Free Teacher Man: A Memoir by Frank McCourt

about Germans after what they did to us? Goddam krauts.
    How many of you are Italian? Half the class.
    Does this mean you’d never see an Italian movie after they fought against America in the war?
    No, it has nothing to do with war. They just don’t want to watch those movies with all those dumb subtitles that move so fast you can never catch up with the story and when there is snow in the movie and the subtitles are white how the hell are you supposed to read anything? A lot of these Italian movies come with snow and dogs taking a leak against a wall, and they’re depressing anyhow with people standing in streets waiting for something to happen.
    The Board of Education ruled that a lesson must have a summary that pulls everything together and leads to a homework assignment or reinforcement or some kind of outcome, but I forget, and when the bell rings there’s an argument going on between two boys, one defending John Wayne, the other saying he was a big phony who never went to war. I try to pull everything together in one grand summary but the discussion dribbles away. I tell them, Thank you, but no one is listening and the chairman scratches his forehead and makes notes.
    I walked toward the subway, berating myself. What was the use? Teacher, my arse. I should have stayed in the army with the dogs. I’d be better off on the docks and the warehouses, lifting, hauling, cursing, eating hero sandwiches, drinking beer, chasing waterfront floozies. At least I’d be with my own kind, my own class of people, not getting above meself, acushla. I should have listened to the priests and the respectable people in Ireland who told us beware of vanity, accept our lot, there’s a bed in heaven for the meek of heart, the humble of soul.
    Mr. McCourt, Mr. McCourt, wait up.
    That was the chairman calling from a half block away. Wait up. I walked back toward him. He had a kind face. I thought he was there to console me with a Too bad, young man.
    He was out of breath. Look, I’m not supposed to even talk to you but I just want to say you’ll be getting your exam results in a few weeks. You have the makings of a fine teacher. I mean, for Christ’s sakes, you actually knew Sassoon and Owen. I mean, half the people walking in here can’t tell the difference between Emerson and Mickey Spillane. So, when you get your results and you’re looking for a job, just call me. OK?
    Oh, yes, sure, yes, I will. Thanks.
    I danced along the street, walked on air. Birds chirped on the elevated subway platform. People looked at me with smiles and respect. They could see I was a man with a teaching job. I wasn’t such an idiot after all. Oh, Lord. Oh, God. What would my family say? A teacher. The word will go around Limerick. Did you hear about Frankie McCourt? Jaysus, he’s a teacher over there in America. What was he when he left? Nothing. That’s what he was. Poor miserable bugger that looked like something the cat brought in. I’d call June. Tell her I was offered a teaching job already. In a high school. Not as high up as Norman the professor, but still…I stuck a dime into the phone box. It dropped. I put the phone down again. Calling her meant I needed to call her, and I didn’t need to need. I could live without her in the tub and the monkfish and the white wine. The train rumbled in. I wanted to tell people, sitting and standing, I was offered a teaching job. They’d smile up from their newspapers. No, no call to June. Let her stay with Norm, who destroyed monkfish and knew nothing about wine, depraved Norm who couldn’t take June as she was. No, I’d make my way downtown to Port Warehouses, ready to work till my teacher’s license arrived. My teacher’s license. I’d like to wave it from the top of the Empire State Building.
    When I called about the teaching job the school said sorry, the kindly chairman had passed away and, sorry, no positions were available and good luck in my search. Everyone said as long as I had the license