Will Ulrich: The legacy of a teacher

October makes me think of teachers. As the air takes on its crisp autumn smell, my mind turns to past falls and, invariably, to images of teacher and student.

For some, September may bring back the most vivid images of the classroom, but in my mind, Septembers still belong to the summer. When I was younger, I would return to school after Labor Day, but I would still have one eye gazing out of the window.

In shirt sleeves, my brother and I would continue our heated summer season of tennis ball baseball in the alley in the late afternoons. The Yankees' season was anything but decided, and my stubborn Italian neighbors would still barbeque well past Columbus Day.

It was in the first weeks of October -- in between the restlessness of September and the biting November wind -- that I was really turned over to the care of the teachers of my youth.

And now, as this October moves along, I reflect back on my years of schooling, on those who inspired me, on those who enraged me. I look at my own family -- my father the schoolteacher and my brother in college training to join the ranks -- and I marvel how much my life has hinged on teachers.

Not all have been stellar.

There was Ms. McDonnough in second grade. We, her pupils, were admittedly cruel, locking her out of the room once and proceeding to sift through the contents of her purse as she hollered through the bolted door.

But she also came up short in pedagogic acumen. She routinely made the more sensitive students shed tears, and, in a bizarre incident, she had a fiery argument with yours truly about how many states comprise the union. She claimed 52, while I argued for the traditional 50 to no avail.

A few more had their obvious failings. Ms. Quinn had a difficult time maintaining classroom discipline with her ceramic left eye. Ms. Rocco had an ugly fondness for the plural pronoun "yous," as in, "Yous guys need to study this." There were numerous imperfections, but they tend to obscure the main, undeniable fact that I have been blessed my entire life with teachers that have taken the time to help me grow.

When she found my D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince-inspired vulgar rap song scrawled on a piece of looseleaf in the fall of third grade, Ms. Steinhauser didn't read me the riot act. Instead, she looked me straight in the eye and told me that I was not a comedian, but rather a serious student. Although I still sometimes let my wise-ass instinct get the best of me, there's no doubt that Ms. Steinhauser's straight talk helped.

In high school, I encountered some real masters of the classroom. Father Judge first showed me that one of the keys to life was to never stop reading. Mr. Vode finally taught me how to write a well-mannered paragraph. Most were memorable, but none more so than Mr. Sabatelli, or "Sabu" behind his back.

Sabu was built like a nose tackle and arrived at school at least two hours before classes began. From the early hours of the morning, he would sit at his desk in rapt contemplation of the book he held in his hands; he read at least two per week.

His mastery of historical literature was a thing to behold. You'd go to him with a topic and he would rattle off a list of at least five books worth reading. You'd better remember the first two titles he mentioned because he would quiz you on them in the coming weeks. Listening to him lecture was like being at the wrong end of a Howitzer. He'd start at Point A and have you at Point Z by period's end, and you would have followed him every dizzying step of the way.

His love of learning was infectious, but mine was the last American history class he would ever instruct. Diabetes and vision problems had been plaguing him for years before, but you could tell that Sabu was tired many mornings.

I will never forget that morning in the spring when, in the midst of a lecture, Sabu misjudged the spot of the podium, tripped over its leg and come falling to the ground with a resounding thud.

As he struggled back to his feet, obviously shaken, there was not a peep from us jokesters. We all respected him too much to do anything but stare in disbelief. We cared about him because he -- in his own irascible, boisterous way -- cared about us and cared about the life of the mind.

I don't know if that accident factored into Sabu's decision to retire. I do know that it--and the respectful silence that followed it -- were evidence of the effect a teacher can have on his students.

I think the bad pay and the disrespectful kids will probably scare me off from the profession, but I know that my life would be well-spent if I could be some kid's Mr. Sabatelli.

Will Ulrich is a senior Philosophy major from the Bronx, N.Y.

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