Teacher Man

by Frank McCourt

  Everything he said was news to me, one of the benefits of being innocent and ill-educated. I knew bits and pieces of English literature but it was thrilling with Seiden, rolling along from writer to writer, from century to century, pausing for a closer look at Chaucer, John Skelton, Christopher Marlowe, John Dryden, the Enlightenment, the Romantics, the Victorians and on into the twentieth century with Seiden reading passages to illustrate the development of English from Anglo-Saxon through Middle English through Modern English.

  After those lectures I felt sorry for people on subway trains who didn't know what I knew and I was eager to get back to my own classroom and tell my students how the English language had changed down the centuries. I tried to prove it by reading passages from Beowulf but they said, Nah, that ain't English. You think we're stoopid?

  I tried to imitate Seiden's elegant style with my classes of plumbers, electricians, auto mechanics, but they looked at me as if I had lost my wits.

  Professors could get up there and lecture to their hearts' content with never a fear of contradiction or a quibble. That was a life to be envied. They never had to tell anyone sit down, open your notebook, no, you may not have the pass. They never had to break up fights. Assignments were to be completed on time. No excuses, sir or madam, this is not high school. If you find it difficult to keep up with the work you ought to drop the course. Excuses are for children.

  I envied Seiden, and college professors in general, their weekly four or five classes. I taught twenty-five. They had complete authority. I had to earn it. I said to my wife, Why should I have to struggle with moody teenagers when I could live the easy life of a college professor? Wouldn't it be a pleasure to stroll into the classroom in that casual way, nod to acknowledge their mere existence, deliver the lecture to the back wall or a tree outside the window, scratch a few illegible notes on the board, announce the next paper to be written, seven hundred words on money symbolism in Dickens's Bleak House? No complaints, no challenges, no excuses.

  Alberta said, Oh, stop the whining. Get off your ass and get a Ph.D. and you can be a nice little university professor. You can bullshit the female sophomores.

  When Alberta was taking the examination for the teacher's license she met R'lene Dahlberg and brought her home for dinner. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the couch drinking wine and telling us about her life with her husband, Edward. They lived in Majorca but she returned to the States from time to time to teach and make money to keep them going in Spain. She said Edward was quite famous and I said nothing because I could remember coming across his name only once in an essay by Edmund Wilson on proletarian writers. R'lene said he'd be returning from Spain in a few months and she'd invite us over for a drink.

  From the minute I met him I didn't like Edward Dahlberg, or, maybe, I was nervous about meeting a man of letters, my introduction to the social world of American literature.

  The evening Alberta and I came over, he sat in a deep armchair in a corner by the window facing a semicircle of admirers. They talked about books. They asked his opinion about various writers. He waved his hand and, except for himself, dismissed everyone in the twentieth century: Hemingway wrote "baby talk," Faulkner "sludge." Joyce's Ulysses was "a trudge through the ordure of Dublin." He demanded everyone go home and read authors I'd never heard of: Seutonius, Anaxagoras, Sir Thomas Brown, Eusebius, the Desert Fathers, Flavius Josephus, Randolph Bourne.

  R'lene introduced me. This is Frank McCourt from Ireland. He teaches high school English.

  I put out my hand but he let it hang. Oh, still a high school boy, are you?

  I didn't know what to say. I wanted to punch the discourteous son of a bitch, but I did nothing. He laughed and said to R'lene, Does our friend teach English to deaf mutes? In the Dahlberg world teaching was for women only.

  I backed away to my chair, confused.

  Dahlberg had a massive head with strands of gray hair pasted across the baldness. One eye was dead in its socket and the other moved rapidly, doing the work of two. He had a strong nose and a luscious mustache and when he smiled there was a flash of false white teeth, which clacked.

  He wasn't finished. He turned the one eye on me. Does our high school boy read? And what does he read?

  I searched my head for something I'd read recently, something distinguished that might please him.

  I'm reading the autobiography of Sean O'Casey.

  He let me suffer a moment, passed his hand over his face, grunted, Sean O'Casey. Pray, quote me a line.

  My heart jumped and pounded. The semicircle of admirers waited. Dahlberg lifted his head as if to say Yes? My mouth was dry. I could think of nothing from O'Casey that would match the grand passages Dahlberg quoted from the ancient masters. I mumbled, Well, I admire O'Casey for the natural way he writes about his life growing up in Dublin.

  He let me suffer again while he smiled at his admirers. He nodded toward me. The natural way he writes, says our Irish friend. If you admire so-called natural writing you can always scrutinize the walls of a public lavatory.

  The admirers laughed. My face was hot and I blurted, O'Casey fought his way out of the slums of Dublin. He was half blind. He's a...a...champion of the worker.... He's as good as you anytime. The whole world knows Sean O'Casey. Who ever heard of you?

  He shook his head for the benefit of his admirers and they shook their heads in agreement. He called to R'lene, Tell your high school boy to leave my presence. He's not welcome here though his charming wife is welcome to stay.

  I followed R'lene to the bedroom to retrieve my coat. I told her I was sorry for causing trouble and despised myself for my apology, but she kept her head down and said nothing. In the living room Dahlberg was pawing Alberta's shoulder, telling her he had no doubt she was a fine teacher and hoped she would visit again.

  In silence we rode the subway to Brooklyn. I was confused and wondered why Dahlberg had to behave like that. Did he have to humiliate a stranger? And why did I put up with it?

  Because I didn't have the self-confidence of an eggshell. He was sixty, I was thirty. I was like someone arrived from a wild place. I'd never be at ease in literary circles. I was out of my depth and too ignorant to belong to that squad of admirers who could lob literary names at Dahlberg.

  I felt paralyzed and ashamed of myself and swore I'd never see that man again. I'd give up this dead-end teaching career that brought no respect, get a part-time job, spend my life reading in libraries, go to parties like this, quote and recite, hold my own with the likes of Dahlberg and his adoring circle. R'lene invited us back but now Dahlberg was polite and I was wary and smart enough to defer to him, to fall into the role of acolyte. He asked me always what I was reading and I kept the peace by trotting out the Greeks, Romans, the Church Fathers, Miguel de Cervantes, Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Emerson, Thoreau and, of course, Edward Dahlberg, as if I were doing nothing now but sitting on my arse all day in a deep armchair reading, reading and waiting for Alberta to serve my dinner and massage my poor neck. If the conversation turned dark and dangerous I'd quote from his books and watch his face brighten and soften. It surprised me that a man who dominated gatherings and made enemies everywhere could fall for flattery so easily. It surprised me, also, that I was clever enough to work out a strategy that would keep him from exploding in his chair. I was learning to bite my tongue and take his abuse because I thought I might profit from his learning and wisdom.

  I envied him for living the life of a writer, a dream I was too timid to chance. I admired him or anyone who went his own way and stuck to his guns. Even with all my various experiences in America I still felt like someone just off the boat. When he moaned about the hard life of a writer, the daily suffering of man at desk, I wanted to say, Oh, anguish my arse, Dahlberg. All you do is sit there tapping at your typewriter a few hours in the morning and reading the rest of the day while R'lene hovers, attending to your every need. You never did a hard day's work in your life. One day teaching a hundred and seventy teenagers would sen
d you running back to your soft literary life.

  I saw him occasionally till he died in California at seventy-seven. He would invite me to dinner with instructions to bring my brach. The dictionary told me my brach was my bitch. I realized he was more interested in my brach than in me and when he suggested that we all spend a summer together driving across country I knew what he was up to, a fling along the way with Alberta. The clever man would contrive to send me on a futile errand while he uncoiled and slithered from his tree.

  He called one Saturday morning to invite us to dinner and when I said we were busy that night he said, And what, my fine Irish friend, am I to do with the food I have purchased? I said, Eat it. That's all you ever do anymore anyhow.

  It wasn't much of a rejoinder but it was the last word. I never heard from him again.

  Every June during my eight years at McKee, the English department met in a classroom to read, evaluate, grade the New York State English Regents examination. Barely half the students at McKee passed the examination. The other half had to be helped. We tried to inflate the failure grades from high fifties to passing, the mandated sixty-five.

  We could do nothing about multiple-choice questions, the answers were right or wrong, but we helped with essays on literature and general topics. Give the kid credit for being there. Sure, what the hell. He could be someplace else getting into trouble, bothering people. Three points for showing up, for selfless citizenship. Is his writing legible? Sure. Another two or three points.

  Did the kid ever bother teachers in class? Well, maybe, on one occasion. Yeah, but he was probably provoked. Besides, his father is dead, a dock worker who defied the mob and wound up in the Gowanus Canal for his troubles. Give the kid another two points for having a father dead in the Gowanus. We're getting that grade up there, aren't we?

  Does the student use paragraphs? Oh, yeah. Look how he indents. The kid is a master of indentation. There are definitely three paragraphs here.

  Does he have topic sentences in his paragraphs? Well, you know, you could argue that the first sentence is a topic sentence. OK, give him another three points for his topic sentences. So, where are we now? Sixty-three?

  Is he a nice kid? Oh, sure. Helpful in class? Yes, he cleaned erasers for his social studies teacher. Polite in the hallways? Always said good morning. Look at this, he gave his essay a title, "My Country; Right or Wrong." Now isn't that something? Pretty sophisticated, choosing an essay title. Couldn't we raise him three for choice of patriotic topic and one point for using a semicolon even if the situation calls for a colon? Is that really a semicolon or is the paper a flyport? There are kids in this school who don't even know colons exist, and don't care, and if you were to stand up there and tell them the difference between the colon and its cousin, the semicolon, they'd just ask for the pass.

  Why not raise him another three points? He's a nice kid and his brother, Stan, is in Vietnam. His father got polio when he was a kid. Spends his life in a wheelchair. Oh, give the boy another point for having a father in a wheelchair and a brother in Vietnam.

  So, he's up to sixty-eight. Sixty-eight is less likely to arouse suspicions in Albany, where they're supposed to be checking these tests. Unlikely they'll look at every exam with the thousands flowing in from around the state. Besides, if there are questions, we teachers will stand shoulder to shoulder to defend our marking system.

  Let's go to lunch.

  Mr. Bibberstein, the guidance counselor, said if I had any trouble with any kid to let him know and he'd take care of it. He said new teachers in this system were treated like dirt, or worse. You sink or swim.

  I never told him about any difficulties with students. The word gets out. Yeah, man, that new teacher, McCourt, he'll send your ass to the guidance counselor and next thing he's calling your dad and you know what that means. Mr. Bibberstein joked I must be a great teacher, getting along so well with the kids I never sent one to his office. He said it must be my Irish charm. You're not much to look at but the girls love your accent. They told me, so don't waste it.

  When we went on strike with the new union, the United Federation of Teachers, Mr. Bibberstein, Mr. Tolfsen and Miss Gilfillan, the art teacher, crossed the picket line. We called to them, Don't go in. Don't go in, but they went in, Miss Gilfillan weeping. The teachers who crossed the picket line were older than the ones outside. They may have been members of the old Teachers' Union, which was crushed during the McCarthy witch-hunt era. They did not want to be hounded again even though we were striking mostly for recognition as a union.

  I felt sympathy for the older teachers and when the strike was over wanted to say I was sorry for the way we shouted at them. On our picket line, at least, no one called out, Scab, the way they did in other schools. Still, there was tension and division at McKee High School, and I didn't know if I could be friends anymore with the people who crossed the line. Before I became a teacher I hit the picket lines with the Hotel Workers' Union, the Teamsters and the International Longshoremens' Association, and was fired from a bank merely for talking to a union organizer. There were warnings and no one would dare to ignore them. Cross this line, pal, and we know where you live. We know where your kids go to school.

  We could never say things like that from a teachers' picket line. We were professionals: teachers, college graduates. When the strike ended we gave the scabs the cold shoulder in the teachers' cafeteria. They ate together on the other side of the room. In a while they stopped coming to the cafeteria altogether and we had the place to ourselves, loyal members of the United Federation of Teachers.

  Mr. Bibberstein barely nodded to me in the hallways and there were no more offers of help with difficult kids. I was surprised when he stopped me one day and barked, What's this about Barbara Sadlar?

  What do you mean?

  She came to my office and said you encouraged her to go to college.

  That's right.

  What do you mean, that's right?

  I mean I suggested she go to college.

  I'd like to remind you this is a vocational and technical high school, not a feeder school for colleges. These kids go into the trades, son. They're not ready for college.

  I told him Barbara Sadlar was one of the brightest students in my five classes. She wrote well, read books, participated in class discussions, and if I, myself, licensed teacher, could go to college without a scrap of high school education why couldn't Barbara think of it? No one said she had to be a beautician, secretary or anything else.

  Because, young man, you're giving kids ideas they shouldn't have. We're trying to be realistic here and you're coming in with your crazy half-assed ideas. I'm gonna have to talk to her and set her straight. I'd appreciate it if you backed off. Teach English and leave guidance to me. He turned to walk away but turned back again. It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that Barbara is a good-looking blonde, would it?

  I wanted to say something mean. Scab jumped into my head but I kept silent. He walked away from me and that was the last time we ever spoke. Was it the strike, or was it really Barbara?

  He left a greeting card in my mailbox with a note: "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, but you better make sure they have something to grasp. Don't create impossible dreams. Regards, Fergus Bibberstein."

  Part II

  Donkey

  on a Thistle

  9

  In 1966, after eight years at McKee, it was time to move on. I still struggled to hold the attention of five classes every day though I was learning what was obvious: You have to make your own way in the classroom. You have to find yourself. You have to develop your own style, your own techniques. You have to tell the truth or you'll be found out. Oh, teacher man, that's not what you said last week. It isn't a matter of virtue or high morality.

  So, goodbye, McKee Vocational and Technical High School. With my new master's degree I'm off to New York Community College in Brooklyn, where a friend, Professor Herbert Miller, helped me find a position as adjunct lecturer, th
e lowest level of teacher in the university system. I'll have five or six classes every week, not every day. I'll be in heaven with all that free time. I'll earn half the salary of the high school teacher, but the students will be mature, they'll listen and show respect. They won't throw things. They won't object and complain over work in class and homework assignments. Also, they'll call me professor and that will make me feel important. I am to teach two courses: Introduction to Literature and Basic Composition.

  My students were adult, mostly under thirty, working around the city in stores, factories, offices. There was a class of thirty-three firemen working for college credit to rise in the department, all white, mostly Irish.

  Almost everyone else was black or Hispanic. I could have been one of them, working by day, studying by night. Since there were no discipline problems I had to adjust and develop a kind of teaching where I didn't have to tell anyone sit down, please, and be quiet. If they were late they said sorry and took their seats. I hardly knew what to do when those first classes filed in, sat and waited for my lecture. No one asked for the lavatory pass. No one raised a hand to accuse anyone of stealing a sandwich or a book or a seat. No one tried to get me off the subject by asking me about Ireland in general or my miserable childhood in particular.

  You have to get up there, man, and teach.

  A footnote, ladies and gentlemen, is what you put at the bottom of the page to show the source of your information.

  A hand.

  Yes, Mr. Fernandez?

  How come?

  How come what?

  I mean if I'm writing about the New York Giants why can't I just say I read it in the Daily News, why?

  Because, Mr. Fernandez, this is a research paper and that means you have to show exactly, exactly, Mr. Fernandez, where you got your information.