When I started teaching English in 1980 in Manhattan, I had no idea what I was doing. Fresh out of grad school, I knew my subject, but I didn’t know how to teach it to teenagers. And back then: no one to help me. No mentoring program for new teachers, no instructional skills workshop—nothing. On day one, my boss said, “You’re in room twelve, down the hall, on your left. Good luck.” Heading there, I passed a veteran teacher and asked if he had any advice. He said, “Don’t smile before December.” With that, I took a deep breath, walked into room twelve, and began my teaching career.

Incredibly, I got off to a great start. I was young, the kids liked me, and I knew my stuff. Right away, I felt a palpable energy in my classroom—the magic I was hoping for when I decided to become a teacher. It was like riding a wave. One day in early October, my senior class was having a discussion about science fiction, and a student asked if I had read the Anthony Burgess novel A Clockwork Orange. I said yes; I also mentioned the Stanley Kubrick film version. Both book and movie tell the story of a marauding gang of teenage thugs roaming a futuristic English landscape perpetrating acts of ultra-violence against helpless victims. For these graphic depictions, the book was banned and the film earned an “X” rating.

Had I any sense at the time, I would have stopped there. But I kept right on going, adding that St. Marks Cinema in the Village featured a midnight screening of the film on Saturday nights, with audience members dressing up in the costumes of the characters. A student pointed out that he and his classmates were underaged and couldn’t get in. “No problem,” I replied. “I’ll meet you there and say you’re all with me.” Saturday night arrived, I headed downtown and found eighteen students (four from another school), eagerly waiting for me to let them in. Needless to say, no permission slips, no inhalers, and no EpiPens. We all entered and watched the film. Afterward, we huddled on the sidewalk outside for twenty minutes, sharing our thoughts. At 2:39 a.m., we parted ways for home. On the cab ride back to my apartment, I was on cloud nine. This was exactly what I thought teaching should be.

Then came Monday morning. I’ll spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say that when you meet your boss and they’re wearing a scowl, bad things follow. Mine chewed me out to within an inch of my life. I think the only reason I wasn’t fired was that it’s hard to hire teachers during the school year. Afterward, I felt duly chastised. At the same time, I secretly relished the enthusiasm I saw in my students, and how the “movie incident” was fast becoming an urban legend around the school. I wondered if I could have that kind of impact as a teacher without going completely off the rails.

Enter Marsha Katz. Her official position was Assistant Head of School, but she was more like what law firms call a “fixer”, someone who goes around solving problems and putting out fires (like mine). She sat me down and said she had never seen anyone pull a stunt like that. Didn’t really sound like a compliment. However, she also said I had the potential to become a good teacher, and she wanted to work with me to reach that goal. “You would do that for me?” I asked. Her reply: “I’ll do it for the school.” In the months that followed, whenever I wasn’t sure about something, I went to Marsha. And she was great. She totally understood my ambition to make literature come alive for my students, but she helped me temper that ambition with common sense and sound judgment. For all her experience and know-how, she was never condescending or dogmatic; she was an invaluable sounding board for everything from classroom management to textbook selection. She became a trusted mentor and a close friend, and she helped me lay a foundation for the path that has led me to the position I hold today at Pingry, forty-five years later. Thank you, Marsha.

What I am describing here is not complicated: pursue your dreams, but exercise caution. It’s also not new. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle argues that we find excellence not in the extremes, but in a sweet spot that lies between excess and deficiency. The soldier who charges recklessly into battle is just as ineffective as the soldier who flees the field in fear. Neither exemplifies true courage. Always seek the middle—what Aristotle called the “golden mean”. This principle has guided me through countless decisions, from making a course proposal, to planning my retirement, to picking a ski run. Fortunately, and with help, I learned it relatively early on, although let’s face it: finding the proper balance between passion and prudence is not a one-and-done thing; for all of us, it’s a lifelong challenge. I mean, it’s not like we level off at cruising altitude in our twenties and fly turbulence free the rest of the flight. There are always a few bumps along the way. When I came to Pingry in 1988, I was already a veteran teacher in my thirties. I knew my way around a classroom. But I still pushed the envelope, and sometimes went too far, like when I gave motorcycle lessons to students in the school parking lot and when I appeared on our stage for Halloween wearing a black speedo bathing suit. Pretty sure Aristotle would not approve. But I learned from my mistakes, and while I’m still a little provocative every now and then (like now), I wisely stay within the boundaries of proper decorum. So students, and grownups too, go for it—live your lives with gusto. As the great poet Goethe once wrote, “be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid.” Just make sure you’re fully clothed and not on a motorcycle.

 

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Author photo by Anthony "Truncs" Truncale '26

 

To contact the author: Mr. Keating