The other night I saw To Sir with Love with Sidney Poitier. The movie was actually realistic, though the ending was prettied up quite a bit.

Anyway, seeing the movie made me think of some of the good times I had as a schoolteacher. Most of the good things I did came from inspiration, pure luck, and ignorance.

An example of ignorance was that I didn’t know that seventh graders weren’t supposed to be able to write a composition a week. The kids didn’t know either.

Through compositions, the children expressed themselves, and I got to know them well. I always welcomed illustrations and photos and any color ink or pencil they wanted. There was no length limit. And they could do a composition over and turn it in as many times as they wanted to get an A. The original grades were not erased, but this way some kids got an A for the first time in their short lives. Although I assigned topics, like My First Memory, or the First Time I Stared Prejudice in the Face, or their autobiographies, they were always free to write about anything they wanted.

My main saving grace, however, was, I believe, that I thoroughly enjoyed the kids. I loved them. I enjoyed them more than anyone I knew.

I most especially loved the “naughty” boys.

In one eighth-grade class, there was a boy named Freddie Finch Freddie was older than other eighth-graders, and he had not had an easy life. He had been in jail when he was in the sixth grade. The police made fun of him and made him scrub the floor with a toothbrush. Once his father had come to his elementary school and beat him up in front of his class. Not an easy life.

Every time Freddie came to class, and it wasn’t every day, he’d make us happy. I have to tell you, our hearts lit up when Freddie came to class. He had some kind of charisma. The first thing I did when Freddie came to class was to spend a few minutes of class having an open conversation with him, what had he been doing etc.. How he could tell a story. What expression, what rhythm.

Anyway, one Monday Freddie was talking about his adventures over the weekend, how he had stolen a car, etc. What reminded me here of To Sir with Love was what one of the girls said when Freddie finished bragging. She said so matter-of-factly: “Freddie, wouldn’t it just be easier to buy a car?”

Freddie was never disrespectful, ever kind, though I always suspected he thought he was putting something over on me. Well, it turns out he was. He had chosen to come to my classroom. Instead of going into the room he was assigned to for English, he had chosen my room, 108. I hadn’t paid attention.

After about six months, the office discovered the error, and he was sent to the next room. The teacher, Mrs. Huntley, was really an excellent teacher, but she had rules, and Freddy could never have made it in her room. He turned sixteen soon, and never came back at all. He really did belong in 108.

At the time, Freddie was in school, Bill Cosby was at the University of Massachusetts, only eighteen miles away, and I wrote to Bill Cosby, telling him about Freddie, hoping he might connect with Freddie who could have been an outstanding performer, but Cosby never answered, and I have never forgiven him.

(Freddie, if you are alive and, by some miracle, read this, please write to me and tell me how you are.)

There is a huge difference between seventh graders and eighth graders. Seventh graders are still babies. You can make them happy in ways that would never work with eighth-graders.

And naughty seventh graders are naughty differently from eighth graders. First of all, they’re so obviously naughty and having such a good time. There’s absolutely nothing malicious. They’re not really problems, just kids. You can see right through them, and it’s hard not to laugh.

One time this adorable boy was misbehaving, I don’t remember now what he was doing. As “punishment”, I made him come up to the front of the room. I was very serious as I told him he had to be my shadow and do whatever I did. So if I wrote on the blackboard, he had to pretend to write on the blackboard too. If I talked, he had to move his lips. If I put my hands on my hips, he had to put his hands on his hips. In other words, I ordered him to mimic me. What a grand punishment for a seventh grade boy! He had the time of his life, and the whole class did too. After a few minutes, I “let” him sit down.

One day in another seventh grade class, three of the boys came to class carrying placards. “I protest.” “This school is unfair.” “On strike.” I asked them to go to the front of the room to tell us all about it. They listed their complaints. I listened.

Finally I said, “But you don’t have that here.”

They said, “We know.”

I said, “Well, why are you protesting here then?”

“Because it’s the only place we can.”

That was one of the best testimonials I ever had.

I will give you an example of luck. The boy’s name was Angelo Cordero, and I had him in homeroom. He had been a disturbed child and had spent time at what was called The Child Study Home. This was the first year he was in regular school. He minded his own business, was sweet. One day this seventh grade boy attacked his social studies teacher and was expelled. The boy might have been fine in homeroom anyway, but here’s why I think harmony with him in 108 was assured:

On the computer printout that came to me the first day of school, he was not listed as Angelo. He was listed as Angelito. So I called him Angelito. I understand that Angelito is a loving name, a name a mother or father might use. It means little Angelo or dear Angelo. If only every teacher had been given this boy’s name as Angelito…

I do have a few more stories to tell about teaching, more about students, about an outstanding principal I had, and about the time I taught in an adolescent psychiatric ward. All that’s for another time.

Gosh, I miss teaching.