Teacher Dad

            I had known for a few months that I’d be teaching my daughter. I just didn’t know what she should call me.

            Not Dad. And definitely not Mr. Hynes. Ideally, also not any of the names she might have mumbled under her breath throughout the past 16 years.

            But like it or not, here we were together. At my high school this year, I am the only journalism teacher. Katie goes to this school, and she wanted to take Journalism I. So on the first day of school, I looked out upon my class of ambitious young reporters, and among them I saw my own flesh and blood.

            I introduced the class to them, talked about my own journalism experience, and asked them if they could identify the terms “journalism,” “news” and “media.” They were interested, and we were on our way.

            At some point in that first class period, Katie raised her hand. “What should I call you?” she asked.

            I thought to myself, “Didn’t I have an entire summer to think this over?” I did, and I had not considered it. Searching for an answer, I flashed back to my previous job, an alternative school in Boston at which I had taught for three years. At that school, teachers were called by their first names, to deepen the sense of community among students and staff. “That will work,” I thought to myself.

            “OK,” I said to the students, who were actually quite interested in where this was going, “I don’t want Katie calling me ‘Mr. Hynes’ in class, so I’m going to give everyone in this class complete permission to call me ‘Warren.’ ”

            The kids smiled; some of them even let out a “Yes!” or a fist pump. When class ended, one of the students walked up to Katie and said, “Man, I really thought he was going to say that we could all call him ‘Dad.’ ”

            Over the next few weeks, a few students tried out “Warren” to see how it felt, and they ended up going back to Mr. Hynes. As for Katie, it’s kind of a funny thing; she calls me “Warren” all the time at home, along various other “W” first names, such as Wally and Wendell. That’s all done in a loving attempt to get under my skin. I can handle it, as I’d much rather she call me by a nickname than not talk to me at all.

            At school, though, she really couldn’t avoid “Dad.” It just came out that way, even in class. In moments when life is busy and stressful – which school can often be – we need to call our parents what they are to us. I’m Katie’s dad, and her brain couldn’t take the time to consider my first-name suggestion. She just needed me to be her father.

When school was over, and she was Face-Timing a friend on the phone while I walked by, it was back to “Hello, Warren.” When I called her down to dinner, she’d respond with “Yes, Warren.” But during those journalism classes, she’d call me over with a question by waiting until I walked past her desk, then whispering, “Dad.”

We made it through the semester-long class in one piece, and now she’s off to other activities. But as the second semester began, I scanned the rosters for my spring blog writing class and saw something even more terrifying than teaching my daughter.

I’m now teaching her boyfriend.