Teacher Man. Frank McCourt
boy. If you do bad things you look into your soul, and there are the sins, festering. Everything is either a sin or not a sin and that’s an idea you might carry in your head the rest of your life. Then when you grow up and drift away from the church, Mea culpa is a faint whisper in your past. It’s still there, but now you’re older and not so easily frightened.
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 wornout 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.