty annoying after a while.”
    I feel like he’s putting me on notice. “Okay then,” I say as Al saunters back to his seat. “Well, I like a good joke. But one of the things I want to impress on you guys this year is to get smart early. Don’t wait, like I did, until you’re out of high school or even college to realize the importance of excelling at your studies. Learn from my—”
    The bell shrieks, and my brain snaps. My students are getting up to leave as if I don’t exist. I stop them. I really have trained for this. “The bell doesn’t dismiss you,” I call out. “I do.” I heard that at orientation, and as it comes out of my mouth it sounds dumb even to me.
    Suddenly I remember the homework assignment. “Think of a story to tell the class tomorrow. It can be a family story, or something that happened to you. Half a page, minimum.”
    Before I can breathe, they’re gone. And I feel like I’ve just lost a ten-round fight by unanimous decision.
    TEACHERS’ LOUNGE
Lesson Plans
    After my first class has imploded and the last student gone, David Cohn comes forward and puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. He’s thin, cerebral, and young enough to be my son. He’s also my supervisor, and he’s been watching the whole debacle from the back of the room. I’m ready to cry.
    David is a concession we had to make before the Philadelphia school board would let me teach at Northeast. On the wall of the board’s meeting room in the district office building hangs a sign that reads: WHAT IS BEST FOR THE STUDENTS? When I saw that sign during our protracted negotiations over the show, I assured the board members, “I have a teenage daughter of my own. And I mean to give my students here the same quality of education that I want for her.” To guarantee that promise, our producers offered to pay for a veteran teacher to observe me and ensure that my students received an effective tenth-grade English course of study.
    At first this concession was grudging on my part. I wanted a real teaching experience, not one with training wheels. But during the orientation that followed, my subjects ranged from classroom management to what to do if a student spits in your face. What would I do if a kid spit in my face? Was this really a possibility? As tough as my childhood neighborhood in Brooklyn had been, no teacher in my day needed to worry about dodging loogies. Maybe having a coteacher wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
    Now a kid’s spitting seems far less of a threat than my own performance does.
    “It’s not as bad as it feels,” David says. “Considering it’s your first attempt.”
    I want to ask why he didn’t step in and save me, but of course, that’s not his job. His job, as we agreed, is to observe, and then sit me down and review what just happened.
    David reminds me that teachers prepare lesson plans to help them stay on track. Which is why he had me slave for three solid days over my plan for today. As David has explained to me more than once, lesson plans have to encompass not just what I teach but also how I teach it and how I plan to assess my students’ retention of the material. Each lesson must have a goal and each class three parts: the “do-now” or warm-up exercise, the main activity, and the wrap-up.
    “Unfortunately,” he points out now, “lesson plans are useless unless you remember to use them.” The last time I even glanced at today’s lesson plan was approximately twelve minutes before Nakiya appeared in the doorway.
    “I cannot believe I forgot the do-now.” I check over my shoulder. Yep. “Right there on the blackboard!”
    “Don’t worry. It happens.”
    I don’t believe him. Time has spun me in circles, and the kids have done me in. I blew the entire class. At this rate, how am I ever going to teach all the