Teacher Man

by Frank McCourt

  Oh, yes. Harry.

  Does he behave himself in class? Is he respectful?

  Oh, yes. He contributes to all our discussions.

  Oh, yeah? That's not the Harry we know. He must be different in school because at home he's a regular little shit, excuse the language. Home we can't get a word out of him. Can't get him to do nothing. All he wants is to sit an' listen to that goddam rock 'n' roll day an' night, day an' goddam night.

  The dad was vehement. It's the worst thing ever happened to this country with that Elvis shakin' his ass all over television, excuse the language. I'd hate to have a daughter in this day and age watching that crap. Got a good mind to throw that phonograph in the garbage. I'd dump the TV, too, but I gotta have a little relaxation the end of a day on the piers, know what I mean?

  Other parents became impatient and inquired, sarcastically polite, if there was a possibility I could get away from discussions of Elvis Presley and talk to them about their sons and daughters. Harry's parents informed them it was their turn to see about their kid. It was a free country, last they'd heard, and they weren't gonna be cut off in the middle of their interview with this nice teacher from the Old Country.

  But the other parents said, Yeah, yeah, teacher. Hurry it up. We don't got all night. We're working people, too.

  I didn't know what to do. I thought if I said thank you to the parents at the desk they might get the hint and go but the vehement dad said, Hey, we're not finished.

  Norma, my student monitor, understood my dilemma and took charge. She announced to the parents that if they wanted longer interviews with me they could make appointments to see me on a series of afternoons.

  I never told Norma any such thing. I didn't want to spend my life in that classroom, day after day, with disgruntled parents, but she went calmly on, passed around a sheet of paper, told the disgruntled ones to print, please print, don't write, their names and phone numbers and Mr. McCourt would be in touch.

  The rumbling subsided and everyone complimented Norma on her efficiency and told her she should be a teacher herself. She told them she had no intention of being a teacher. Her big dream was to work in a travel agency and get free tickets everywhere. One mother said, Oh, don't you wanna settle down and have kids? You'd be a great mother.

  Then Norma said the wrong thing and tension was back in the room. No, she said, I don't want kids. Kids are a pain. You have to change their diapers and then come to school to see how they're doing and you're never free.

  She wasn't supposed to talk like that and you could feel the hostility toward her rising in the room. A few minutes ago parents were complimenting her on her efficiency and now they felt insulted by her remarks on parenthood and kids. One father tore up the sheet of paper she'd handed out for names and phone numbers. He threw it toward the front of the room where I sat. Hey, he said, somebody dump that in the garbage. He picked up his coat and told his wife, Let's get outa here. This place is a nuthouse. His wife barked at me, Don't you have no control over these kids? This one was my daughter I'd break her face. She got no right to insult the mothers of America like that.

  My face felt like a fire. I wanted to apologize to the parents in the room and the mothers of America. I wanted to tell Norma, Go away. You've ruined my first Open School Day. She stood by the door coolly saying goodnight to the parents who left, ignoring the way they glared at her. Now what was I supposed to do? Where was the book by a professor of education that would help? Fifteen parents still sat in the room waiting to hear about their sons and daughters. What should I say to them?

  Norma spoke again and my heart began to sink. Ladies and gentlemen, that was a dumb thing I said and I'm so sorry. It wasn't Mr. McCourt's fault. He's a good teacher. He's new, you know, just here a few months, so he's just a learning teacher. I shoulda kept my mouth shut because I got him in trouble and I'm sorry.

  Then she began to cry and a number of mothers rushed to comfort her while I sat at my desk. It was Norma's job to call the parents up, one by one, but she was surrounded by that group of comforting mothers and I didn't know if I should act independently and say, Next? The parents seemed more interested in Norma's plight than in the future of their own children, and when the bell rang to signal the end of the meetings, they smiled and left saying it was nice, this visit with me, and good luck in my teaching career.

  Paulie's mother may have been right. On my second Open School Day she told me I was a fraud. She was proud of her Paulie, future plumber, nice kid who wanted to start his own business some day, marry a nice girl, raise a family and stay out of trouble.

  I should have been indignant and asked her who the hell she thought she was talking to but, at the back of my head, there was always a nagging doubt I was teaching under false pretenses.

  I ask my kid what he learned in school an' he tells me stories about Ireland an' you coming to New York. Stories, stories, stories. You know what you are? A fraud, a goddam fraud. And I'm saying that with the best intentions, trying to help.

  I wanted to be a good teacher. I wanted the approval that would come when I sent my students home stuffed with spelling and vocabulary and all that would lead to a better life but, mea culpa, I didn't know how.

  The mother said she was Irish, married to an Italian, and she could see right through me. Right off she knew my game. When I told her I agreed with her she said, Ooh, you agree with me? You actually know you're a fraud?

  I'm just trying to make my way. They ask me questions about my life and I answer because they won't listen when I try to teach English. They look out the window. They doze. They nibble on sandwiches. They ask for the pass.

  You could teach them what they're supposeta learn, spelling and the big words. My son, Paulie, hasta go out in the world and what's he gonna do when he can't spell an' use the big words, eh?

  I told Paulie's mother that someday I hoped to be a master teacher, confident in the classroom. In the meantime I could only keep trying. That somehow made her emotional and brought on the tears. She rooted around in her handbag for a handkerchief and took so long I offered her mine. She shook her head. She said, Who does your laundry? That handkerchief. Jesus, I wouldn't wipe my ass with that handkerchief. You a bachelor or what?

  I am.

  I can tell from the look of that handkerchief, the saddest-lookin' gray handkerchief I ever seen in my life. That's bachelor gray, is what it is. Your shoes, too. I never seen such sad shoes. No woman would ever let you buy shoes like them. Easy to see you was never married.

  She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. You think my Paulie can spell handkerchief?

  I don't think so. It's not on the list.

  See what I mean? You people are out of it. You don't have handkerchief on the list and he'll be blowing his nose the rest of his life. And you know what you got on the list? Usufruct, f'Christ's sakes, u - s - u - f - r - u - c - t. Who came up with that one? That one of those words you throw around at your fancy cocktail parties in Manhattan? Now what in hell is Paulie gonna do with a word like that? And here's another one, c-o-n-d-i-g-n. I asked six people if they knew what that meant. I even asked an assistant principal in the hallway. He pretended he knew but you could see he was talking through his ass. Plumber. My kid's gonna be a plumber and charge big money to make house calls, just like a doctor, so I don't see why he needs to clog his head with twenty-dollar words like usufruct and the other one, do you?

  I said you have to be careful what you fill your head with. My own head was so packed with stuff from Ireland and the Vatican I could hardly think for myself.

  She said she didn't care what was in my head. That was my own damn business, and I should really keep it to myself. Every day my Paulie comes home telling us these stories and we don't need to hear them. We got our own troubles. She said it was easy to see I was just off the boat, all innocent like a little sparrow that fell out of a nest.

  No, I'm not just off the boat. I was in the army. How could I be innocent? I had all kinds of jobs. I w
orked on the docks. I graduated from New York University.

  See? she said. That's what I mean. I ask you a simple question an' you give me the story of your life. That's what you wanna watch, Mr. McCurd. These kids don't need to know the life story of every teacher in the school. I went to the nuns. They wouldn't give you the time of day. You asked them about their lives they'd tell you mind your own business, pull you up by the ears, crack you across the knuckles. Stick to the spelling and the words, Mr. McCurd, and the parents of this school will thank you forever. Forget the storytelling. If we want stories we got a TV Guide and the Reader's Digest at home.

  I struggled. I thought I'd like to be a tough no-nonsense English teacher, stern and scholarly, allowing an occasional laugh, but no more. Old-timers in the teachers' cafeteria told me, The little bastards have to be kept under control. Give 'em an inch, kid, and you'll never get it back.

  Organization is everything. I would start all over. Draw up a plan for each class that would account for every minute left in the term. I was master of this vessel and I would set a course. They'd sense my purpose. They would know where they were going and what was expected of them...or else.

  Or else.... Yeah, mister, that's what all the teachers say. Or else. We thought you were gonna be different being Irish an' all.

  Time to take charge. Enough, I said. Forget this Irish thing. No more stories. No more nonsense. English teacher is going to teach English and won't be stopped by little teenage tricks.

  Take out your notebooks. That's right, your notebooks.

  I wrote on the board, "John went to the store."

  A class groan traveled the room. What is he doing to us? English teachers. All the same. Here he goes again. Old John to the store. Grammar, for Chrissakes.

  All right. What is the subject of this sentence? Does anyone know the subject of this sentence? Yes, Mario?

  It's all about this guy wants to go to the store. Anyone can see that.

  Yes, yes, that's what the sentence is about, but what is the subject? It's one word. Yes, Donna.

  I think Mario is right. It's all about --

  No, Donna. The subject here is one word.

  How come?

  What do you mean, How come? Aren't you taking Spanish? Don't you have grammar in Spanish? Doesn't Miss Grober tell you the parts of a sentence?

  Yeah, but she's not always bothering us with John going to the store.

  My head feels hot and I want to shout, Why are you so damn stupid? Didn't you ever have a grammar lesson before? Christ in heaven, even I had grammar lessons, and in Irish. Why do I have to struggle here this sunny morning while spring birds chirp outside? Why do I have to look at your sullen resentful faces? You sit here, your bellies stuffed. You're well-clothed and warm. You're getting a free high school education and you're not the slightest bit grateful. All you have to do is cooperate, participate a little. Learn the parts of a sentence. Jesus. Is that asking too much?

  There are days I'd love to walk out of here, slam the door behind me, tell the principal shove this job up his arse, head down the hill to the ferry, sail to Manhattan, walk the streets, have a beer and a hamburger at the White Horse, sit in Washington Square, watch luscious NYU coeds saunter by, forget McKee Vocational and Technical High School forever. Forever. It's clear I can't teach the simplest thing without their objections. Their resistance. Simple sentence: subject, predicate and, maybe, if we get around to it someday, the object, direct and indirect. I don't know what to do with them. Try the old threats. Pay attention or you're going to fail. If you fail you won't graduate and if you don't graduate blah blah blah. All your friends will be out there in the big wide world pinning their high school diplomas to their office walls, successful, respected by one and all. Why can't you just look at this sentence and, for once in your miserable teenage existence, make an attempt to learn.

  Every class has its chemistry. There are some classes you enjoy and look forward to. They know you like them and they like you in return. Sometimes they'll tell you that was a pretty good lesson and you're on top of the world. That somehow gives you energy and makes you want to sing on the way home.

  There are some classes you wish would take the ferry to Manhattan and never return. There's something hostile about the way they enter and leave the room that tells you what they think of you. It could be your imagination and you try to figure out what will bring them over to your side. You try lessons that worked with other classes but even that doesn't help and it's because of that chemistry.

  They know when they have you on the run. They have instincts that detect your frustrations. There were days I wanted to sit behind my desk and let them do whatever they damn well pleased. I just could not reach them. Four years on the job in 1962 and I didn't care anymore. I told myself I never cared in the first place. You entertain them with stories of your miserable childhood. They make all those phony sounds. Oh, poor Mr. McCourt, musta been awful growin' up in Ireland like that. As if they cared. No. They're never satisfied. I should have followed the advice of old-timer teachers to keep my big mouth shut. Tell 'em nothing. They just use you. They figure you out and move in on you like heat-seeking missiles. They find out where you're vulnerable. Could they possibly know that "John went to the store" is as far as I can go in grammar? Lead me not into gerunds, dangling participles, cognate objects. I will surely be lost.

  I gave them the grim look and sat at my desk. Enough. I couldn't continue the charade of grammar teacher.

  I said, Why did John go to the store?

  They looked surprised. Yo, man, what's this? That has nothing to do with grammar.

  I'm asking you a simple question. Nothing to do with grammar. Why did John go to the store? Can't you guess?

  A hand in the back of the room. Yes, Ron?

  I think John went to the store to get a book on English grammar.

  And why did John go to the store to get a book on English grammar?

  'Cause he wanted to know everything and come in here and impress good old Mr. McCourt.

  And why would he want to impress good old Mr. McCourt?

  'Cause John has a girlfriend name of Rose and she's a good girl knows all kindsa grammar and she's gonna graduate an' be a secretary in a big company in Manhattan and John don't wanna be no dumb ass trying to marry Rose. That's why he goes to the store to get the book on grammar. He's gonna be a good boy and study his book and when he don't understand something he's gonna ask Mr. McCourt because Mr. McCourt knows everything and when John marries Rose he's gonna invite Mr. McCourt to the wedding and ask Mr. McCourt to be godfather to their first child, which will be called Frank after Mr. McCourt.

  Thank you, Ron.

  The class erupted, cheering, applauding, but Ron was not stopping. His hand went up again.

  Yes, Ron?

  When John got to the store he didn't have no money so he had to rob the book on grammar but when he tried to walk outa the store he was stopped and the cops were called and now he's in Sing Sing and poor old Rose is crying her eyes out.

  They made sympathetic sounds. Poor Rose. The boys wanted to know where she could be found and they'd be willing to stand in for John. Girls dabbed at their eyes till Kenny Ball, class tough guy, said it was only a story and what was all this bullshit anyway? He said, Teacher writes a sentence on the board and next thing is the guy going to the store robs a book and winds up in Sing Sing. Who ever heard such bull and is this an English class or what?

  Ron said, Well, I guess you can do better, right?

  All these made-up stories don't mean nothing. Don't help you get a job.

  The bell rang. They left and I erased from the board "John went to the store."

  Next day Ron raised his hand again. Hey, teacher, what would happen if you fooled around with those words?

  What do you mean?

  OK. You write up there, "To the store John went." How about that?

  Same thing. John is still the subject of the sentence.

  OK. How about "Went
John to the store"?

  Same thing.

  Or "John to the store went." Would that be OK?

  Of course. It makes sense, doesn't it? But you could make nonsense of it. If you said to someone, John store to the went, they'd think it was gibberish.

  What's gibberish?

  Language that makes no sense.

  I had a sudden idea, a flash. I said, Psychology is the study of the way people behave. Grammar is the study of the way language behaves.

  Go on, teacher man. Tell them of your brilliant discovery, your great breakthrough. Ask, Who knows what psychology is?

  Write the word on the board. They like big words. They take them home and intimidate their families.

  Psychology. Who knows it?

  It's when people go crazy and you have to find out what's wrong with them before you put them in the looney bin.

  The class laughed. Yeah, yeah. Like this school, man.

  I pushed it. If someone acts crazy, the psychologist studies them to find out what's wrong. If someone talks in a funny way and you can't understand them, then you're thinking about grammar. Like, John store to the went.

  So it's gibberish, right?

  They liked that word and I patted myself on the back for bringing it to them, news from the vast world of the English language. Teaching is bringing the news. Big breakthrough for new teacher. Gibberish. They said it to one another and laughed. But it was stuck in their heads. A few years into my teaching career, and I managed to make one word stick. Ten years from now they'd hear "gibberish" and think of me. Something was happening. They were beginning to understand what grammar was. If I kept at it I might understand it myself.

  The study of the way language behaves.

  No stopping me now. I said, Store the to went John. Does that make sense? Of course not. So you see, you have to have words in their proper order. Proper order means meaning and if you don't have meaning you're babbling and the men in white coats come and take you away. They stick you in the gibberish department of Bellevue. That's grammar.

  Ron's girlfriend, Donna, raised her hand. What about John, the first boy ever to go to jail for stealing a book on grammar? You left him up in Sing Sing with all those mean people. And what became of Rose? Did she wait for John? Was she true to him?