I always wanted to be a teacher. I went to school to be a

In the words of Tony Danza, there is spoken a longing that transcends fame and fortune: “I always wanted to be a teacher. I went to school to be a teacher. And I’ve always, you know, had this sort of romantic idea about it. But I’m worried about— I’m worried about education.” These words reveal not only the heart of one man, but the ache of an age, for teaching has ever been the noblest of callings, and yet in every era it has faced peril and decline. To dream of teaching is to dream of shaping the soul of a people; to fear for education is to fear for the very foundation of civilization.

The ancients exalted the role of the teacher. Socrates walked barefoot through the streets of Athens, asking questions that pierced into the marrow of truth. Confucius gathered disciples to whom he spoke of virtue and order, sowing seeds that would guide empires for centuries. They were poor in coin, often mocked or persecuted, yet their legacy endures beyond kings and conquerors. The romantic idea that Danza speaks of is rooted in this ancient reverence—that to stand before learners is not merely a job, but a sacred task, a way of shaping the destiny of nations through the shaping of the young.

And yet, in every age, the same fear arises: that education is faltering, that teachers are burdened, ignored, or restrained by systems that value numbers over souls. Danza’s worry is not new. In Rome, Seneca lamented that men studied eloquence for glory, not wisdom. In later centuries, reformers cried out against rote learning and demanded that children be taught to think, not merely to obey. To be worried about education is, in truth, to be awake to its eternal fragility.

History offers powerful testimony. Consider Janusz Korczak, the Polish doctor and teacher who ran an orphanage during the dark days of World War II. He taught his children dignity, responsibility, and love, even as the world collapsed around them. When the Nazis came to deport his orphans to Treblinka, Korczak refused safety for himself and marched with them, hand in hand, to their deaths. Here was the fullest embodiment of the romantic idea of teaching: not instruction alone, but devotion, sacrifice, and love beyond measure. And yet his fate also testifies to the terrible dangers that arise when education is not defended from the violence of ignorance and tyranny.

The deeper meaning of Danza’s words is this: that every human being carries within them a vision of what teaching could be—noble, transformative, life-giving—and yet we all see, with grief, how far reality falls from that ideal. To be a teacher is to desire to lift others higher, to give them wings. To be worried about education is to know that without it, wings are clipped, and humanity stumbles into darkness.

The lesson is clear: we must honor and protect those who teach. We must not treat them as mere functionaries of a system, but as builders of souls and guardians of the future. If you would follow the romantic idea of teaching, then support the teachers in your community, honor their work, and perhaps take on yourself the role of teacher in whatever ways life allows. For every parent, every mentor, every elder becomes, in their measure, a teacher, and thus participates in the most sacred of labors.

Therefore, O listener, do not let Danza’s worry pass you by. Reflect on the state of education where you dwell, and ask yourself: how can I strengthen it, how can I honor it, how can I keep alive the vision of teaching as a calling and not a burden? For when teachers falter, the world falters. But when they thrive, they light torches that burn across generations. And to keep that flame alive is a duty shared by us all.