grateful. All you have to do is cooperate, participate a little. Learn the parts of a sentence. Jesus. Is that asking too much?
There are days I’d love to walk out of here, slam the door behind me, tell the principal shove this job up his arse, head down the hill to the ferry, sail to Manhattan, walk the streets, have a beer and a hamburger at the White Horse, sit in Washington Square, watch luscious NYU coeds saunter by, forget McKee Vocational and Technical High School forever. Forever. It’s clear I can’t teach the simplest thing without their objections. Their resistance. Simple sentence: subject, predicate and, maybe, if we get around to it someday, the object, direct and indirect. I don’t know what to do with them. Try the old threats. Pay attention or you’re going to fail. If you fail you won’t graduate and if you don’t graduate blah blah blah. All your friends will be out there in the big wide world pinning their high school diplomas to their office walls, successful, respected by one and all. Why can’t you just look at this sentence and, for once in your miserable teenage existence, make an attempt to learn.
Every class has its chemistry. There are some classes you enjoy and look forward to. They know you like them and they like you in return. Sometimes they’ll tell you that was a pretty good lesson and you’re on top of the world. That somehow gives you energy and makes you want to sing on the way home.
There are some classes you wish would take the ferry to Manhattan and never return. There’s something hostile about the way they enter and leave the room that tells you what they think of you. It could be your imagination and you try to figure out what will bring them over to your side. You try lessons that worked with other classes but even that doesn’t help and it’s because of that chemistry.
They know when they have you on the run. They have instincts that detect your frustrations. There were days I wanted to sit behind my desk and let them do whatever they damn well pleased. I just could not reach them. Four years on the job in 1962 and I didn’t care anymore. I told myself I never cared in the first place. You entertain them with stories of your miserable childhood. They make all those phony sounds. Oh, poor Mr. McCourt, musta been awful growin’ up in Ireland like that. As if they cared. No. They’re never satisfied. I should have followed the advice of old-timer teachers to keep my big mouth shut. Tell ’em nothing. They just use you. They figure you out and move in on you like heat-seeking missiles. They find out where you’re vulnerable. Could they possibly know that “John went to the store” is as far as I can go in grammar? Lead me not into gerunds, dangling participles, cognate objects. I will surely be lost.
I gave them the grim look and sat at my desk. Enough. I couldn’t continue the charade of grammar teacher.
I said, Why did John go to the store?
They looked surprised. Yo, man, what’s this? That has nothing to do with grammar.
I’m asking you a simple question. Nothing to do with grammar. Why did John go to the store? Can’t you guess?
A hand in the back of the room. Yes, Ron?
I think John went to the store to get a book on English grammar.
And why did John go to the store to get a book on English grammar?
’Cause he wanted to know everything and come in here and impress good old Mr. McCourt.
And why would he want to impress good old Mr. McCourt?
’Cause John has a girlfriend name of Rose and she’s a good girl knows all kindsa grammar and she’s gonna graduate an’ be a secretary in a big company in Manhattan and John don’t wanna be no dumb ass trying to marry Rose. That’s why he goes to the store to get the book on grammar. He’s gonna be a good boy and study his book and when he don’t understand something he’s gonna ask Mr. McCourt because Mr. McCourt knows everything and when John marries Rose he’s gonna invite Mr. McCourt to the
There are days I’d love to walk out of here, slam the door behind me, tell the principal shove this job up his arse, head down the hill to the ferry, sail to Manhattan, walk the streets, have a beer and a hamburger at the White Horse, sit in Washington Square, watch luscious NYU coeds saunter by, forget McKee Vocational and Technical High School forever. Forever. It’s clear I can’t teach the simplest thing without their objections. Their resistance. Simple sentence: subject, predicate and, maybe, if we get around to it someday, the object, direct and indirect. I don’t know what to do with them. Try the old threats. Pay attention or you’re going to fail. If you fail you won’t graduate and if you don’t graduate blah blah blah. All your friends will be out there in the big wide world pinning their high school diplomas to their office walls, successful, respected by one and all. Why can’t you just look at this sentence and, for once in your miserable teenage existence, make an attempt to learn.
Every class has its chemistry. There are some classes you enjoy and look forward to. They know you like them and they like you in return. Sometimes they’ll tell you that was a pretty good lesson and you’re on top of the world. That somehow gives you energy and makes you want to sing on the way home.
There are some classes you wish would take the ferry to Manhattan and never return. There’s something hostile about the way they enter and leave the room that tells you what they think of you. It could be your imagination and you try to figure out what will bring them over to your side. You try lessons that worked with other classes but even that doesn’t help and it’s because of that chemistry.
They know when they have you on the run. They have instincts that detect your frustrations. There were days I wanted to sit behind my desk and let them do whatever they damn well pleased. I just could not reach them. Four years on the job in 1962 and I didn’t care anymore. I told myself I never cared in the first place. You entertain them with stories of your miserable childhood. They make all those phony sounds. Oh, poor Mr. McCourt, musta been awful growin’ up in Ireland like that. As if they cared. No. They’re never satisfied. I should have followed the advice of old-timer teachers to keep my big mouth shut. Tell ’em nothing. They just use you. They figure you out and move in on you like heat-seeking missiles. They find out where you’re vulnerable. Could they possibly know that “John went to the store” is as far as I can go in grammar? Lead me not into gerunds, dangling participles, cognate objects. I will surely be lost.
I gave them the grim look and sat at my desk. Enough. I couldn’t continue the charade of grammar teacher.
I said, Why did John go to the store?
They looked surprised. Yo, man, what’s this? That has nothing to do with grammar.
I’m asking you a simple question. Nothing to do with grammar. Why did John go to the store? Can’t you guess?
A hand in the back of the room. Yes, Ron?
I think John went to the store to get a book on English grammar.
And why did John go to the store to get a book on English grammar?
’Cause he wanted to know everything and come in here and impress good old Mr. McCourt.
And why would he want to impress good old Mr. McCourt?
’Cause John has a girlfriend name of Rose and she’s a good girl knows all kindsa grammar and she’s gonna graduate an’ be a secretary in a big company in Manhattan and John don’t wanna be no dumb ass trying to marry Rose. That’s why he goes to the store to get the book on grammar. He’s gonna be a good boy and study his book and when he don’t understand something he’s gonna ask Mr. McCourt because Mr. McCourt knows everything and when John marries Rose he’s gonna invite Mr. McCourt to the
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