Nearly three decades ago I was in the midst of what turned out to be a 20-year extended adolescence. I spent mornings substitute-teaching at my old high school, then coached various athletic teams there each afternoon. The kids loved me, and why not? I knew many of their older siblings, was an accomplished basketball player, and had a full head of hair. Not only that, but with minimal imagination every student in the place could picture me as having been in his or her position sometime during the previous decade.

On occasion a young person in a class I was overseeing required reminding about what constituted appropriate behavior. When the offender was male he’d invariably attempt to appeal to me as though I were one of his buddies, imploring, “C’mon man, be cool.” Young female transgressors often tried pleading nonverbally, combining eyelash-batting, subtle wardrobe adjustments, and moving imperceptibly closer in an effort to convince me not to follow through with whatever empty threat(s) I had made.

Not surprisingly, both the boy strategy of “C’mon, man,” and the coquettish approach of the girls worked back then. At age 24, I wanted those kids to like me, not only for the inherent good feelings their acceptance produced, but because if students (and more importantly the teachers for whom I was filling in) expressed satisfaction with my performance I’d keep getting called in to sub, which meant I’d continue banking the princely sum of $30 every day.

Currently I’m in my ninth year as an authentic English teacher at a high school where classes start promptly at 7:45 a.m. Anyone arriving after that needs a note from the office; without one they’ll be serving a Wednesday morning detention, which unsurprisingly isn’t something they aspire to. Every so often a panting student in my first block class scrambles through the door 30 seconds late and subsequently begs me not to make him (or her) go get a pass. If the offender is a boy he says “C’mon man; be cool!” or similar words to that effect. If the tardy individual is female she begs, “Pleeeeze, Mr. Young,” while simultaneously batting her 16-year-old lashes at me. She no longer readjusts her clothing while doing so, though; who wants to flirt with a 53-year-old man just to get out of a 45-minute detention? Besides, in many cases the offending female has too much skin showing already.

What a surprisingly large number of my current students apparently haven’t yet grasped is that at this stage of my life I already possess all the teenage friends I need. I no longer crave their love and acceptance; it’s their respect that I require. And letting a violation of the rules (such as a tardy arrival) pass when a similar offense outside of school would get them in hot water is no way to earn it.

Every once in a while when a student is late and I see the opportunity to create a teachable moment I dust off the following tale, which, while it isn’t original and is quite likely apocryphal, sends what I consider to be a vital message.

A priest was being given a retirement dinner after 40 years in his parish. A leading local politician who was member of the congregation was chosen to make the presentation and give a speech at the event.

But he was delayed so the priest, who was admired by one and all, decided to say a few words while they waited. “I got my initial impression of the parish from the first confession I heard here,” he began. “I thought I had been assigned to a horrible place. The very first person who entered my confessional told me he’d stolen a car, but got off by lying to the police. He’d also stolen money from his parents, embezzled from his employer, had an affair with his boss’s wife, taken and sold illegal drugs, and given a venereal disease to his sister.  I was appalled. But as time went by I learned that not everyone here was like that. The truth was that I had come to a fine parish full of good and loving people.”

Just as the priest finished his talk the nattily-dressed, self-important politician arrived. Full of apologies for being late, he began his speech with: “I’ll never forget the first day our parish priest arrived. In fact, I had the honor of being the first person to go to him for confession!”

Then when the kids who get it stop laughing I tell the unpunctual individual whose overdue arrival caused me to tell the story in the first place to go to the office and come back with a pass.

— Andy Young teaches in Kennebunk, and lives in Cumberland.