Teacher Man: A Memoir by Frank McCourt Page A

like that? And here’s another one, c-o-n-d-i-g-n. I asked six people if they knew what that meant. I even asked an assistant principal in the hallway. He pretended he knew but you could see he was talking through his ass. Plumber. My kid’s gonna be a plumber and charge big money to make house calls, just like a doctor, so I don’t see why he needs to clog his head with twenty-dollar words like usufruct and the other one, do you?
    I said you have to be careful what you fill your head with. My own head was so packed with stuff from Ireland and the Vatican I could hardly think for myself.
    She said she didn’t care what was in my head. That was my own damn business, and I should really keep it to myself. Every day my Paulie comes home telling us these stories and we don’t need to hear them. We got our own troubles. She said it was easy to see I was just off the boat, all innocent like a little sparrow that fell out of a nest.
    No, I’m not just off the boat. I was in the army. How could I be innocent? I had all kinds of jobs. I worked on the docks. I graduated from New York University.
    See? she said. That’s what I mean. I ask you a simple question an’ you give me the story of your life. That’s what you wanna watch, Mr. McCurd. These kids don’t need to know the life story of every teacher in the school. I went to the nuns. They wouldn’t give you the time of day. You asked them about their lives they’d tell you mind your own business, pull you up by the ears, crack you across the knuckles. Stick to the spelling and the words, Mr. McCurd, and the parents of this school will thank you forever. Forget the storytelling. If we want stories we got a
TV Guide
and the
Reader’s Digest
at home.
    I struggled. I thought I’d like to be a tough no-nonsense English teacher, stern and scholarly, allowing an occasional laugh, but no more. Old-timers in the teachers’ cafeteria told me, The little bastards have to be kept under control. Give ’em an inch, kid, and you’ll never get it back.
    Organization is everything. I would start all over. Draw up a plan for each class that would account for every minute left in the term. I was master of this vessel and I would set a course. They’d sense my purpose. They would know where they were going and what was expected of them…or else.
    Or else…. Yeah, mister, that’s what all the teachers say. Or else. We thought you were gonna be different being Irish an’ all.
    Time to take charge. Enough, I said. Forget this Irish thing. No more stories. No more nonsense. English teacher is going to teach English and won’t be stopped by little teenage tricks.
    Take out your notebooks. That’s right, your notebooks.
    I wrote on the board, “John went to the store.”
    A class groan traveled the room. What is he doing to us? English teachers. All the same. Here he goes again. Old John to the store. Grammar, for Chrissakes.
    All right. What is the subject of this sentence? Does anyone know the subject of this sentence? Yes, Mario?
    It’s all about this guy wants to go to the store. Anyone can see that.
    Yes, yes, that’s what the sentence is about, but what is the subject? It’s one word. Yes, Donna.
    I think Mario is right. It’s all about —
    No, Donna. The subject here is one word.
    How come?
    What do you mean, How come? Aren’t you taking Spanish? Don’t you have grammar in Spanish? Doesn’t Miss Grober tell you the parts of a sentence?
    Yeah, but she’s not always bothering us with John going to the store.
    My head feels hot and I want to shout, Why are you so damn stupid? Didn’t you ever have a grammar lesson before? Christ in heaven, even I had grammar lessons, and in Irish. Why do I have to struggle here this sunny morning while spring birds chirp outside? Why do I have to look at your sullen resentful faces? You sit here, your bellies stuffed. You’re well-clothed and warm. You’re getting a free high school education and you’re not the slightest bit