When you're in a state of grace the soul is a pure dazzling white surface, but your sins create abscesses that ooze and stink. You try to save yourself with Mea culpa, the only Latin words that mean anything to you or God.
If I could travel to my twenty-seventh year, my first teaching year, I'd take me out for a steak, a baked potato, a pint of stout. I'd give myself a good talking to. For Christ's sake, kid, straighten up. Throw back those miserable bony shoulders. Stop mumbling. Speak up. Stop putting yourself down. In that department the world will be happy to oblige. You're starting your teaching career, and it isn't an easy life. I know. I did it. You'd be better off as a cop. At least you'd have a gun or a stick to defend yourself. A teacher has nothing but his mouth. If you don't learn to love it, you'll wriggle in a corner of hell.
Somebody should have told me, Hey, Mac, your life, Mac, thirty years of it, Mac, is gonna be school, school, school, kids, kids, kids, papers, papers, papers, read and correct, read and correct, mountains of papers piling up at school, at home, days, nights reading stories, poems, diaries, suicide notes, diatribes, excuses, plays, essays, even novels, the work of thousands -- thousands -- of New York teenagers over the years, a few hundred working men and women, and you get no time for reading Graham Greene or Dashiell Hammett, F. Scott Fitzgerald or good old P. G. Wodehouse, or your main man, Mr. Jonathan Swift. You'll go blind reading Joey and Sandra, Tony and Michelle, little agonies and passions and ecstasies. Mountains of kid stuff, Mac. If they opened your head they'd find a thousand teenagers clambering all over your brain. Every June they graduate, grow up, work and move on. They'll have kids, Mac, who will come to you someday for English, and you're left facing another term of Joeys and Sandras, Tonys and Michelles, and you'll want to know: Is this what it's all about? Is this to be your world for twenty/thirty years? Remember, if this is your world, you're one of them, a teenager. You live in two worlds. You're with them, day in, day out, and you'll never know, Mac, what that does to your mind. Teenager forever. June will come and it's bye-bye, teacher, nice knowin' you, my sister's gonna be in your class in September. But there's something else, Mac. In any classroom, something is always happening. They keep you on your toes. They keep you fresh. You'll never grow old, but the danger is you might have the mind of an adolescent forever. That's a real problem, Mac. You get used to talking to those kids on their level. Then when you go to a bar for a beer you forget how to talk to your friends and they look at you. They look at you like you just arrived from another planet and they're right. Day after day in the classroom means you're in another world, Mac.
So, teacher, how did you come to America and all that?
I tell them about my arrival in America at nineteen years of age, that there was nothing about me, on me, in my head or suitcase, to suggest that in a few years I'd be facing five classes a day of New York teenagers.
Teacher? I never dreamed I could rise so high in the world.
Except for the book in the suitcase, everything I wore or carried off the ship was secondhand. Everything in my head was secondhand, too: Catholicism; Ireland's sad history, a litany of suffering and martyrdom drummed into me by priests, schoolmasters and parents who knew no better.
The brown suit I wore came from Nosey Parker's pawnshop, Parnell Street, Limerick. My mother bargained for it. The Nose said that suit would be four pounds, and she said, Is it coddin' me you are, Mr. Parker?
No, I'm not coddin' you, he said. That suit was wore wanst be a cousin of the Earl of Dunraven himself and anything worn be the aristocracy has higher value.
My mother said she wouldn't care if it was worn by the earl himself for all the good he and his ilk ever did for Ireland with their castles and servants and never a thought for the sufferings of the people. She'd offer three pounds and not a penny more.
The Nose snapped that a pawnshop was no place for patriotism and she snapped back that if patriotism was something you could show on the shelf there he'd be polishing it and overcharging the poor. He said, Mother o' God, missus. You were never like this before. What came over you?
What came over her was that this was like Custer's last stand, her last chance. This was her son, Frank, going to America and she couldn't send him off looking like this, wearing the relics of oul' decency, this one's shirt, that one's trousers. Then she showed how clever she could be. She had very little money left, but if Mr. Parker could see his way to throwing in a pair of shoes, two shirts, two pairs of socks and that lovely green tie with the golden harps she wouldn't forget the favor. It wouldn't be long before Frank would be sending home dollars from America and when she needed pots, pans and an alarm clock she'd think immediately of The Nose. Indeed, she could see half a dozen items there on the shelves she couldn't live without once the dollars came pouring in.
The Nose was no daw. From years behind the counter he knew the tricks of his customers. He knew, also, my mother was so honest she hated owing anybody anything. He said he valued her future custom, and he himself wouldn't want to see that lad there landing shabby in America. What would the Yanks say? So for another pound, oh, take off another shilling, she could have the extra items.
My mother said he was a decent man, that he'd get a bed in heaven and she wouldn't forget him, and it was strange seeing the respect passing between them. The lane people of Limerick had no use for pawnbrokers, but where would they be without them?
The Nose had no suitcases. His customers were not known for traveling the world, and he had a good laugh over that with my mother. He said, World travelers, how are you. She looked at me as if to say, Take a good look at The Nose for it isn't every day you'll see him laugh.
Feathery Burke, in Irishtown, had suitcases for sale. He sold anything old, secondhand, stuffed, useless or ready for the fire. Ah, yes, he had the very thing for the young fella going to America, God bless him, that would be sending money home to his poor old mother.
I'm hardly old, said my mother, so none of your plamas. How much for the suitcase?
Yerra, missus, I'll give it away to you for two pounds because I don't want to be standing between the boy and his fortune in America.
My mother said that before she'd pay two pounds for that worn-out piece of cardboard held together by a spit and a prayer she'd wrap my things in brown paper and twine and send me off to New York like that.
Feathery looked shocked. Women from the back lanes of Limerick were not supposed to carry on like that. They were supposed to be respectful of their betters and not rise above their station, and I was surprised myself to see my mother in that pick-quarrel mood.
She won, told Feathery what he was charging was pure robbery, we were better off under the English, and if he didn't come down in his price she'd go to that decent man Nosey Parker. Feathery gave in.
God above, missus. A good thing I didn't have children for if I did and I had to deal with the likes of you every day they'd be standing in the corner whimpering with the hunger.
She said, Pity about you and the children you never had.
She folded the clothes into the suitcase and said she'd take the whole lot home so that I could go and buy the book. She walked away from me, up Parnell Street, puffing on a cigarette. She walked with energy that day, as if the clothes and the suitcase and my going away would open doors.
I went to O'Mahony's Bookshop to buy the first book in my life, the one I brought to America in the suitcase.
It was The Works of William Shakespeare: Gathered into One Volume, published by the Shakespeare Head Press, Oldhams Press Ltd. and Basil Blackwood, MCMXLVII. Here it is, cover crumbling, separating from the book, hanging on through the kindness of tape. A well-thumbed book, well marked. There are passages underlined that once meant something to me though I look at them now and hardly know why. Along the margins notes, remarks, appreciative comments, congratulations to Shakespeare on his genius, exclamation marks indicating my appreciation and befuddlement. Inside the cover I wrote, "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh, etc." It proves I was a
gloomy youth.
When I was thirteen/fourteen I listened to Shakespeare plays on the radio of Mrs. Purcell, the blind woman next door. She told me Shakespeare was an Irishman ashamed of what he came from. A fuse blew the night we listened to Julius Caesar and I was so eager to find out what happened to Brutus and Mark Antony I went to O'Mahony's Bookshop to get the rest of the story. A sales clerk in the shop asked me in a superior way if it was my intention to buy that book and I told him I was thinking about it but first I'd have to find out what happened to everyone in the end, especially the one I liked, Brutus. The man said never mind Brutus, pulled the book away from me and said this was not a library and would I kindly leave. I backed into the street embarrassed and blushing and wondering at the same time why people won't stop bothering people. Even when I was small, eight or nine, I wondered why people won't stop bothering people and I've been wondering ever since.
The book was nineteen shillings, half a week's wages. I wish I could say I bought it because of my profound interest in Shakespeare. It wasn't that way at all. I had to have it because of a film I saw where an American soldier in England went around spouting Shakespeare and all the girls fell madly in love with him. Also, if you even hint that you read Shakespeare, people give you that look of respect. I thought if I learned long passages I'd impress the girls of New York. I already knew "Friends, Romans, countrymen," but when I said it to a girl in Limerick she gave me a curious look as if I were coming down with something.
Going up O'Connell Street I wanted to unwrap my package and let the world see me with Shakespeare in my oxter but I didn't have the nerve. I passed the small theater where I once saw a traveling company perform Hamlet and remembered how I felt sorry for myself for the way I'd suffered like him. At the end of the play that night Hamlet himself returned to the stage to tell the audience how grateful he and the cast were for our attendance and how weary he was, he and the cast, and how much they'd appreciate our help in the form of small change, which we could deposit in the lard tin by the door. I was so moved by the play because so much of it was about me and my gloomy life that I dropped sixpence into the lard tin and wished I could have attached a note to let Hamlet know who I was and how my suffering was real and not just in a play.
Next day I delivered a telegram to Hanratty's Hotel and there was the cast from Hamlet, drinking and singing in the bar while a porter ran back and forth loading a van with their luggage. Hamlet himself sat alone at the end of the bar, sipping his glass of whiskey, and I don't know where the courage came from but I said hello to him. After all, we both had been betrayed by our mothers and our suffering was great. The world would never know about mine and I envied him for the way he was able to express his anguish every night. Hello, I said, and he stared at me with two black eyes under black eyebrows in a white face. He had all those words from Shakespeare in his head but now he kept them there and I blushed like a fool and tripped over my feet.
I rode my bicycle up O'Connell Street in a state of shame. Then I remembered the sixpence dropped into the lard tin, sixpence that paid for their whiskey and singing at Hanratty's Bar, and I wanted to go back and confront the whole cast and Hamlet himself and tell them what I thought of them with their false stories of weariness and the way they drank the money of poor people.
Let the sixpence go. If I went back they'd surely throw Shakespeare words at me and Hamlet would stare at me again with his cold black eyes. I'd have no words for that and I'd look foolish if I tried staring back at him with my red eyes.
My students said spending all that money on a Shakespeare book was dumb, no disrespect intended, and if I wanted to make an impression on people why didn't I go to the library and copy down all the quotes? Also, you'd have to be pretty dumb to be impressed with a guy just because he quoted this old writer that no one could read anyway. Sometimes they have these Shakespeare plays on TV and you can't understand a word, so what's the use? The money I paid for the book could have been spent on something cool like shoes or a nice jacket or, you know, taking a girl to the movies.
Some girls said that was real cool the way I used Shakespeare to make an impression on people though they wouldn't know what I was talking about. Why did Shakespeare have to write in that old language nobody could understand? Why?
I couldn't answer. They said again, Why? I felt trapped but all I could do was to tell them I didn't know. If they waited I'd try to find out. They looked at one another. The teacher doesn't know? How could that be? Is he for real? Wow. How did he get to be a teacher?
Hey, teacher man, you got any more stories?
No, no, no.
You keep saying no, no, no.
That's it. No more stories. This is an English class. Parents are complaining.
Aw, man. Mr. McCourt, you ever in the army? You fight in Korea?
I never thought much of my life but I went on doling out bits and pieces of it, my father's drinking, days in Limerick slums when I dreamed of America, Catholicism, drab days in New York, and I was surprised that New York teenagers asked for more.
3
I told them that after my two years in the army the GI Bill helped me doze through four years at New York University. I worked nights to supplement my allowance from the government. I could have attended part time, but I was eager to graduate and impress the world and women with my degree and my college knowledge. I was expert at making excuses for late papers and missed exams. I shuffled and mumbled the mishaps of my life to patient professors, hinted at great sadnesses. The Irish accent helped. I lived on the edge of faith and begorrah.
University librarians poked me when I snored behind a stack of books. One librarian told me snoozing was strictly forbidden. She was kind enough to suggest that out in Washington Square Park there was no end of benches where I could stretch till the cops came. I thanked her and told her how I'd always admired librarians, not only for their mastery of the Dewey Decimal System, but for their helpfulness in other areas of daily living.
The professor of education at New York University warned us about our teaching days ahead. He said first impressions are crucial. He said, The way you meet and greet your first class might determine the course of your whole career. Your whole career. They're watching you. You're watching them. You're dealing with American teenagers, a dangerous species, and they'll show you no mercy. They'll take your measure and they'll decide what to do with you. You think you're in control? Think again. They're like heat-seeking missiles. When they go after you they're following a primal instinct. It is the function of the young to get rid of their elders, to make room on the planet. You know that, don't you? The Greeks knew it. Read the Greeks.
The professor said that before your students enter the room you must have decided where you'll be -- "posture and placement" -- and who you'll be -- "identity and image." I never knew teaching could be that complicated. He said, You simply cannot teach unless you know where to position yourself physically. That classroom can be your battleground or your playground. And you have to know who you are. Remember Pope: "Know thyself, presume not God to scan / The proper study of mankind is man." First day of your teaching you are to stand at your classroom door and let your students know how happy you are to see them. Stand, I say. Any playwright will tell you that when the actor sits down the play sits down. The best move of all is to establish yourself as a presence and to do it outside in the hallway. Outside, I say. That's your territory and when you're out there you'll be seen as a strong teacher, fearless, ready to face the swarm. That's what a class is, a swarm. And you're a warrior teacher. It's something people don't think about. Your territory is like your aura, it goes with you everywhere, in the hallways, on the stairs and, assuredly, in the classroom. Never let them invade your territory. Never. And remember: teachers who sit or even stand behind their desks are essentially insecure and should try another line of work.
I liked the way he said assuredly, the first time I ever heard it used outside of a Victorian novel. I promised myself that when I b
ecame a teacher I'd use the word, too. It had an important sound to it that would make people sit up and pay attention.
I thought it was terrific the way you could stand up there on that little platform with your podium and your desk and talk for an hour with everyone before you making notes and if you had any kind of good looks or personality the girls would be tripping over themselves to see you afterward in your office or anywhere else. That's what I thought at the time.
The professor said he had made an informal study of teenage behavior in high school and if we were sensitive observant teachers we'd notice certain phenomena moments before class bells rang. We'd notice how adolescent temperatures rose, blood raced and there was enough adrenaline to power a battleship. He smiled and you could see how pleased he was with his ideas. We smiled back because professors have the power. He said teachers must observe how students present themselves. He said, So much -- so much, I say -- depends on how they enter a room. Observe their entrances. They amble, they strut, they shuffle, they collide, they joke, they show off. You, yourself, might think nothing of entering a room, but for a teenager it can be everything. To enter a room is to move from one environment to another and that, for the teenager, can be traumatic. There be dragons, daily horrors from acne to zit.
I could barely understand what the professor was talking about but I was very impressed. I never thought there was so much involved in stepping into a room. I thought teaching was a simple matter of telling the class what you knew and then testing them and giving them grades. Now I was learning how complicated the life of a teacher could be, and I admired this professor for knowing all about it.
The student next to me in the professor's class whispered, This guy is so full of crap. He never taught a high school class in his life. The student's name was Seymour. He wore a yarmulke, so it was no wonder he said wise things from time to time, or he could have been showing off for the red-haired girl sitting in front of him. When she looked over her shoulder to smile at Seymour's remarks you could see she was beautiful. I wished I could have shown off myself, but I rarely knew what to say, whereas Seymour had an opinion on everything. The red-haired girl told Seymour if he felt that strongly he should speak up.
Teacher Man Page 4