The First Lesson That Mattered

By Michael DiMatteo

I can vividly recall the first time I stood in front of a classroom.

I was student-teaching with Mr. Greg Cozzi—still, to my mind, the finest educator I’ve ever been around. Like most student-teachers, I was anxious to get in front of the class and play the “sage,” just like he did. I was confident in my knowledge—and even more confident in my ability to mimic his style.

Mr. Cozzi was confident, commanding, and compassionate. A benevolent dictator, if there ever was one. He ran the room with authority, but the students were engaged, relaxed, and even laughed at times. He made it look easy.

The lesson was on political science—specifically wards and precincts, how they’re divided, and how they work together. Growing up in Chicagoland, I was familiar with the topic. Familiar. Keep that word in mind.

What made Mr. Cozzi’s lesson so effective was how he connected it to the real world. He used local streets—ones right outside the high school—the same streets the students walked or drove every day. His lesson was grounded, present, and practical. The kids knew the streets, the intersections. It clicked.

I grew up in the next town over. I knew the area, but they weren’t my streets. I’d run through a few of them, but it wasn’t the same.

After two weeks of observation, Mr. Cozzi finally gave me the nod.

“You think you’re ready to give this a try?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying not to sound too eager.

“You sure? You confident with wards and precincts? If not, just say the word.”

There was no way I was backing out. My pride wouldn’t allow it. Besides—it was just wards and precincts. I knew this stuff. All I had to do was copy his lesson, street names and all. Simple.

“I’m good,” I said.

“Okay,” he replied. “Next class is yours. I’ll get them started, then hand it off to you. I’ll be in the back, taking notes.”

Perfect.

When the time came, everything was going smoothly—until it wasn’t. I started strong, but soon the wheels wobbled. I was using the same street names Mr. Cozzi had used—but the board from the previous class had been erased, and I wasn’t exactly sure where everything intersected. I got one name wrong, then another. My confidence started to unravel. Worse still, I wasn’t as sharp on the mechanics of wards and precincts as I thought. Trying to write on the board, keep eye contact, and maintain control? I was in over my head.

Then came the snickers.

I pushed forward.

More snickers.

I panicked. The street names tangled. The neighborhoods made no sense. Wards and precincts might as well have been national borders. I finally stopped, frozen in the front of the room, unsure how to climb out of the mess I’d made.

Then came a voice from the back.

“Are you guys confused yet?”

“Yes,” came the near-unanimous reply.

“Great. Mr. DiMatteo did exactly what I asked him to do—he confused you. And now we’re going to untangle it together. That way, you’ll remember it.”

A collective “Ohhh” rose from the room. Heads turned toward me, nodding in understanding. I stood there, sweating, smiling—pretending I’d planned it all. Mr. Cozzi stepped in and cleaned up the wreckage.

Later, walking to lunch, I said, “I don’t think I can do this job.”

Without missing a beat, he replied:
“Nonsense. You just learned a valuable lesson. First—never copy someone else’s lesson. They know it. You don’t. Second—always be an expert in what you’re teaching. Turn over every stone. Don’t rely on the textbook. Study. Always study. They’re counting on you to be the expert.”

I never forgot that. Ever.

I spent the next 35 years studying. I built a personal library of over 400 books. I read. I wrote. I worked weekends. Sunday mornings at 6 a.m. were for research, planning, and reworking my lessons—often until noon.

I took the job seriously. I believed in being a historian—not a mouthpiece for a textbook. I challenged accepted narratives. I sought out original sources. I worked to master the content.

Over the years, I observed something else. Some colleagues did the same—diligent, thorough, prepared. Others? They settled. The textbook, a worksheet or two, maybe a PowerPoint. Enough to get through the day—but never enough to shape minds.

It wasn’t just about content expertise, either. It was classroom management. And here’s what I learned: being a benevolent dictator is still the most effective way to run a classroom.

When students know who’s in charge—firm but fair—the rest falls into place. They crave structure. They respect it. And when they trust the person at the front of the room to be both the boss and the guide, real learning happens. Almost automatically.

That may sound archaic in today’s educational climate. But the best practices aren’t always shiny or new. Sometimes, they’re the ones that have stood the test of time.

Direct instruction. A master of content. A strong presence. Fair treatment. High expectations.

It’s not old-fashioned.

It’s real.

And it works.