Miss Mudd didn't have to take the attendance because in every class there is a monitor to do it. The monitor is usually a shy girl with a neat notebook and good handwriting. For taking the attendance she gets service credits and that impresses employers when she goes looking for a job in Manhattan.
The sophomore English students break into cheers at the news that Miss Mudd is gone forever. She was mean. She tried to make them read that boring book, Giants in the Earth, and she said when they were finished with that they'd have to read Silas Marner and Louis by the window who reads lots of books told everyone it's a book about a dirty old man in England and a little girl and that's the kind of book we shouldn't be reading in America.
Miss Mudd said they'd have to read Silas Marner because there was a midterm exam coming up and they'd have to write an essay comparing it with Giants in the Earth and the students in eighth-period sophomore English would like to know where does she get off thinking you can compare a book about gloomy people on the prairie with a book about a dirty old man in England?
They cheer again. They tell me, We don't want to read no dumb books.
You mean you don't want to read any dumb books.
What?
Oh, nothing. The warning bell rings and they gather up their coats and bags to pile out the door. I have to shout, Sit down. That's the warning bell.
They look surprised. What's up, teacher?
You're not supposed to leave at the warning bell.
Miss Mudd let us leave.
I'm not Miss Mudd.
Miss Mudd was nice. She let us leave. Why you so mean?
They're out the door and I can't stop them. Mr. Sorola is in the hallway to tell me my students are not supposed to leave at the warning bell.
I know, Mr. Sorola. I couldn't stop them.
Well, Mr. McCourt, a little more discipline tomorrow, eh?
Yes, Mr. Sorola.
Is this man serious or is he pulling my leg?
37
Old Italian men patrol the Staten Island Ferry for shoeshine customers. I've had a hard night and a harder day and is there any reason why I shouldn't spend a dollar plus a quarter tip on a shoeshine even if this old Italian shakes his head and tells me in his broken English I should buy a new pair of shoes from his brother who sells them on Delancey Street and would give me a good price if I mention Alfonso on the ferry.
When he finishes he shakes his head and says he'll charge me only fifty cents because these are the worst shoes he's seen in years, a bum's shoes, shoes you wouldn't put on a dead man, and I should go to Delancey Street and don't forget to tell his brother who sent me. I tell him how I don't have the money for a new pair, I just started a new job, and he says, Alla right, alla right, gimme a dolla. He says, You teacha, right? and I say, How do you know? Teachas always have the lousy shoes.
I give him the dollar and the tip and he walks away shaking his head and calling Shine, shine.
It's a bright March day and pleasant to sit on the deck outside to watch tourists excited with their cameras over the Statue of Liberty, the long finger of the Hudson River ahead and the Manhattan skyline drifting toward us. The water is alive with little choppy white waves and there's a warm spring touch in the breeze blowing up the Narrows. Oh, it's good and I'd like to stand up there on the bridge steering this old ferry back and forth back and forth through the tugs and scows and freighters and liners that heave the harbor into swells that plash against the ferry car deck.
That would be a pleasant life, easier than facing dozens of high school kids every day with their secret little nudges, winks and laughs, their complaints and objections, or the way they have of ignoring me as if I were a piece of furniture. A memory floats into my head from a morning at NYU, a face saying, Aren't we being a little paranoid?
Paranoid. I looked it up. If I'm standing before a class and one kid whispers something to another and they laugh will I think they're laughing at me? Will they sit in the cafeteria imitating my accent and joking about my red eyes? I know they will because we did the same thing in Leamy's National School and if I'm going to worry about it I might as well spend my life in the loan department of the Manufacturer's Trust Company.
Is this what I'll do the rest of my life, take the subway then the ferry to Staten Island, climb the hill to McKee Vocational and Technical High School, punch in at the time clock, extract a bulge of paper from my mailbox, tell my students class after class day after day, Sit down, please, open your notebooks, take out your pens, you don't have paper? here's paper, you don't have a pen? borrow one, copy the notes on the board, you can't see from there? Joey would you change seats with Brian? come on, Joey, don't be such a, no, Joey, I didn't call you a jerk, I just asked you to change seats with Brian who needs glasses, you don't need glasses, Brian? well, why do you have to move, never mind, Joey, just move, will you? Freddie, put that sandwich away, this isn't the lunchroom, I don't care if you're hungry, no, you can't go to the bathroom to eat your sandwich, you're not supposed to be eating sandwiches in the toilet, what is it, Maria? you're sick, you have to see the nurse? Okay, here's a pass, Diane, would you take Maria to the nurse's office and let me know what the nurse says, no, I know they won't tell you what's wrong with her, I just want to know if she'll be coming back to class, what is it, Albert, you're sick, too? no, you're not, Albert, you just sit there and do your work, you gotta see the nurse, Albert? you're really sick? you have diarrhea? well, here, here's the pass to the boys' room and don't stay there all period, the rest of you finish copying the notes on the board, there will be a test, you know that, don't you? there will be a test, what's that, Sebastian, your pen ran out of ink? well, why didn't you say something? yes, you're saying it now but you could have said it ten minutes ago, oh, you didn't want to interrupt all these sick people? that's nice of you, Sebastian, does anyone have a pen to loan Sebastian? oh, come on, what's that, Joey? Sebastian is a what? a what? you shouldn't say things like that, Joey, Sebastian sit down, no fighting in the classroom, what's that, Ann? you gotta go? go where, Ann? oh, you got your period? you're right, Joey, she doesn't have to tell the whole world, yes, Daniela? you want to take Ann to the bathroom? why? oh, she don't ah doesn't speak good English, so what does that have to do with her having her? what's that, Joey? you don't think girls should talk like that, easy, Daniela, easy, you don't have to be insulting, what's that, Joey? you're religious and people shouldn't talk like that, okay, easy, Daniela, I know you're defending Ann who needs to go to the toilet, the bathroom, so go, take her there, and the rest of you copy the notes on the board, oh, you can't see, either? you want to move up? okay, move up, here's an empty seat but where's your notebook? you left it on the bus, all right, you need paper, here's paper, you need a pen? here's a pen, you need to go to the bathroom? well, go go go to the bathroom, eat a sandwich, hang out with your friends, Jesus.
Mr. McCoy.
McCourt.
You shun't swear like dat. You shun't say God's name like dat.
They say, Oh, Mr. McCourt, you should take off tomorrow, Paddy's Day. Gee, you're Irish. You should go to the parade.
If I took off and stayed in bed all day they'd be just as pleased. Substitutes for absent teachers rarely bother with attendance and students simply cut class. Aw, come on, Mr. McCourt, you need a holiday with your Irish friends. I mean you wouldn't come to school if you was in Ireland, would you?
They groan when I appear on the day. Aw, shit, man, excuse the language, what kinda Irishman are you? Hey, teacher, maybe you'll go out tonight with all the Irish an' maybe you won't be in tomorrow?
I'll be here tomorrow.
They bring me green things, a sprayed potato, a green bagel, a bottle of Heineken because it's green, a head of cabbage with holes for eyes, nose, mouth, wearing a little green leprechaun cap made in the art room. The cabbage is Kevin and has a girlfriend, an eggplant named Maureen. There is a greeting card two feet by two wishing me Happy St. Paddy's Day with a collage of green paper things, shamrocks, s
hillelaghs, whiskey bottles, a drawing of a green corned beef, St. Patrick holding a glass of green beer instead of a crozier and saying, Faith an' Begorrah, it's a great day for the Irish, a drawing of me with a balloon saying, Kiss Me I'm Irish. The card is signed by dozens of students from my five classes and decorated with happy faces shaped like shamrocks.
The classes are noisy. Hey, Mr. McCourt, how come you ain't wearin' green? Because he don't have to, stoopid, he's Irish. Mr. McCourt, whyn't you goin' to the parade? Because he just started this job. Chrissakes, he's here only a week.
Mr. Sorola opens the door. Is everything all right, Mr. McCourt?
Oh, yes.
He comes to my desk, looks at the card, smiles. They must like you, eh? And you've been here how long? A week?
Almost.
Well, this is very nice but see if you can get them back to work. He goes toward the door and he's followed by, Happy Paddy's Day, Mr. Sorola, but he leaves without turning around. When someone at the back of the room says, Mr. Sorola is a miserable guinea, there is a scuffle that ends only when I threaten them with a test on Your World and You. Then someone says, Sorola ain't no Italian. He's Finnish.
Finnish? What's Finnish?
Finland, stoopid, where it's dark all the time.
He don't look Finnish.
So, shithead, what does Finnish look like?
I dunno but he don't look it. He could be Sicilian.
He's not Sicilian. He's Finnish and I'm layin' a dollar bet. Anyone wanna bet?
No one wants to challenge the bet and I tell them, All right, open your notebooks.
They're indignant. Open our notebooks? Paddy's Day an' you're telling us open our notebooks after we got you the card an' everything.
I know. Thank you for the card but this is a regular schoolday, there will be tests and we have to cover Your World and You.
There is a groaning around the room and the green is gone out of the day. Oh, Mr. McCourt, if you only knew how we hate that book.
Oh, Mr. McCourt, can't you tell us about Ireland or something?
Mr. McCourt, tell us about your girlfriend. You must have a nice girlfriend. You're real cute. My mother is divorced. She'd like to meet you.
Mr. McCourt, I got a sister your age. She got a big job in a bank. She likes all that old music, Bing Crosby an' all.
Mr. McCourt, I seen this Irish movie, The Quiet Man, on TV an' John Wayne was beatin' up his wife, what's her name, and is that what they do in Ireland, beat up their wives?
They would do anything to avoid Your World and You. Mr. McCourt, did you keep pigs in your kitchen?
We didn't have a kitchen.
Yeah, but if you didn't have a kitchen how could you cook?
We had a fireplace where we boiled water for tea and we ate bread.
They couldn't believe we had no electricity and wanted to know how we kept food refrigerated. The one who asked about pigs in the kitchen said everyone has a refrigerator till another boy told him he was wrong, that his mother grew up in Sicily and didn't have a refrigerator and if the pigs-in-the-kitchen boy didn't believe him they'd meet in a dark alley after school and only one of them would come out. Some girls in the class told them cool it and one said she felt so sorry for me growing up like that if she could go back in time she'd take me home and let me take a nice bath as long as I liked and then I could eat everything in the refrigerator, everything. The girls nodded and the boys were quiet and I was glad the bell rang so that I could escape to the teachers' toilet with my strange emotions.
I am learning the art of the high school students' delaying tactics, how they seize on any occasion to avoid the work of the day. They flatter and cajole and hold their hands over their hearts declaring they are desperate to hear all about Ireland and the Irish, they would have asked days ago but they delayed till St. Patrick's Day knowing I'd want to celebrate my heritage and religion and everything and would I tell them about Irish music and is it true Ireland is green all the time and the girls have those cute little upturned noses and the men drink drink drink, is it true, Mr. McCourt?
There are muttered threats and promises around the room. I ain't stayin' in school today. I'm goin' to the parade in the city. All the Catlic schools have the day off. I'm Catlic. Why shun't I have the day off? Fuck this. End of this period you'll see my ass on the ferry. You comin', Joey?
Nah. My mother would kill me. I'm not Irish.
So what? I'm not Irish neither.
Irish only want Irish in that parade.
Bullshit. They got Negroes in the parade an' if they got Negroes why should I be sittin' here an' I'm Italian Catlic?
They won't like it.
I don't care. Irish wouldn't even be here 'cept Columbus discovered this country an' he was Italian.
My uncle said he was Jewish.
Oh, kiss my ass, Joey.
There's a ripple of excitement in the room and calls for Fight, fight, hit him, Joey, hit him, because a fight is another way of passing the time and keeping the teacher from the lesson.
It is time for teacher intervention, All right, all right, open your notebooks, and there are cries of pain, Notebooks, notebooks, Mr. McCourt, why you doin' this to us? An' we don't want no Your World an' You on Paddy's Day. My mother's mother was Irish an' we should have respect. Why can't you tell us about school in Ireland, why?
All right.
I'm a new teacher and I've lost the first battle and it's all the fault of St. Patrick. I tell this class and all my classes the rest of the day about school in Ireland, about the masters with their sticks, straps, canes, how we had to memorize everything and recite, how the masters would kill us if we ever tried to fight in their classrooms, how we were not allowed to ask questions nor have discussions, how we left school at fourteen and became messenger boys or unemployed.
I tell them about Ireland because I have no choice. My students have seized the day and there's nothing I can do about it. I could threaten them with Your World and You and Silas Marner and satisfy myself that I was in control, that I was teaching, but I know there would be a flurry of requests for passes for the toilets, the nurse, the guidance counselor, and, Can I have the pass to call my aunt who's dying of cancer in Manhattan? If I insisted on hewing to the curriculum today I'd be talking to myself and my instincts tell me one group of experienced students in an American classroom can break one inexperienced teacher.
How about high school, Mr. McCourt?
I didn't go.
Sebastian says, Yeah, it shows. And I promise myself, I'll get you later, you little bastard.
They tell him, Shut up, Sebastian.
Mr. McCourt, didn't they have no high school in Ireland?
They had dozens of high schools but kids from my school weren't encouraged to go.
Man, I'd like to live in a country where you didn't have to go to high school.
In the teachers' cafeteria there are two schools of thought. The old-timers tell me, You're young, you're new but don't let these damn kids ride all over you. Let 'em know who's boss in the classroom and remember, you are the boss. Control is the big thing in teaching. No control and you can't teach. You have the power to pass and fail and they know goddam well if they fail there's no place for them in this society. They'll be sweeping the streets and washing the dishes and it'll be their own fault, the little bastards. Just don't take shit. You're the boss, the man with the red pen.
Most of the old-timers survived the Second World War. They won't talk about it except to hint at bad times at Monte Cassino, the Battle of the Bulge, Japanese prisoner of war camps, riding a tank into a German town and searching for your mother's family. You see all this and you're not gonna take shit from these kids. You fought so they could sit on their asses in school every day and get the school lunch they whine about all the time and that's more than your own father and mother ever had.
Younger teachers are not so sure. They've taken courses in Educational Psychology and the Philosophy of Education, they've rea
d John Dewey, and they tell me these children are human beings and we have to meet their felt needs.
I don't know what a felt need is and I don't ask for fear of exposing my ignorance. The younger teachers shake their heads over the older ones. They tell me the war is over, these children are not the enemy. They are our children, for God's sakes.
An older teacher says, Felt needs, my ass. Jump from a plane into a field full of Krauts and you'll know what a felt need is. And John Dewey can kiss my ass, too. Just like the rest of these goddam college professors bullshittin' about teaching in high schools and they wouldn't know a high school kid if he walked up and pissed on their leg.
Stanley Garber says, That's right. Every day we put on our armor and go into battle. Everyone laughs because Stanley has the easiest job in the school, speech teacher, no paperwork, no books, and what the hell would he know about going into battle? He sits behind his desk and asks his small classes what they'd like to talk about today and all he has to do is correct their pronunciation. He tells me it's really too late to help them by the time they get to high school. This is not My Fair Lady and he's not Professor Henry Higgins. On days when he's not in the mood or they don't want to talk he tells them get lost and he comes to the cafeteria to discuss the terrible state of American education.