I'm sad today for two reasons. One of them is the death of my old high school English teacher, Frank McCourt.
I had Mr. McCourt for 4 semesters at Stuyvesant, in a class called "Creative Writing". At the time I had him a teacher, ('79 - '81), his brother Malachy was the "famous McCourt", with a small recurring role in the soap opera, "Ryan's Hope".
Although I vaguely recall having to read Beowulf and Hamlet, in reality, I don't think he very much cared if we read them. I barely remember taking a single test. The first part of the week would be spent with McCourt sitting at the front of the class, telling stories. Telling us that contrary to our adolescent view that "nothing is happening", our lives were filled with amazing things, on a daily basis.
He'd tell stories of his poor childhood in Ireland, and about arguing with his wife all night, and in the morning, blearily-eyed putting zinc-oxide instead of toothpaste on his toothbrush the following morning. For us mostly middle-class kids, we almost couldn't believe the depth of the poverty he'd talk about, yet we'd also laugh a lot - something he clearly wanted.
Some of the stories he told, which in retrospect, I guess he was "working on", he'd later tell in Angela's Ashes, 'Tis, and Teacher Man. It's been said that some people, like the Greeks, consider their myths history, and for others, like the Irish, their history is mythic. You felt that about his history in that class.
On Fridays, he'd sit in the back of the room, and kids would step up to his desk and take a turn telling their stories. He'd love to hear them, and more than the writing, he'd very much appreciate the oral tradition. I only slowly realized, many years after I graduated, that it was story-telling that he was really trying to teach.
After a while, my 'stories' were often only sketched out on that loose-leaf paper, and I learned to improvise as I went, if it made the story better. I made him laugh pretty hard a few times myself. It's something I'm proud of.
I remember one day in class, someone asked him if he ever was going to write a book, and he said, "I'm going to write a book, but I have to wait until my mother dies."
I commend anyone to the CD editions of his books, because as good a writer as he was, he was a story-teller nonpareil.
R.I.P. Mr. McCourt, and condolences to his wife Ellen, his daughter Maggie, and his surviving brothers and family members.
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