Teacher Man: A Memoir

Dedication

To the next generations of the Tribe McCourt:

Siobhan (daughter of Malachy) and her children, Fiona and Mark
Malachy of Bali (son of Malachy)
Nina (stepdaughter of Malachy)
Mary Elizabeth (daughter of Michael) and her daughter, Sophia
Angela (daughter of Michael)
Conor (son of Malachy) and his daughter, Gillian
Cormac (son of Malachy) and his daughter, Adrianna
Maggie (daughter of Frank) and her children, Chiara, Frankie, and Jack
Allison (daughter of Alphie)
Mikey (son of Michael)
Katie (daughter of Michael)

Sing your song, dance your dance, tell your tale.

Every moment of your life, you’re writing. Even in your dreams you’re writing. When you walk the halls in this school you meet various people and you write furiously in your head. There’s the principal.

That was my life, I thought. Waving without knowing what I was waving at.

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.

Teaching is harder than working on docks and warehouses. How many of you have relatives working along the waterfront?

I didn’t call myself anything. I was more than a teacher. And less. In the high school classroom you are a drill sergeant, a rabbi, a shoulder to cry on, a disciplinarian, a singer, a low-level scholar, a clerk, a referee, a clown, a counselor, a dress-code enforcer, a conductor, an apologist, a philosopher, a collaborator, a tap dancer, a politician, a therapist, a fool, a traffic cop, a priest, a mother-father-brother-sister-uncle-aunt, a bookkeeper, a critic, a psychologist, the last straw.

In America, doctors, lawyers, generals, actors, television people and politicians are admired and rewarded. Not teachers. Teaching is the downstairs maid of professions