Why Frank McCourt is my Teacher Man

In years to come I will probably recall very little about the year 2009, except for the loss of one of the greatest writers I've ever seen. I'm talking about the passing of writer/teacher Frank McCourt, and here's why he's great.

1. Voice - When I hear one of his books read aloud I immediately recognize his style. He is conversational, fluid, and effortlessly funny.

2. Style- I'm fascinated by the way he writes dialogue. He slides it into the paragraphs seamlessly without the use of quotes. How does he do that?

3. Truth- Here's a guy who is not afraid to let you watch him squirm in his memoirs and stumble his way through his spiritual journey as a Catholic. He was a great teacher who thought he was horrible. There is bravery in his transparency and a genuine sense of humility.

4. His "Irish Rap" (watch the U-Tube video below)

Known best for his Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Angela's Ashes, McCourt was an English teacher in New York public schools for thirty years prior to his writing success. I wish I could have read Teacher Man, his third book, when I was new at the profession, but it was not published until 2005. In it McCourt captures the feelings and struggles of every classroom teacher.

I love this book as much as Angela's Ashes because it resonates with me on several levels, being a former English teacher, a Catholic and a New Yorker. His experiences in the classroom and the humorous ways he reflects on his interaction with students is so enjoyable to read.

In the late 1990's, when my husband was an undergraduate student in college, he saw Frank McCourt lecture and gave me a signed copy of Angela's Ashes. On the front page the author wrote,

To Loren,
Teaching makes a difference!
Frank McCourt

I'm sure that my husband told him that I was a new teacher at that time. The written message seemed cliche until I finished reading Teacher Man. Throughout the book, McCourt feels like he is a failure, despite how hard he works to be a good instructor. Teacher Man should be required reading for college students taking education courses. This book is more helpful than my entire student teaching experience. McCourt dissects the day-to-day challenges of the classroom like no adolescent psychology, or methods of education textbook can.

Here is an excerpt:

"A hand. So, mister. Wass you name?
I write on the board MR. McCOURT, and pronounce it.
Hey Mister, You Jewish?
No.
Alla teachers in this school Jewish. How come you not Jewish?
I don't know.
They look surprised, even astonished, and the look travels the room. The look says, You hear that Miquel? Teacher up there, he don't know.

It's a hot moment. Teacher confesses ignorance and the class is shocked into silence. Off with the mask, teacher man, and what a relief. No more Mister Know-It-All." (130)

Teacher Man shows McCourt's thought process through every challenge a teacher faces, from the classroom bully to interactions with his bosses. McCourt says he did not write books while he was working because he did not have the time. So he leaves us only with three that he wrote in retirement: Angela's Ashes, Tis and Teacher Man. Three memoirs and his voice lives forever, that's great writing.

Below McCourt talks about his teaching career...

Will You Pick UP! It's God.

One of my blogger friends, Elizabeth, is exploring the topic of major and minor life callings. This is a fascinating idea, and I am intrigued. Some people think that life is random, but I'm not part of that group. I think that there is something to be learned from every event, encounter, relationship, and I've been working on adopting an attitude of gratitude. When I was in high school there was a poster that displayed this saying, and I stared at it blankly every day of my life for a whole year. I didn't get it. After about 17 years, I guess the light bulb finally flicked on. One can consider this a little miracle without offending me, because I agree.

Have I felt called in small and larger ways? Definitely. My first calling was to motherhood. Ask my mom. I had all my baby dolls lined up in my room. I fed my stuffed animals real oatmeal. I was a very nurturing little girl. From as far back as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother.

When I was in fifth grade I scored the highest in my grade on a creative writing test. My teacher took me outside in the hall. I thought I was in trouble, because he was all red in the face. Actually, he was beaming. "Why didn't you tell me that you could write like that?" He asked. I just shrugged. That was the day I learned I had a talent. From that point on English was my favorite subject.

I always knew I wanted to pursue marriage as a vocation, but I was actually very selective, (don't laugh, Milk Man). I had really high standards, because when I finally did marry, I wanted it to be a relationship that could grow and last. What is "love at first sight?" I don't know exactly, but I do believe in extreme like at first sight. I believe in I-want-to-be-with-this-person-all-the-time at first sight, and wow, this-person-actually-challenges-my-intellect at first sight. That's what I had with Milk Man, (brownie points). One can experience all that several times, but how do you discern that you are called to marry a specific person? I wasn't sure, so I secretly prayed about it..., a lot. Then God hit me over the head with a brick.

I was at Happy Hour with Milk Man at this dockside restaurant called Captain Bill's eating my favorite appetizer, steamed mussels, when I looked up. Outside the window was this party boat called "The Lauren Kristy." Because I had been praying about Milk Man, that was solid confirmation for me.

Since then I've recognized other ways that I feel I'm being called in one direction or another. It has been through opportunities to be present in times of need for friends, family members, or even random strangers. I 've found that when I am able to take these opportunities, I feel a sense that God is at work in my life.

When I was still working after my first child was born, I felt called to leave my job to be home with him. I wasn't sure it would be possible, financially. Plus, I still wanted to help teens in some way. This feeling led me into the field of Youth Ministry, where I currently work. I truly believe that God helped me through that decision to give up my profession for a while. In subtle ways, my children reaffirm this decision for me almost daily.

Sometimes, when God calls, I don't feel like picking up the phone. Nevertheless, I feel compelled to do or say things that don't make sense at the moment, and I might never find out if the action was worthwhile. I think that is God calling me again.

Once, when I was working as a teacher I had a conflict with a senior in one of my classes. She was researching the topic of abortion, and wanted to include some really gory pictures in her class presentation. I told her no, and she did it anyway. I gave her a poor grade. Although the research was good, she did not respect my wishes. She complained to the principal that I let my own opinion about the topic cloud my judgement on her grade. She was angry at me and lashing out for some reason. I really just didn't want her to show the pictures to the class because parents would complain. It was not necessary.

As one can imagine, I was angry at this student for attacking my livelihood. I thought she was being spiteful over a grade. I stuck to my guns. One of her friends approached me in private and told me that this particular student had had an abortion, and was angry at me because she knew I was pro life. "She looks up to you. So when she asked your personal opinion on the topic, she took your honest response as an attack on what she had done." The friend explained. Oh. Well, of course I realized she was hurt and confused by her loss, but I was still mad as heck at how she had lied to my boss about me. I decided that night that I would never make eye contact with this student again. In fact, that was the last thought I had before I fell asleep.

That night I dreamt about a man I had observed on a retreat I chaperoned once. He was a potter. He made an analogy between clay and your life. "You can rebuild yourself at any time." I remember being very moved, but woke up that morning not knowing why I had dreamt about someone I had met briefly several years earlier.

I taught in the same classroom most of the day, and I can tell you with certainty that there was no clay on the floor until the class before I had to encounter this student. The period before I had to leave that room, when the desks were moved into a circle, there it was. A fresh ball of grey clay was suddenly in the center of the classroom floor. The kids must have thought I was crazier than usual that day, because I was shocked to see it there. No one knew about my dream except me and God. I knew I was supposed to pick it up and put it in my pocket, so I did.

Walking down the hall to the computer lab to meet the next class, I must have looked nuts. I know I was talking to myself, in an actual argument with God. "I can't believe you want me to talk to this girl. I don't want to talk to this girl!" I complained.

When I arrived I called her outside. She came out all cocky, ready to take me on. I took the clay out of my pocket and thought, "Alright, if I have to speak to her, YOU give me some words." I was thinking AT God. The girl was staring, assuming I was going to get angry at her.

"I bet when your boyfriend dumped you last year you felt like this," I took the clay and smashed it against the locker. As we stared for a moment at each other, her eyes got glassy. Then something changed. She started to laugh, and cry. I even got choked up. We hugged. "Your friend told me. I know you're in a lot of pain. You can start over again. You can be anything you want. It's still all good. " I gave her the clay.

It was an amazing moment. After that I had a connection with that student. Other than the event of the birth of my own children, I have never felt God's presence so keenly than at that moment. I felt sure that being pro-life was a good thing, and I wasn't afraid to take a stand for it. I saw the pain and agony that abortion inflicts on women. Also, I felt an urge again to reach out to teens in some other way. So, that was another brick. I'm glad I picked up the phone that time.

True, it's only because of the perspective I choose to take that I view these events as callings. It's a hopeful perspective that makes for a richer life. I constantly feel confirmed in ways that are difficult to put into words. Readers, tell me about your callings...comment.

Don't Wake Mama Bear

Childbirth changes a woman on so many levels. I think when I had my first born, there was something from the hospital lab marked "experimental" mixed into my Epidural. I suspect the misplaced serum had something to do with cloning grisly bears. It seems that, when I feel the need to protect my children, I suddenly change, physically. My skin gets hot under the collar, my hair bristles, and I can feel my face stiffen. This is something I can not control, and it usually is accompanied by an irrational urge to destroy the cause of the threat, whatever or whomever that may be.

The first time I notice this strange change is on the playground at the beach. Big Brother is about two years old, and he is playing on the deck of a giant wooden boat. An older boy approaches him and makes a joke about his clothes. He's dressed in a one-piece, spandex Buzz Lightyear bathing suit to protect his fair skin from sunburn. I watch my cub defend himself from a distance. "This is my cool baby suit!" he exclaims, offended for the first time in his short life. Up until this point, no one had ever questioned his "coolness." Of course, the mispronunciation of the word bathing suit only makes the older boy laugh harder, and before my brain realizes what my legs are doing, I've moved myself into the older boy's personal space. "How old do you think this child is? Huh?" I leer at him. Backing away from this crazy woman in the sand, the bully shrugs. "He's two! How old are you, like, ten?! Leave him alone!" I growl. As the boy runs away, my claws retract back into my sleeves and the precariously bushy black fur that's spreading on my back disappears. That's when I realize, I just forced a confrontation with a child. Nice going, Mommy.

Really, this inconvenient transformation only takes place once in a blue moon, or in today's case, occasionally during a sunny morning. I decide it is in big brother’s best interest to remove him from a special class that will be a self-contained model for the next six years of his education. My husband receives a smug attitude from the building leader when requesting this change. "We want our son's transition to be smooth...You need to be welcoming and warm to my wife tomorrow when she arrives with him. I really don't want to bail her out of prison." I don't think they realize Mama Bear's on her way to their camp ground.


What a warm welcome I receive! First I have to show my driver's license to reach the main office from the front doors of the building. After searching for someone who is supposed to meet me and help us with the class adjustment, I explain to the secretary that I'm escorting big brother down to the new classroom myself. Then the building leader comes out of her office. "We have a policy that parents can not walk through the halls," she announces. My hair bristles, my muscles tighten, and I start feeling the fur spread across my skin. Luckily, I do not smell M&M's in her pocket, so I'm able to slow down my mutation. Forcing a smile, I repeat myself, calmly. "I am walking my son to his new classroom, saying goodbye, and greeting his new teacher." A staring contest ensues. Meanwhile, I'm flashing back to last April when big brother was hospitalized with pneumonia. I was glued to a plastic green hospital chair for three days, praying in the middle of the night that his fever would break. This person is not going to walk away smugly with my son. I think this all is communicated somehow, non-verbally, or maybe some of my fur starts to show, because Mama Bear wins, and no blood is shed. Walking back to my mini-van, I return to my previous state as just another ordinary mom.

Meet Mrs. Dread

I'm sitting in the cafeteria in the middle of a Kindergarten Orientation meeting, and I can't hear a word the principal is saying. It's not because of the crowd of rude parents who are talking over her, but rather, my disturbance is due to the negative feng shui that exists in the room. The principal is standing underneath an awning made to resemble a tropical hut. Giant wooden letters sit on top of its roof. The letters spell out: "NACK HUT." It seems that sometime during the cafeteria mayhem of the school year, the "S" in "SNACK" keeled over, and no one ever bothered to revive it. I'm wondering, "How could this building leader speak under a broken sign?" It's driving me insane. While her mouth forms sounds into the microphone, the anal voice in my head is screaming: "Fix the S!" Before my brain realizes what my legs are doing, I have risen from my seat. I approach the principal in the middle of her speech. Pulling up a chair and stepping up on to it, I ask her to excuse me for just a moment. Confused and slightly alarmed, she pauses, microphone in hand, to stare at me and asks, curtly, what I'm doing. I pick up the fallen letter and return it to its proper location, forming the word: SNACK. "There! Now you can continue," I tell her. The room is silent. I sit back down, smiling. I'm finally relieved. Big brother pipes up from his seat, "Nice job, mommy! Now all the children will understand where to go to get their snacks!" A peal of laughter follows from the parents, and some clap. Making eye contact with the principal I shrug and apologize. "That word was driving me crazy. Now I can actually listen to you....Um, Sorry."

Reflecting on this action, I realize this may not have been the most positive way to introduce myself to the faculty and administrators of my child's school. However, that misspelling made for a very bad presentation, and a truly sad sign. I felt compelled to intervene.

In B.C. times, (Before Children), when I was employed as a teacher, I sometimes encountered "difficult" parents. I called them Mr. or Mrs. Dread behind their backs, of course. There were many reasons why I dreaded dealing with them, but often, I thought these particular adults were pushy, and overly judgemental. I swore I would never become a Mrs. Dread.

I guess the old adage is true: "Never say never." I recall this dusty promise as I'm dialing the number of my child's principal. School hasn't started yet, and it's big brother's first day...of kindergarten. I explain that I have concerns and questions about an optional enrichment program that my son is enrolled in. This may be obnoxious of me, but so what! Reader, who else will advocate for the academic success of my children?

My fear and doubt in the school district mounts during the first week. Big brother gets bullied on the playground, and when he asks an adult for help, he is told to "go play." I only feel more concerned when the teacher sends home notes riddled with grammar mistakes. I send in a note, then call her directly and voice my concerns. I decide to give big brother extra projects once a week to help enrich his learning. All the while, I feel like I've been possessed by Mrs. Dread.

This behavior is not like me. I understand that no one is perfect. However, everyone can shoot for excellence. When I was a new teacher I was so nervous, I forgot how to spell word "hamburger." I wrote it like this on the black board: HANDBURGER. Of course I looked dumb, and a kid corrected me. I can relate to the pressures of being a teacher, but as a parent, I feel frustrated. I expect those who are entrusted with my child's academic success to strive to be excellent at what they do, just as I did when I went home from work and secretly checked the spelling of "hamburger" in the dictionary. I never put a hand in a burger again.

By Friday the teacher is responding with extra notes on big brother's progress, and she has worked his enrichment projects into her curriculum. I look into the mirror and realize, the horrible transformation is complete. This is what giving birth has done to me. I am Mrs. Dread, and it turns out that, as Martha Stewart would say, "It's a good thing."

“Excellence can be obtained if you:...care more than others think is wise;...risk more than others think is safe;...dream more than others think is practical;...expect more than others think is possible.” - Unknown

Portrait of Loren as a Rectangle of Sod

It's 1997 and I'm a 22 year old college grad, so excited to begin my first week as a classroom teacher. All I want is to be taken seriously, and even though I'm dressing in tweed jackets and wool pants to appear older, I'm getting prom invitations instead of respect from a group of snarly seniors.

"There are things about a writing a college essay that I just don't get," says a clean-cut boy in the first row. My mind is racing. "Oh-no, he's deviating from the lesson plan!" I stand before the young mob without a weapon, and the hamburger I ate for lunch is doing step aerobics inside my stomach. I start reviewing the organization of this type of essay on the the chalk board. A girl sitting near the door, with unnaturally red hair that seems to climb out of her scalp in the form of many braids, raises her hand. My eyes are drawn to the spiked dog collar that she wears. She's grinning and I'm slightly frightened because her shirt warns me to: "Get Ready! The Anti-Christ is Coming." Then again, if he comes right now, maybe the class will be distracted from the fact that I am nervous.

I force a pleasant expression onto my face and call on Methuselah. "Why do we need to write a conclusion if we're done stating our main points?" As she's speaking I'm now staring at her teeth, because I think I see fangs, and I'm wondering if they're really plastic. I'm so green at this profession right now, I could pass for a nice puffy rectangle of sod, or star in "Gumby Gets a Teaching Licence," (a movie I just made up while daydreaming).

Maybe only seconds pass, but the pack can smell my nervousness. Even the kid in the back who sleeps past the bell looks up. Their varied pimpled faces smile in sweet satisfaction.

Then it hits me. Confidence smacks me across the face and says, "What are you thinking?! You know how to write and you can teach these little piranhas." So, I start speaking, but it's one of those moments when you step outside yourself and the voice of someone else comes out of your mouth.
"Writing a conclusion is like wrapping a present. When you give a present to someone you do not hand the person the gift still in its bag with the price tag attached. That's rude."

An amazing thing happens. They respond.
"That would be cheap," shouts Methuselah.
"It would prove the person doesn't care," says the clean-cut boy.
"My mom does that," shrugs the sleepy boy as his head droops back onto the desk.

I finish my metaphor in triumphant clarity. "The conclusion is the wrapping paper of your essay." They like it and it makes sense. The bell rings just in time to prevent further questions.

I'm smiling because something really special has just happened to me. I know in my heart that the idea came from someone who would be in my corner today. It belongs to my 7th grade Biology teacher, Miss Bradley. She passed away at a young age. I secretly thank her for helping me through my first week as a new teacher as the next group files into the room.