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

because Tony Danza’s here.” That’s not true, but it is a sentiment that will linger all year.
    I tell my class that, in solidarity with them, I will wear the same outfit every day, too. “I actually like the idea of uniforms, since it takes the worry out of what to wear,” I say. What I don’t tell my kids is that my uniform set me at odds with my production team, just as theirs sets them at odds with the school administration. When I went out to shop for my teacher clothes, the producers sent along an assistant who would phone back to the production office with my choices, which amounted to black shoes, gray pants and a belt, blue dress shirt, and a Northeast High School tie. Neat, easy, and classic, just like the kids’ uniforms. To get me through the year, I bought five pairs of identical slacks and six shirts, all of which passed muster. But then we came to the tie. A showdown over a tie! The producers were dead set against the neckwear, said it made me look stodgy and old-fashioned. I wouldn’t budge. Tome the tie signifies respect for the job of teaching and the students. It’s the way a teacher is supposed to dress. I won, which turned out to be a very good thing, since the boys’ uniform includes the same school tie.
    “Viking pride, everybody!” I point at my uniform as kids pass me in the hall. “We’re all in this together.” This doesn’t even make a dent in their grumbling, but I feel good and I think I look good, too.
    On the day the policy takes effect, any student not in uniform is directed to the auditorium, where I’ve been given monitor duty, thank you very much. I appear in the doorway, and more than a thousand kids boo me so loudly that I have to leave to make them stop.
    Outside, I spot my student Pepper stopped at the security gate for a uniform violation. Pepper’s a small, quirky kid called by his last name because it describes his personality, but he’s not usually a troublemaker, so I go over to see what’s up. He’s wearing the khaki pants, white shirt, striped school tie, and dark sweater the code requires, but he has on the wrong color shoes. His tough luck that Ms. DeNaples happens to be monitoring that entrance. She points him toward the auditorium.
    Pepper grins and tells her, “I have the right shoes in my backpack.”
    “If you have the right shoes, why aren’t you wearing them?” Ms. D. demands.
    Pepper doesn’t answer, but after he changes his shoes, he hands a small object to Ms. DeNaples saying, “This is for your trouble.”
    She looks in her hand to see what he’s given her, and her face turns scarlet, then purple. Before he has time to blink, she’s on him, hauling him down to the office. I trail them at a safe distance, but they disappear into the principal’s office. No telling how long this will take, so I head back to the auditorium. A few minutes later I’m flagged down by a teacher who takes particular pleasure whenever administration has a “problem.”
    “You hear what your kid Pepper did?” He can hardly contain himself.
    “No, I couldn’t figure it out. What did he do?”
    “He gave Ms. DeNaples a dog biscuit.” The corners of his mouth bubble with laughter, and a second later he’s chortling so hard he has to go into the hall.
    I’m stumped. Why a dog biscuit? And what’s so funny? I hope Ms. D. has a dog, but I have a sneaking suspicion she doesn’t.
    David Cohn’s in the roster room when I track him down, and he just gives my befuddled look right back to me after I tell him the story. Then Ms. DeNaples herself comes in, still bristling. She takes one look at us and must see our bewilderment, or maybe because Pepper’s my student she thinks I should take some responsibility. “Don’t you know what his little
gift
means?” she snarls.
    “I’m sorry,” I say as humbly as possible. “I really don’t.”
    She looks at me like I’m too dumb to live, let alone teach this monstrous kid. “It means I’m a bitch.”
    I can