Teacher Man: A Memoir (26 page)

I challenged them on the smugness and meanness of their school cafeteria reviews. All right, I said, the ambience is bleak. Mimi would agree with you. The cafeteria could be mistaken for a subway station or an army mess hall. You complain about the service. The women dishing out the food are too brusque. They don’t smile enough. Aw, gee. That hurts your feelings. They simply dump the food, whatever it is, on a tray. Well, what do you expect? Put yourself into some dead-end job and we’ll see if you come out smiling.

I tell myself, Stop. No preaching. You did that years ago with your rant on the French Revolution. If they want to say it sucks, let them. Isn’t this a free country?

I ask them what they mean when they say the food sucks. You’re writers. How about raising the level of your vocabulary? What would Mimi say?

Aw, God, Mr. McCourt, does it have to be Mimi, Mimi every time we write about food?

Well, what do you mean by it sucks?

You know. You know.

What?

Like, you can’t eat that stuff.

Why not?

Tastes like crap or it has no taste at all.

How do you know what crap tastes like?

You know, Mr. McCourt, you’re a nice guy but you can be exasperating.

You know, Jack, what Ben Jonson said?

No, Mr. McCourt, I don’t know what Ben Jonson said.

He said, Language reveals the man. Speak that I may see thee.

Oh, is that what Ben Jonson said?

That’s what Ben Jonson said.

Pretty clever, Mr. McCourt. He should have dinner with Mimi.

O
n Open School Day the kids are dismissed at noon and the parents come swarming in from one to three and again in the evening from seven to nine. At the end of the day you meet teachers punching out at the time clock and they’re weary from talking to hundreds of parents. There are three thousand kids in this school and that should add up to six thousand parents, but this is New York, where divorce is a major sport and kids have to sort out who’s who and what’s what and when will it happen. Three thousand kids could have ten thousand parents and stepparents who are certain their sons and daughters are the brightest of the bright. This is Stuyvesant High School, where, the minute students step inside, doors swing open to the best universities and colleges in the country and if you don’t succeed it’s your own damn fault. The moms and dads are cool, confident, cheerful, self-assured when they’re not worried, concerned, despairing, uncertain, suspicious. They have high expectations and nothing less than success will satisfy them. They turn out in such numbers every teacher needs a student monitor to manage the flow. They are anxious about their child’s standing in the class. Would I say Stanley is above average? Because they think he’s getting lazy and hanging out with the wrong people. They hear things about Stuyvesant Square, things about drugs, you know, and that’s enough to make you lose sleep. Is he doing his work? Do you notice any changes in his behavior and attitudes?

Stanley’s parents are going through a bitter divorce and no wonder Stanley is screwed up. The mother keeps the classic six-room apartment on the Upper West Side while Dad is in some hovel in the arse end of the Bronx. They’ve agreed to split Stanley down the middle, three and a half days every week with each of them. Stanley is good at mathematics but even he doesn’t know how to divide himself like that. He’s good-humored about it. He turns his dilemma into some kind of algebraic equation: If
a
equals 3½ and
b
equals 3½, then what is Stanley? His math teacher, Mr. Winokur, gives Stanley a grade of
100
for even thinking along such lines. In the meantime, my monitor on Open School Night is Maureen McSherry and she tells me Stanley’s battling father and mother are sitting in my classroom waiting to see me and, Maureen adds, there must be half a dozen battling couples who won’t sit together while I talk about their little darlings.

Maureen has given them numbers like the ones you get in a bakery and my heart is sinking because there seems to be no end to the flow of parents coming into the room. As soon as you’re finished with one, another arrives. They fill all the seats: three are perched like kids on the back windowsill, whispering, and half a dozen stand along the back wall. I wish I could tell Maureen to call a halt but you can’t in a school like Stuyvesant where the parents know their rights and are never at a loss for words. Maureen whispers, Watch out. Here comes Stanley’s mother, Rhonda. She’ll have you for breakfast.

Rhonda reeks of nicotine. She sits and leans toward me and tells me not to believe a word of what that son-of-a-bitch, Stanley’s father, tells me. She can’t even bear to say the bastard’s name and feels sorry for poor Stanley that he’s stuck with this prick for a father figure and how is Stanley doing anyway?

Oh, fine. He’s a pretty good writer and popular with the other kids.

Well, that’s a miracle considering what he’s going through with jerko Dad running around with every bit of skirt he can pick up. I do my best the times I have Stanley but he can’t concentrate three and a half days a week knowing the next three and a half he’s in that hovel in the Bronx. What’s happening is that he’s started to stay over at other kids’ houses. That’s what he tells me but I happen to know he’s got this girlfriend whose parents are completely permissive and I have my suspicions.

I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that. I’m just his teacher and it’s impossible to get into the private lives of one hundred and seventy-five kids every semester.

Rhonda’s voice carried and the waiting parents were shifting in their seats, rolling their eyes, restless. Maureen told me I’d have to watch the clock, give each parent no more than two minutes, even Stanley’s father, who would demand equal time. He said, Hi, I’m Ben. Stanley’s dad. Look, I heard what she said, the therapist. I wouldn’t send a dog to her. He laughed and shook his head. But let’s not get into that. I got this problem with Stanley now. After all this education, after me saving for his college education for years, he wants to screw the whole thing up. You know what he wants to do? Go to some conservatory in New England and study classical guitar. Tell me, what kinda money is there in playing classical guitar? I told him…but look, I won’t take up your time, Mr. McCord.

McCourt.

Yeah. I won’t take up your time, but I told him, Over my dead body. We agreed from day one he’d be an accountant. Never any doubt about that. I mean what am I working for? I’m a CPA myself and if you have any little problems I’d be glad to help out. No, sir. No classical guitar. I tell him, Go get your accountancy degree and play your guitar in your spare time. He breaks down. He cries. He threatens to live with his mother and I wouldn’t wish that on a Nazi. So, I wonder if you could have a word with him? I know he likes your class, likes playing recipes and whatever you’re doing here.

I’d like to help but I’m not a guidance counselor. I’m an English teacher.

Oh, yeah? Well, from what Stanley tells me about this class, the last thing you do here is teach English. No offense but I don’t know what cooking has to do with English. Thanks anyway and how is he doing?

He’s doing well.

The bell rings and Maureen, who is not shy, announces that time is up but she’d be glad to take names and phone numbers of anyone who would like to come in for a fifteen-minute conference on school days. She passes around a sheet of paper, which remains blank. They want my attention here and now. Christ, they’ve waited half the night while these other loonies babbled on about their messed-up kids and no wonder they’re a mess, the parents they have. The frustrated ones follow me down the hall asking how is Adam doing, Sergei, Juan, Naomi? What kind of school is this where you can’t get the attention of a teacher for a minute and what am I paying taxes for?

At nine, teachers punching out at the time clock are talking about going round the corner for a drink at the Gas House. We sit at a table in the back and order pitchers of beer. We’re dry from talk talk talk. Jesus, what a night. I tell R’lene Dahlberg and Connie Collier and Bill Tuohy that in all my years at Stuyvesant only one parent, a mother, asked if her son was enjoying school. I said yes. He seemed to be enjoying himself. She smiled, stood up, said, Thank you, and left. One parent in all those years.

All they care about is success and money, money, money, says Connie. They have expectations for their kids, high hopes, and we’re like workers on an assembly line sticking a little part in here, another little part in there till the finished product comes out at the end all ready to perform for parent and corporation.

A group of parents wandered into the Gas House. One came over to me. This is nice, she said. You have time to guzzle beer but you can’t spare a minute for a parent who waited half an hour to see you.

I told her I was sorry.

She said, Yeah, and joined her group at another table. I felt so weighed down by that evening of parents I drank too much and stayed in bed next morning. Why didn’t I just tell that mother to kiss my royal Irish arse?

In my class Bob Stein never sat at a desk. It could have been his bulk but I think he found comfort perched on the deep capacious windowsill in the back of the room. As soon as he was settled he smiled and waved. Good morning, Mr. McCourt. Isn’t this a great day?

Through all the seasons of the school year he wore a white shirt open at the neck, the white collar lapped over the gray collar of his double-breasted jacket. He told the class that the jacket once belonged to Orson Welles and if he ever met Welles they’d have something to talk about. If it weren’t for the jacket, he wouldn’t know what to say to Orson Welles as his interests were completely different from the actor’s.

He wore short pants that were long pants cut off at the knees and, no, they did not match the jacket so there was no connection with Orson Welles.

He wore gray socks so heavy they lumped in woolen piles over his yellow construction boots.

He carried no bag, no books, no notebooks, no pen. He joked that it was partly my fault because of the excited way I once talked about Thoreau and how you should simplify, simplify, simplify and get rid of possessions.

When there was a written assignment or a test in class he asked me if by any chance he could borrow a pen and some paper.

Bob, this is a writing class. It requires certain materials.

He assured me everything would be all right and advised me not to worry. He told me from the windowsill the snow was appearing on my head and I should enjoy the years left to me.

No, no, he told the class. Don’t laugh.

But they were already in hysterics and so loud I had to wait to hear him again. He said that in a year from now I’d just look back at this moment and wonder why I wasted my time and emotions on his lack of pen and paper.

I had to play the part of stern teacher. Bob, you could fail this class if you don’t participate.

Mr. McCourt, I can’t believe you’re telling me this, you of all people with your miserable childhood and everything, Mr. McCourt. But it’s OK. If you fail me I’ll take the course again. No big hurry. What’s a year or two one way or the other? For you, maybe, it’s a big thing but I’m only seventeen. All the time in the world, Mr. McCourt, even if you fail me.

He asked the class if anyone would like to help him out with pen and paper. There were ten offers but he took the one closest so that he wouldn’t have to climb down from his windowsill. He said, See, Mr. McCourt? See how nice people are. Long as they carry these big bags you and I will never have to worry about supplies.

Yes, yes, Bob, but how is that going to help you next week when we have the big test on
Gilgamesh
?

What’s that, Mr. McCourt?

It’s in the world-literature book, Bob.

Oh, yeah. I remember that book. Big book. I have it at home and my dad’s reading the Bible parts an’ all. My dad’s a rabbi, you know. He was so happy you gave us that book with all the prophets an’ everything and he said you must be a great teacher an’ he’s coming to see you on Open School Night. I told him you were a great teacher except you have this thing about pens and paper.

Cut it out, Bob. You haven’t even looked at the book.

He urged me again not to worry as his father, the rabbi, often talked about the book and he, Bob, would be sure to find out all about Gilgamesh and anything else that would make the teacher happy.

Again the class erupted, embracing one another, high fiving.

I wanted to erupt, too, but I had to maintain teacher dignity.

Across the room, over the giggling and gasping and laughing, I called, Bob, Bob. It would make me happy if you read the world-literature book yourself and left your poor father in peace.

He said he’d love to read the book cover to cover but it did not fit into his plans.

And what are your plans, Bob?

I’m going to be a farmer.

He smiled and waved the pen and paper so kindly donated by Jonathan Greenberg and said he was sorry for disrupting the class and maybe we should start writing what I wanted them to write at the start of the period, which was quickly passing. He, Bob, was ready and suggested the class quiet down so Mr. McCourt could get on with his work. He told them teaching is the hardest work in the world and he should know because, once in summer camp, he tried to teach a bunch of small kids about things that grow in the ground but they wouldn’t listen to him, just ran around chasing bugs till he got mad and said he’d kick their asses and that was the end of his teaching career, so have a little concern for Mr. McCourt. But before we got down to business he’d like to explain he had nothing against world literature except that now he read nothing but publications from the Department of Agriculture and magazines that had to do with farming. He said there’s more to farming than meets the eye, but that’s another subject, and he could see I wanted to get on with my lesson and what was that lesson, Mr. McCourt?

What was I to do with this large boy on the windowsill, a Jewish Future Farmer of America? Jonathan Greenberg raised his hand and asked what was it about farming that didn’t meet the eye?

Bob looked gloomy for a moment. It’s my dad, he said. He’s having trouble with the corn and the pigs. He says Jews don’t eat corn on the cob. He says you can go up one street and down the other in Williamsburg and Crown Heights and look in Jewish windows at dinnertime and you’ll never see anyone chewing on corn on the cob. It just isn’t a Jewish thing. Gets in the beard. Show me a Jew eating corn on the cob and I’ll show you one who has lost the faith. That’s my dad talking. But the last straw was pigs. I told my dad I like them. I’m not planning to eat them or anything but I’d like to raise them and sell them to the goyim. What’s wrong with that? They’re really pleasant little animals and they can be very affectionate. I told my dad I’ll be married and have kids and they’ll like the little piglets. He nearly went crazy and my mom had to go lie down. Maybe I shouldn’t have told them but they taught me to tell the truth and it’ll come out in the end anyway.