To this day, she’s the only person I’ve ever permitted to call me “Andy.”

I’ve always insisted on “Andre,” the French and Slavic equivalent of “Andrew,” because my given name reflects those ancestries.

But Sister Josephine Coleman just couldn’t avoid pronouncing it with a short “A” sound, making it “ANN-dray.” It grated on my ear and jangled my brain, because as a teacher and scholar of ancient Greek and Roman literature Sister Josephine certainly had encountered the correct pronunciation.

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We often take for granted the profound and sacred role teachers play in molding our lives.

So I accepted Andy, willingly, because we spent so much time together, and there was such an endearing way she said it. Sister Josephine clearly adored me.

When I knew her, she was about 60 years old. She was my Latin language teacher for my sophomore year at De Paul Catholic High School in Wayne, New Jersey. In my senior year (1972-73), she tutored me in the Greek and Roman writers — even though I was the only student to take the class.

It was, of course, impossible to hide the fact that I sometimes did not complete a reading assignment. But she was understanding, never berated me, and would just walk me through the text. I was a good and engaged student, but Sister Josephine’s affection made this an easy “A.”

We explored the works of Aeschylus, Euripides, Plato, Aristotle and other classical authors. Sister Josephine even steered me to Aristophanes’ famous comedy Lysistrata, in which a woman by that name recruits other women to deny sex to men until they end a war.

Sister Josephine was no stick in the mud. She didn’t even mind when students called her by her nickname, Billy Jo, which in context had a slightly derisive feel to it.

The setting for our classes was a tiny windowed room adjacent to the high school library. It was cluttered with auto-visual equipment, which Sister Josephine managed and checked out. It also was a place of solace for me.

As the only student in the class, it was hard to hide my emotions and teenage preoccupations. My parents’ marriage had begun to collapse, and I was a social misfit in many ways. For some reason, Sister Josephine was the only person with whom I could reveal my feelings.

I even shared my hurt over an unrequited fondness for one of my senior classmates. (The girl later asked me why Sister Josephine gave her a mischievous smile when they met in the hallway. It was Sister Josephine’s lovable way of rooting for me.)

But confidences flowed on a two-way street. Sister Josephine, who joined the order of the Sisters of Charity in 1929, told me her mother opposed her vocation to become a nun because she would not have children. She relented, though, when reminded that as a nun and teacher, her daughter would be a spiritual and academic mother to hundreds of children.

No wonder that Sister Josephine was so indulgent and dedicated a teacher.

I bring her up now because I recently watched CBS correspondent David Begnaud’s story about a high school English teacher who was pivotal in his life and who was retiring after 50 years.

Sister Josephine died in 1988 at age 79. I visited her once or twice after I graduated from De Paul in 1973, but I lost touch after moving out here 45 years ago.

Still, I remember her often — not so much for the lessons about Plato and Homer, but for her warmth and passion as a teacher and human being. Her influence is one reason that, as city editor at The Daily News for 21 years, I considered nurturing our young reporters among my most important responsibilities.

We often take for granted the profound and sacred role teachers play in molding our lives. Paying homage to them is one way of thanking them and with taking stock of our own lives. Do we measure up to the standards and values they set? Would we make them proud?

Sister Josephine, “Andy” is grateful to you.