A Pugilist’s Elegy – In Memory of Mr. Polito

It seemed like fate, but it was duty.

My first question was, “Why didn’t you fail me?”

His first question was, “Would you like some iced tea?”

I had been at war with the English Department since 8^th grade. I don’t remember why. I think my 8^th grade English teacher, Mrs. Coffey, enjoyed sparring with me, and I returned the compliment with zeal. It was always cordial. Being a science guy, I consistently argued against the humanities. Only once did I naively step over the line. The teacher wisely told me that there were such things as lines. I demurred and vowed never again to go over that unseen demarcation.

But that didn’t mean I stopped pushing the envelope.

In 10^th grade I took a stand against reading and interpreting other people’s writing. Perhaps being force fed James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man triggered it. Whatever the cause, when it came to read another novel and submit a literary analysis on it, I drew my own line. Moreso, I convinced nearly a dozen classmates to join me in my revolt.

Mr. Clauss, another wise teacher, calmly sat down with us after I presented our list of grievances. He said, “OK, you don’t have to do the assignment…” You should have been there to see the smiles among those classmates brave enough to stay on my side of the line.

But then, Mr. Clauss added, “… all you need to do is write your own novel.” Wow, did those smiles quickly turn upside down. Defeated they all retreated to the teacher’s side.

Not me.

I wrote a novel. Mr. Clauss gave me an A, probably more for effort, but he did suggest I might have a second career as a writer. I scoffed at the idea. Still, these kind words led to a truce.

That truce ended in 11^th grade. Mr. Harvey seemed to brighten every time I confronted him on his interpretation of any poem. “How do you know that’s what the author meant?” I challenged. “Did you talk to him yourself? Did he tell you that directly?”

I could tell he looked forward to this daily joust. I know this because he later told me this directly.

And with him, there were no lines. One Friday, when all the football players wore their jerseys, he looked at mine (#81) and asked, “Carosa, what is that? Your IQ?” I was so impressed with the dig that, in a rare occasion of our daily repartee, I had no response.

It was a friendly rivalry. You know how there are just certain people who you feel compelled to compete with? That’s how it was with me and Mr. Harvey. We each looked forward to our daily duel. For me, it made English class more alluring. For him, it replaced the rote routine of teaching with the random joy of unexpected spontaneity.

Just as there are some people who inspire natural competition, there are others who, no matter how hard you try, you just don’t want to be on their side. You may want to kid with them, but you just can’t bring yourself to fight with them.

Mr. Polito, my 12^th grade English teacher, was one such person. Ironically, he liked to tell our class about when he used to box. In fact, he had the solid body of a tough welterweight. He struck you as the kind of guy who grew up in a rough neighborhood, the kind of guy who excelled at (and enjoyed) working with his muscles.

As blue collar as his physique proclaimed, his classroom demeanor was 100% white collar. To use a volleyball metaphor, though he was clearly capable of physically slamming a spike into the gut of the opposing team, he was smart enough to know the misdirection of a deft tap proved more reliable; hence, more effective.

That’s how he was in class. Never once did he raise his voice, although I swear, I gave him plenty of opportunities to justify such an action. More on that in a moment. First, I need to tell you how our partnership began.

I describe it as a “partnership” because it involved us teaming up to save an extracurricular activity. At the beginning of senior year, the chess club/team lost its faculty advisor. I don’t remember what made me approach Mr. Polito, (after all, I had just met him), but in September at the start of school, I asked him if he would take the role. I promised him I would do all the work. He just needed to sign the forms.

To my surprise, he agreed.

Now, the story of the chess team could fill a book, but there’s one aspect that reflects directly on Mr. Polito. He had to sign the team announcement every week. You remember those announcements that some poor student had to read every morning after we all said the “Pledge of Allegiance”? While student groups could submit the announcements, but they had to be reviewed and signed by the faculty advisor.

Here’s the thing. Mr. Polito never reviewed what I wrote. It’s not like I gave it to him, and he signed it without reading it. He simply signed blank forms and I would fill them in later, handing them in without him ever seeing what I wrote.

There’s a twist. As you can imagine, I allowed myself to be creative. One week I used a western theme, another week I would use a Star Trek theme, things like that. It became a form of entertainment, with my friends eagerly anticipating what the week’s theme would be.

One week, I wrote the announcement, then used a thesaurus to change as many words as possible to multi-syllable words. The poor student tasked with reading it fumbled terribly. The Vice Principal called me and Mr. Polito into his office.

Remember, Mr. Polito never read what I wrote. Yet, he told me he would do all the talking. The Vice Principal, a bit of a stern disciplinarian, started the conversation in the most ominous of manners. Mr. Polito, in his usual calmness, explained how my writing the announcement represented an extension of my English class assignment. He then described me in a way that, if I had thought of it, I would have recorded it and used it as a recommendation for my college application. The Vice Principal apologized politely and let us go. We waited until we got back into the classroom before we gave ourselves high-fives.

Don’t think that relationship meant I could breeze through class or that I would end my dislike for English. I would regularly refuse to submit answers to quick quizzes. I knew the right answers, and Mr. Polito knew I knew the answers. Yet he remained silent as I rebelled…

…Until first time grades came out. He considered giving me an 87. You needed at least an 88 in all classes to earn high honor roll. I spoke to him after class to confront him. He never said anything about me actually deserving a worse grade (I did deserve a much worse grade). He just said, in so many words, you’re incredibly creative, but don’t cross the line. He was honest and I respected that. I promised not to cross the line…(unless)…

OK, I didn’t say the “unless” part out loud. Having grown up in the shadow of the Bethlehem Steel plant south of Buffalo, I knew there was only one “right” time to cross the line. I immediately created “U.A.P.E.S.” and convinced all my classmates to join. UAPES stood for “Union Of Advanced Placement English Students.”

That’s right. I unionized the class. I waited for the right moment, and then I called a strike. No action caused the strike. It was a generic strike against English class. The threshold of the classroom door represented the picket line. No one crossed it. We stayed out for about five minutes, then unilaterally “settled” the strike mainly because we didn’t know what to do next.

Of all the lessons learned in his class, one remains etched in my memory. It also remains etched in paper. Your can read it here: “A Bully Tactic: Give Them Something To Deny,” (Mendon-Honeoye Falls-Lima Sentinel, November 2, 2017).

At the end of the school year, we gave Mr. Polito a gift box. Among the items in the box were boxing gloves. In return, Mr. Polito gave us a list of predictions about our future selves. For me, he said I was destined to be “on the bowery” dressed in a Captain Kirk uniform.

I graduated from Gates-Chili and only looked forward.

Decades later, after I had become an award-winning writer, I felt I had to fulfill my duty. Or was it my fate?

Mr. Polito lived down the street from where I grew up. I would pass by his house every time we drove to Chili Center and every Sunday when we went to St. Pius X Church. I never visited him. It seemed inappropriate. He was a teacher. I was a student. As much as we worked together within the school walls, outside that building I felt there was a professional line of respect I could never cross. As curious as I was, I avoided violating Mr. Polito’s privacy.

By my eighth book, I felt I now had a duty to report to Mr. Polito. I don’t know if it was for penance, for approval, or possibly to bury some imaginary hatchet.

I called him and he happily agreed to invite me to sit down with him. When I arrived at his home, he and his wife Kay greeted me. It was if I was as if some prodigal son returning. He acted as if he was expecting me, as if he was saying, “What took you so long?”

Silently, in a way awestruck, I walked to the kitchen table. Oddly, the first substantive thing I said was, “Why didn’t you fail me?”

He laughed and offered me iced tea. He actually offered something stronger, but I chose the traditional summer refreshment. He told me to call him “Bill.” I countered, “Forgive me, but out of respect, I must always call you ‘Mr. Polito.’” He allowed me that privilege.

For the next hour or so, we relived the past, exchanged pleasantries about our respective families, and talked about what we had been doing recently. I was surprised how much he remembered about my class. He spit out names I hadn’t heard of in years. Sadly, I couldn’t answer anything about my classmates.

I gave him several of my books. He said he had been following my career. That surprised me. He had students who went into writing from the very beginning. For me, it was more of an accident of opportunity.

I told him the Mr. Clauss “write a novel” story. He wasn’t aware of it. But he was not surprised. He knew from all those chess team announcements that I was a writer, despite all my squabbles with the subject of English.

I said goodbye with a sense that fate and duty can sometimes be intertwined.

What seems like fate is actually duty.

What seems like duty is actually fate.

On May 8, 2024,
Mr. Polito passed away.

He will be missed,
but his memory will remain.