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Frank McCourt #3
Meester!
Herinneringen van de Iers-Amerikaanse schrijver aan zijn dertigjarig leraarschap aan verschillende scholen in New York.
303 pages, Paperback
First published November 15, 2005
About the author
Frank McCourt
52 books2,481 followersFrancis McCourt was an Irish-American teacher and writer. He won a Pulitzer Prize for his book Angela's Ashes, a tragicomic memoir of the misery and squalor of his childhood.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 2,781 reviews
July 19, 2011
Teacher Man is as good example as any that if you have wit and personality you can tell an entertaining story. Told with an Irish accent helps too.
I think McCourt, with his humble yet playful, self-degrading Irish charm could read from the phone book and hold a reader's attention. But he has lots to say worth hearing, as he recounts thirty years of teaching in New York's high schools and community colleges.
A working class, blue collar teacher in the trenches, McCourt helped me better appreciate teaching as a profession; this is an enjoyable book.
I think McCourt, with his humble yet playful, self-degrading Irish charm could read from the phone book and hold a reader's attention. But he has lots to say worth hearing, as he recounts thirty years of teaching in New York's high schools and community colleges.
A working class, blue collar teacher in the trenches, McCourt helped me better appreciate teaching as a profession; this is an enjoyable book.
July 21, 2019
Being a teacher myself, I loved this story by one of my favourite authors!
January 10, 2008
This book is difficult to review. While I appreciated McCourt's attempt to recognize teachers (especially English teachers) and the work (often underappreciated) that we do, I felt that his theory of if we all "think outside the box" and try to be friendly with our students, than we will have a successful teaching career, a bit unrealistic, overly idealistic, and in many ways, condescending. While I do admire some of his methods, and enjoy his writing style, I found that the times when he let his true sentiments show (like telling a kid to stop being so ignorant and have some respect for the English language, or having days where you were just sick of whining teenagers...does that make me mean or already jaded?)or when he simply let the student anecdotes speak for themselves, were my favorite parts of the book. I do think this is a more honest perception of teaching (especially the first part where he is working in the "tougher" schools during his first few years) than many other movies I've seen that try to portray teaching. Some of the autobiographical stuff could have been left out--too much information sometimes.
April 11, 2020
I really loved Angela's Ashes and 'Tis, but Teacher Man, Frank McCourt's third book, was easily my favourite. Part of it was that, brilliant as they are, his first two book are heavy going. I was exhausted at the end of each one. Glad I had read them, but even more glad that we were at the end. His childhood was hard and depressing and something no one should have to go through, but I'd finish each book feeling almost overwhelmed by the fact that his childhood was (unfortunately) not uncommon. Countless people have experienced something similar. He wrote about it in a way that most of us could probably only dream of, and they are beautiful books that I recommend everyone read, but I was so pleased that we got to finish the story here.
This book focuses entirely on his teaching career, lessons taught and learned. It's is wonderfully written, as is to be expected, but this one also felt lighter, a bit freer. There is still darkness and self doubt and plenty of difficult things, but he is now at a point where he is doing something he is good at (even if he worries that he isn't good at it) and has a purpose in his life. I finished this feeling so pleased that he became a teacher, and even more pleased that he decided to write about it.
I can think of few thing (that are not life threatening), that intimidate me more than the idea of having to stand in front of a class of teenagers and try to teach them, have them listen and understand. As I think a lot of people are being reminded as they take over schooling during lockdown, not everyone can teach -- and it's even harder to be a good teacher. As ever, I appreciated Frank McCourt's frankness here - the things that worked, the things that didn't, the self-doubt, the days when you just don't care. But also the highs of a discussion where everyone participates, that breakthrough moment in helping someone to understand, the moments that make it worthwhile.
I had delayed starting this book because I wasn't sure I felt like reading another heavy volume, however stunning the writing may be. I simply wasn't in the mood to feel such despair toward humanity -- I only have to look at the news right now to feel that! For whatever reason though, I did start reading this, and it was a lovely addition to my day. I spent a lot of time thinking about the excellent teachers I have been lucky enough to have over the years and also a lot of time being grateful for the book I was holding. It turned out to be the perfect book to read right now, for me at least, and I'm very thankful that I had a copy with me.
Highly recommended, but make sure you read Angela's Ashes first, then 'Tis, then this one.
This book focuses entirely on his teaching career, lessons taught and learned. It's is wonderfully written, as is to be expected, but this one also felt lighter, a bit freer. There is still darkness and self doubt and plenty of difficult things, but he is now at a point where he is doing something he is good at (even if he worries that he isn't good at it) and has a purpose in his life. I finished this feeling so pleased that he became a teacher, and even more pleased that he decided to write about it.
I can think of few thing (that are not life threatening), that intimidate me more than the idea of having to stand in front of a class of teenagers and try to teach them, have them listen and understand. As I think a lot of people are being reminded as they take over schooling during lockdown, not everyone can teach -- and it's even harder to be a good teacher. As ever, I appreciated Frank McCourt's frankness here - the things that worked, the things that didn't, the self-doubt, the days when you just don't care. But also the highs of a discussion where everyone participates, that breakthrough moment in helping someone to understand, the moments that make it worthwhile.
I had delayed starting this book because I wasn't sure I felt like reading another heavy volume, however stunning the writing may be. I simply wasn't in the mood to feel such despair toward humanity -- I only have to look at the news right now to feel that! For whatever reason though, I did start reading this, and it was a lovely addition to my day. I spent a lot of time thinking about the excellent teachers I have been lucky enough to have over the years and also a lot of time being grateful for the book I was holding. It turned out to be the perfect book to read right now, for me at least, and I'm very thankful that I had a copy with me.
Highly recommended, but make sure you read Angela's Ashes first, then 'Tis, then this one.
August 23, 2009
My fourth book by Frank McCourt and I am still impressed.
Teacher Man (2005) is the last book of his 3-part tragicomic memoir and it is about his experiences as a teacher in at least 3 schools in New York. He spent 33 years teaching high school students before he retired at the age of 60 and wrote his first book, Angela's Ashes at the age of 66. The book changed his life tremendously. He won a Pulitzer in 1997. National Book Critics Circle Award in 1996. He met President Bush, Lady Diana and other well-known personalities because of it. However, looking back, what he most treasured in his life was the opportunity to influence the many future American citizens. The schools were he taught at? vocational and technical school (McKee), adult education - teaching English to immigrants mostly mothers(New York City College of Technology) and later in the Harvard-equivalent for high school in the US: Stuyvesant High School where only the brightest high students are admitted. So, McCourt had enough challenges and to be able to survive that long means that he must have loved teaching. Afterall, teaching is said to be one of the noblest professions.
Although there is almost nothing about Ireland and his poor family background in this book, his funny and witty lines are still much evident. I particularly enjoyed his conversations with his students particularly the immigrants who did not know much about literature and grammar. Those poor immigrants who came to America during that time (early 70's to late 80's) barely knew English and thought of themselves as nobody and McCourt took patience in turning that wrong belief around. They ended up liking William Shakespeare and appreciating Hamlet. Something that I can relate with since I have not read Hamlet yet.
Ah, four lovely lovely books. It was nice knowing you, Frank McCourt!
I will now read those two books (Singing My Him Song and A Monk Swimming) by your brother Malachy McCourt (born 1931) and 1 book (A Long Stone's Throw (1998) by Alphie McCourt (born 1940). I wonder if these younger brothers of yours are also as brilliant as you are when it comes to writing memoirs :)
Teacher Man (2005) is the last book of his 3-part tragicomic memoir and it is about his experiences as a teacher in at least 3 schools in New York. He spent 33 years teaching high school students before he retired at the age of 60 and wrote his first book, Angela's Ashes at the age of 66. The book changed his life tremendously. He won a Pulitzer in 1997. National Book Critics Circle Award in 1996. He met President Bush, Lady Diana and other well-known personalities because of it. However, looking back, what he most treasured in his life was the opportunity to influence the many future American citizens. The schools were he taught at? vocational and technical school (McKee), adult education - teaching English to immigrants mostly mothers(New York City College of Technology) and later in the Harvard-equivalent for high school in the US: Stuyvesant High School where only the brightest high students are admitted. So, McCourt had enough challenges and to be able to survive that long means that he must have loved teaching. Afterall, teaching is said to be one of the noblest professions.
Although there is almost nothing about Ireland and his poor family background in this book, his funny and witty lines are still much evident. I particularly enjoyed his conversations with his students particularly the immigrants who did not know much about literature and grammar. Those poor immigrants who came to America during that time (early 70's to late 80's) barely knew English and thought of themselves as nobody and McCourt took patience in turning that wrong belief around. They ended up liking William Shakespeare and appreciating Hamlet. Something that I can relate with since I have not read Hamlet yet.
Ah, four lovely lovely books. It was nice knowing you, Frank McCourt!
I will now read those two books (Singing My Him Song and A Monk Swimming) by your brother Malachy McCourt (born 1931) and 1 book (A Long Stone's Throw (1998) by Alphie McCourt (born 1940). I wonder if these younger brothers of yours are also as brilliant as you are when it comes to writing memoirs :)
September 17, 2018
Тут должен быть какой-то осмысленный восхищенный текст с цитатами, но я закончила книжку и грандиозно реву, что автор умер и больше ничего никогда не напишет.
May 17, 2012
A very different book to Angela’s Ashes. It’s like listening to a witty, self-deprecating yet passionate man tell you stories of his life. You can even hear his accent.
McCourt talks about his time as a teacher; how it came about, his successes and failures, his talent for telling stories.
In other hands, this could read as one long ego trip. But this man is, was, a master storyteller. He draws you in with his confidences and asides, making you believe you’re sharing his secrets.
I met Susan Jane Gilman a couple of years ago. She’s a successful writer of memoir and funny anecdotes that had me snorting in hog-like fashion. She was one of Frank’s students at Stuyvesant High School and talked about him with such enthusiasm I just had to read his side of the experience. So I smiled when I came to this line in Teacher Man‚ “Susan Gilman never raises her hand. Everything is too urgent.”
The other thing that appealed to me throughout this book is his clear belief in firing young minds with the value of imagination. He loved sharing his enthusiasm for literature and writing, and it’s evident from these pages that he was a terrific teacher. This is a gentle read, filled with quietly emotional moments which make you smile, nod and choke up. I’d love to have been in his Creative Writing class.
McCourt talks about his time as a teacher; how it came about, his successes and failures, his talent for telling stories.
In other hands, this could read as one long ego trip. But this man is, was, a master storyteller. He draws you in with his confidences and asides, making you believe you’re sharing his secrets.
I met Susan Jane Gilman a couple of years ago. She’s a successful writer of memoir and funny anecdotes that had me snorting in hog-like fashion. She was one of Frank’s students at Stuyvesant High School and talked about him with such enthusiasm I just had to read his side of the experience. So I smiled when I came to this line in Teacher Man‚ “Susan Gilman never raises her hand. Everything is too urgent.”
The other thing that appealed to me throughout this book is his clear belief in firing young minds with the value of imagination. He loved sharing his enthusiasm for literature and writing, and it’s evident from these pages that he was a terrific teacher. This is a gentle read, filled with quietly emotional moments which make you smile, nod and choke up. I’d love to have been in his Creative Writing class.
February 25, 2007
i hated this book. i didn't like the style of his writing. i didn't like the way he talked about his teaching and what he did in his classroom. as i kept on reading, i was just like- dude- you are not a good teacher. but maybe it's just the way he presented himself.
when i got to the end, i was like- so. what was the point? but i guess the point was that this is part of his life story.
when i got to the end, i was like- so. what was the point? but i guess the point was that this is part of his life story.
November 25, 2023
Hay una forma bastante cruel de medir la vida de un profesor: por los exámenes que corrige, por los programas que cumple, por las veces que consigue que treinta adolescentes no se lo coman vivo antes de las diez de la mañana.
Frank McCourt, que ya venía de sobrevivir a Limerick, al hambre, a la culpa católica y a una familia que parecía diseñada por un dios con un pésimo sentido del humor, descubrió en las aulas de Nueva York otro tipo de intemperie: ponerse delante de un grupo de chicos que no han pedido estar allí y tratar de convencerlos, día tras día, de que una frase puede importar. A veces, su aula parece una versión laica del confesionario: se empieza hablando de gramática, literatura o redacciones, pero enseguida asoman la vergüenza, la culpa, el miedo a hacer el ridículo y esa necesidad bastante humana de que alguien escuche.
El profesor, tercera y última entrega de sus memorias, cambia de escenario, de ritmo y hasta de temperatura emocional. Después de Las cenizas de Ángela y Lo es, McCourt deja atrás la infancia miserable y el regreso torpe, ansioso y deslumbrado a América. Aquí lo vemos convertido en profesor de secundaria, entrando en clase con más miedo que autoridad, más dudas que método y una tendencia bastante peligrosa a contar historias cuando quizá debería estar siguiendo el temario. McCourt vuelve a hacer lo que mejor sabe: desnudarse sin quitarse la ropa, reírse de su propia torpeza antes de que otros lo hagan y convertir la vergüenza en material narrativo.
Lo divertido —y también lo hermoso— es que precisamente ahí encuentra su manera de enseñar. Lo que acaba haciéndolo memorable en un aula nace de algo más torpe, más humilde y probablemente más difícil que una técnica impecable: entender que antes de enseñar literatura, escritura o gramática hay que conseguir, simplemente, que alguien escuche.
El libro tiene una estructura más episódica que las dos entregas anteriores. Se mueve con menos presión narrativa que la infancia irlandesa y con menos tensión que aquel regreso a América de un inmigrante empeñado en hacerse un lugar. Aquí hay clases, anécdotas, errores, alumnos insolentes, pequeños fracasos, momentos de bochorno, intuiciones pedagógicas y esa sensación tan reconocible de ir improvisando la vida con cara de adulto responsable.
Hay clases que se le van de las manos, redacciones falsas que terminan enseñando más que muchos ejercicios oficiales, intentos de llevar a Yeats o Joyce ante adolescentes que no tienen ninguna obligación sentimental de emocionarse con Irlanda, y esa comedia bastante cruel de entrar cada mañana en un aula donde tu prestigio puede morir por una sola frase mal colocada.
McCourt mira hacia atrás y se ríe de sí mismo con una mezcla de ternura y mala leche muy suya. La enseñanza idealizada queda para las películas con banda sonora emocionante. En sus manos, el aula tiene poco de santuario y mucho de ring mal ventilado, con alumnos que no están precisamente esperando ser iluminados por el maestro carismático de turno. Sus alumnos son brillantes, perezosos, crueles, graciosos, contradictorios, y muchas veces tienen más instinto para detectar la impostura que cualquier inspector educativo. En fin: adolescentes.
En el fondo, entiende algo que muchos discursos solemnes sobre la educación prefieren maquillar: enseñar también consiste en sobrevivir al ridículo. Hay algo profundamente humano en ese profesor que se presenta ante sus alumnos cargando con sus inseguridades, su acento irlandés, su pasado de pobreza y su permanente sensación de no estar a la altura. Su autoridad se va formando casi a empujones, entre historias, paciencia, desconcierto y alguna que otra ocurrencia benditamente poco ortodoxa. Cuando descubre que sus alumnos reaccionan mejor a las mentiras, las excusas, las confesiones y las pequeñas narraciones de la vida cotidiana que a las lecciones convencionales, el libro encuentra su centro secreto: todos necesitamos contar algo para entender dónde estamos.
Como cierre de trilogía, El profesor juega en una escala distinta a Las cenizas de Ángela. Sería injusto pedirle el mismo impacto brutal. Aquella primera entrega tenía la fuerza de lo irreparable: la infancia como barro, fiebre, hambre y memoria. Lo es funcionaba como un puente más irregular pero muy valioso, el relato de un hombre intentando convertirse en alguien sin saber todavía quién demonios era. En esta tercera entrega, McCourt baja el volumen: el libro es más sereno, más fragmentario, menos desgarrador, pero también más luminoso en su modestia. Aquí aparece la vida adulta con su rutina, su culpa y ese tipo de soledad que se sienta contigo cada mañana en el metro rumbo al trabajo.
Es el libro de alguien que ha dejado de perseguir una versión solemne de sí mismo y empieza a aceptar que una vida también puede justificarse en los gestos pequeños: una clase que sale bien, un alumno que escribe una frase honesta, una conversación que no parecía importante y años después sigue ahí. En Lo es, McCourt todavía parecía debatirse entre sentirse un fraude y fingir que eso no dolía demasiado. En El profesor, el gesto cambia: abraza su impostura como quien ya no tiene edad para autoengaños y descubre que, a veces, enseñar consiste precisamente en entrar en clase con tus inseguridades bien visibles y seguir hablando.
La prosa de McCourt continúa teniendo esa cualidad oral tan difícil de fingir. Parece que no escribe: parece que recuerda en voz alta. Sus frases avanzan con el ritmo de alguien sentado frente a ti, quizá con una cerveza delante, levantando una ceja, riéndose de su propia torpeza y dejándote caer una verdad incómoda justo cuando parecía que solo estaba contando una anécdota divertida. Esa naturalidad es engañosa, porque detrás hay mucho oficio. McCourt sabe dosificar el humor, sabe cuándo bajar el volumen y sabe convertir un detalle aparentemente menor —una excusa inventada por un alumno, una redacción absurda, una clase que se desmadra— en una pequeña revelación sobre la vergüenza, la pertenencia, el miedo o la necesidad de ser visto. En McCourt, escribir parece una estrategia de supervivencia tardía: una manera de poner orden en lo que durante años fue culpa, ruido y desconcierto.
Una de las cosas que más agradezco del libro es su manera de mirar la enseñanza desde dentro, con cansancio, burocracia, inseguridad, clases fallidas y años enteros de tanteo. McCourt tarda en entender qué tipo de profesor puede ser, del mismo modo que tardó media vida en entender qué tipo de hombre era. De ese tanteo nace buena parte de la honestidad del libro. El retrato que queda es el de un hombre que aprende enseñando, que descubre su voz dentro del ruido del aula y que acaba entendiendo que sus cicatrices, lejos de estorbarle, son parte de lo que lleva consigo cuando entra en clase.
Ahí es donde El profesor termina de encajar con las dos entregas anteriores. El niño de Limerick, aquel chaval hambriento que miraba el mundo desde abajo, acaba frente a una pizarra, escuchando a otros jóvenes que tampoco saben aún qué hacer con su vida. La trilogía se cierra con una justicia íntima y sin necesidad de grandes gestos: McCourt convierte el material desordenado de su existencia en relato, y luego enseña a otros a hacer lo mismo. Después de tanta pobreza, tanta culpa y tanto desarraigo, eso tiene una belleza discreta, casi testaruda.
Dentro de la trilogía, El profesor ocupa un lugar menos rotundo que Las cenizas de Ángela, pero funciona muy bien como cierre. Es el libro de un hombre que ha sobrevivido lo suficiente como para poder mirar atrás sin quedar petrificado por el dolor. Y, sobre todo, es una celebración del poder de las historias contadas en el lugar menos glamuroso posible: un aula llena de adolescentes impacientes, papeles por corregir y un profesor irlandés intentando que alguien, aunque sea uno solo, descubra que escribir una frase propia puede ser una forma de empezar a existir.
Frank McCourt cerró sus memorias enseñando. Tiene sentido. Al final, toda su obra parece decirnos que contar una vida es una manera de impedir que se pierda del todo. Y si además consigue que alguien al otro lado levante la cabeza y escuche, aunque sea por un momento, entonces quizá la clase no ha salido tan mal.
DC
Frank McCourt, que ya venía de sobrevivir a Limerick, al hambre, a la culpa católica y a una familia que parecía diseñada por un dios con un pésimo sentido del humor, descubrió en las aulas de Nueva York otro tipo de intemperie: ponerse delante de un grupo de chicos que no han pedido estar allí y tratar de convencerlos, día tras día, de que una frase puede importar. A veces, su aula parece una versión laica del confesionario: se empieza hablando de gramática, literatura o redacciones, pero enseguida asoman la vergüenza, la culpa, el miedo a hacer el ridículo y esa necesidad bastante humana de que alguien escuche.
El profesor, tercera y última entrega de sus memorias, cambia de escenario, de ritmo y hasta de temperatura emocional. Después de Las cenizas de Ángela y Lo es, McCourt deja atrás la infancia miserable y el regreso torpe, ansioso y deslumbrado a América. Aquí lo vemos convertido en profesor de secundaria, entrando en clase con más miedo que autoridad, más dudas que método y una tendencia bastante peligrosa a contar historias cuando quizá debería estar siguiendo el temario. McCourt vuelve a hacer lo que mejor sabe: desnudarse sin quitarse la ropa, reírse de su propia torpeza antes de que otros lo hagan y convertir la vergüenza en material narrativo.
Lo divertido —y también lo hermoso— es que precisamente ahí encuentra su manera de enseñar. Lo que acaba haciéndolo memorable en un aula nace de algo más torpe, más humilde y probablemente más difícil que una técnica impecable: entender que antes de enseñar literatura, escritura o gramática hay que conseguir, simplemente, que alguien escuche.
El libro tiene una estructura más episódica que las dos entregas anteriores. Se mueve con menos presión narrativa que la infancia irlandesa y con menos tensión que aquel regreso a América de un inmigrante empeñado en hacerse un lugar. Aquí hay clases, anécdotas, errores, alumnos insolentes, pequeños fracasos, momentos de bochorno, intuiciones pedagógicas y esa sensación tan reconocible de ir improvisando la vida con cara de adulto responsable.
Hay clases que se le van de las manos, redacciones falsas que terminan enseñando más que muchos ejercicios oficiales, intentos de llevar a Yeats o Joyce ante adolescentes que no tienen ninguna obligación sentimental de emocionarse con Irlanda, y esa comedia bastante cruel de entrar cada mañana en un aula donde tu prestigio puede morir por una sola frase mal colocada.
McCourt mira hacia atrás y se ríe de sí mismo con una mezcla de ternura y mala leche muy suya. La enseñanza idealizada queda para las películas con banda sonora emocionante. En sus manos, el aula tiene poco de santuario y mucho de ring mal ventilado, con alumnos que no están precisamente esperando ser iluminados por el maestro carismático de turno. Sus alumnos son brillantes, perezosos, crueles, graciosos, contradictorios, y muchas veces tienen más instinto para detectar la impostura que cualquier inspector educativo. En fin: adolescentes.
En el fondo, entiende algo que muchos discursos solemnes sobre la educación prefieren maquillar: enseñar también consiste en sobrevivir al ridículo. Hay algo profundamente humano en ese profesor que se presenta ante sus alumnos cargando con sus inseguridades, su acento irlandés, su pasado de pobreza y su permanente sensación de no estar a la altura. Su autoridad se va formando casi a empujones, entre historias, paciencia, desconcierto y alguna que otra ocurrencia benditamente poco ortodoxa. Cuando descubre que sus alumnos reaccionan mejor a las mentiras, las excusas, las confesiones y las pequeñas narraciones de la vida cotidiana que a las lecciones convencionales, el libro encuentra su centro secreto: todos necesitamos contar algo para entender dónde estamos.
Como cierre de trilogía, El profesor juega en una escala distinta a Las cenizas de Ángela. Sería injusto pedirle el mismo impacto brutal. Aquella primera entrega tenía la fuerza de lo irreparable: la infancia como barro, fiebre, hambre y memoria. Lo es funcionaba como un puente más irregular pero muy valioso, el relato de un hombre intentando convertirse en alguien sin saber todavía quién demonios era. En esta tercera entrega, McCourt baja el volumen: el libro es más sereno, más fragmentario, menos desgarrador, pero también más luminoso en su modestia. Aquí aparece la vida adulta con su rutina, su culpa y ese tipo de soledad que se sienta contigo cada mañana en el metro rumbo al trabajo.
Es el libro de alguien que ha dejado de perseguir una versión solemne de sí mismo y empieza a aceptar que una vida también puede justificarse en los gestos pequeños: una clase que sale bien, un alumno que escribe una frase honesta, una conversación que no parecía importante y años después sigue ahí. En Lo es, McCourt todavía parecía debatirse entre sentirse un fraude y fingir que eso no dolía demasiado. En El profesor, el gesto cambia: abraza su impostura como quien ya no tiene edad para autoengaños y descubre que, a veces, enseñar consiste precisamente en entrar en clase con tus inseguridades bien visibles y seguir hablando.
La prosa de McCourt continúa teniendo esa cualidad oral tan difícil de fingir. Parece que no escribe: parece que recuerda en voz alta. Sus frases avanzan con el ritmo de alguien sentado frente a ti, quizá con una cerveza delante, levantando una ceja, riéndose de su propia torpeza y dejándote caer una verdad incómoda justo cuando parecía que solo estaba contando una anécdota divertida. Esa naturalidad es engañosa, porque detrás hay mucho oficio. McCourt sabe dosificar el humor, sabe cuándo bajar el volumen y sabe convertir un detalle aparentemente menor —una excusa inventada por un alumno, una redacción absurda, una clase que se desmadra— en una pequeña revelación sobre la vergüenza, la pertenencia, el miedo o la necesidad de ser visto. En McCourt, escribir parece una estrategia de supervivencia tardía: una manera de poner orden en lo que durante años fue culpa, ruido y desconcierto.
Una de las cosas que más agradezco del libro es su manera de mirar la enseñanza desde dentro, con cansancio, burocracia, inseguridad, clases fallidas y años enteros de tanteo. McCourt tarda en entender qué tipo de profesor puede ser, del mismo modo que tardó media vida en entender qué tipo de hombre era. De ese tanteo nace buena parte de la honestidad del libro. El retrato que queda es el de un hombre que aprende enseñando, que descubre su voz dentro del ruido del aula y que acaba entendiendo que sus cicatrices, lejos de estorbarle, son parte de lo que lleva consigo cuando entra en clase.
Ahí es donde El profesor termina de encajar con las dos entregas anteriores. El niño de Limerick, aquel chaval hambriento que miraba el mundo desde abajo, acaba frente a una pizarra, escuchando a otros jóvenes que tampoco saben aún qué hacer con su vida. La trilogía se cierra con una justicia íntima y sin necesidad de grandes gestos: McCourt convierte el material desordenado de su existencia en relato, y luego enseña a otros a hacer lo mismo. Después de tanta pobreza, tanta culpa y tanto desarraigo, eso tiene una belleza discreta, casi testaruda.
Dentro de la trilogía, El profesor ocupa un lugar menos rotundo que Las cenizas de Ángela, pero funciona muy bien como cierre. Es el libro de un hombre que ha sobrevivido lo suficiente como para poder mirar atrás sin quedar petrificado por el dolor. Y, sobre todo, es una celebración del poder de las historias contadas en el lugar menos glamuroso posible: un aula llena de adolescentes impacientes, papeles por corregir y un profesor irlandés intentando que alguien, aunque sea uno solo, descubra que escribir una frase propia puede ser una forma de empezar a existir.
Frank McCourt cerró sus memorias enseñando. Tiene sentido. Al final, toda su obra parece decirnos que contar una vida es una manera de impedir que se pierda del todo. Y si además consigue que alguien al otro lado levante la cabeza y escuche, aunque sea por un momento, entonces quizá la clase no ha salido tan mal.
DC
March 21, 2011
I read this book years ago, at the start of my teaching career. I can't remember if I was student teaching or if it was my first year, but nevertheless, I was a newbie. I actually started reading it again forgetting this was the Frank McCourt book I had read years ago. It took me about two pages to realize my mistake, but I figured I might as well finish it since I hadn't even remembered I had read it in the first place.
McCourt no doubt has some questionable pedagogy. Some of his out-of-the-box lessons are clever while others are downright ridiculous. He wrote he felt guilty not sticking to the curriculum, but I suppose sometimes it takes risks to discover gold. I feel a little cheated because we never get to experience a typical day in his classroom...there's no way he had his students reciting recipes every day throughout his decades of teaching. What did a regular day look like? He had to have touched on some of the curriculum throughout the year, but I suppose those stories may not have been as engaging.
What I did not appreciate was his manner regarding his marriage. He nonchalantly writes about cheating on his wife, claiming that it was a marriage doomed from the start. Ummm, when did that make it okay to have affairs? And, what are these stories adding to this book?
The best part about the book is the stories about students and their lives. I tell my students "teachers are people, too!" but maybe we sometimes forget that the same applies to our students. We see them in a bubble and make judgments based on their attentiveness in our class and their homework completion and perceived effort, but they have home lives and struggles, just like us. Oh sure, with the "troubled" kids, you can clearly see that there are outside forces pulling them from being a motivated student, but what about the others?
I sometimes get jealous that other teachers get to know more about their students' outside worlds. English teachers have papers, art teachers see their pieces rife with emotion, religion teachers have journals...what about math teachers? We get to see word problems. It's hard to start deep, provocative discussions around the topic "how to solve for x"
McCourt no doubt has some questionable pedagogy. Some of his out-of-the-box lessons are clever while others are downright ridiculous. He wrote he felt guilty not sticking to the curriculum, but I suppose sometimes it takes risks to discover gold. I feel a little cheated because we never get to experience a typical day in his classroom...there's no way he had his students reciting recipes every day throughout his decades of teaching. What did a regular day look like? He had to have touched on some of the curriculum throughout the year, but I suppose those stories may not have been as engaging.
What I did not appreciate was his manner regarding his marriage. He nonchalantly writes about cheating on his wife, claiming that it was a marriage doomed from the start. Ummm, when did that make it okay to have affairs? And, what are these stories adding to this book?
The best part about the book is the stories about students and their lives. I tell my students "teachers are people, too!" but maybe we sometimes forget that the same applies to our students. We see them in a bubble and make judgments based on their attentiveness in our class and their homework completion and perceived effort, but they have home lives and struggles, just like us. Oh sure, with the "troubled" kids, you can clearly see that there are outside forces pulling them from being a motivated student, but what about the others?
I sometimes get jealous that other teachers get to know more about their students' outside worlds. English teachers have papers, art teachers see their pieces rife with emotion, religion teachers have journals...what about math teachers? We get to see word problems. It's hard to start deep, provocative discussions around the topic "how to solve for x"
December 27, 2019
After reading Angela’s Ashes, I wanted to read the second volume of the McCourt series. I was interested to see what became of young Frank after he left his poor childhood years in Ireland and went to America. But it turns out that book is out of print and not available at my library. So I jumped to the third volume, which covers Frank’s years as a teacher in several NY highschools.
This is, of course, a very different book from Angela’s Ashes, but I still liked it a lot. This is not just a journal of a teacher struggling to get through to his students despite the limitations of the state's bureaucracy and the parent’s expectations for good grades, but also a portrait of the US, through the lives of hundreds of students.
A sad thing to realise is that although this book covers the 1950ies and 60ies, many of the problems it talks about are still present in today’s schools.
On a side note, having homeschooled my children during primary school, I felt a special connection with the writer whenever he wrote about his doubts and insecurities about his classes and teaching methods:
“(...) other English teachers were teaching solid stuff, analyzing poetry, assigning research papers and giving lessons on the correct use of footnotes and bibliography. Thinking of those other English teachers and the solid stuff makes me uneasy again. They’re following the curriculum, preparing the kids for higher education and the great world beyond. We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, teacher man.”
Now looking back, many years after, I am so glad about all we did and the fun we had.
This is, of course, a very different book from Angela’s Ashes, but I still liked it a lot. This is not just a journal of a teacher struggling to get through to his students despite the limitations of the state's bureaucracy and the parent’s expectations for good grades, but also a portrait of the US, through the lives of hundreds of students.
A sad thing to realise is that although this book covers the 1950ies and 60ies, many of the problems it talks about are still present in today’s schools.
On a side note, having homeschooled my children during primary school, I felt a special connection with the writer whenever he wrote about his doubts and insecurities about his classes and teaching methods:
“(...) other English teachers were teaching solid stuff, analyzing poetry, assigning research papers and giving lessons on the correct use of footnotes and bibliography. Thinking of those other English teachers and the solid stuff makes me uneasy again. They’re following the curriculum, preparing the kids for higher education and the great world beyond. We’re not here to enjoy ourselves, teacher man.”
Now looking back, many years after, I am so glad about all we did and the fun we had.
Read
October 20, 2026Starts slow, then tapers off.
April 5, 2023
(review in English below)
Interessante, mas acabou por me irritar um pouco o discurso de McCourt, que por vezes até me pareceu algo desconexo, descrevendo apenas episódios mais ou menos caricatos da sua vida como um professor de liceu irlandês em Nova Iorque e repetindo ad nauseam informações sobre o número de turmas e alunos que teve.
Acredito que os professores encontrarão muitos pontos em comum com esta narrativa, embora os contextos sejam bastante diferentes. E alguns dos recursos educativos utilizados pelo autor nas suas aulas de Inglês e de Escrita Criativa são de facto originais, conseguindo cativar os alunos mais difíceis.
Recomendo especialmente (para não dizer exclusivamente) a professores do secundário.
Yes, it's interesting, but McCourt's narrative ended up annoying me and it even seemed he was rambling sometimes, just telling more or less funny anecdotes of his life as an Irish high school teacher in New York and repeating ad nauseam how many classes and students he had.
I believe teachers will find many points in common with this story, although the contexts may be quite different. And some educational resources used by the author in his English and Creative Writing classes are indeed unconventional, managing to captivate the most difficult students.
I recommend it especially (if not exclusively) to high school teachers.
Interessante, mas acabou por me irritar um pouco o discurso de McCourt, que por vezes até me pareceu algo desconexo, descrevendo apenas episódios mais ou menos caricatos da sua vida como um professor de liceu irlandês em Nova Iorque e repetindo ad nauseam informações sobre o número de turmas e alunos que teve.
Acredito que os professores encontrarão muitos pontos em comum com esta narrativa, embora os contextos sejam bastante diferentes. E alguns dos recursos educativos utilizados pelo autor nas suas aulas de Inglês e de Escrita Criativa são de facto originais, conseguindo cativar os alunos mais difíceis.
Recomendo especialmente (para não dizer exclusivamente) a professores do secundário.
Yes, it's interesting, but McCourt's narrative ended up annoying me and it even seemed he was rambling sometimes, just telling more or less funny anecdotes of his life as an Irish high school teacher in New York and repeating ad nauseam how many classes and students he had.
I believe teachers will find many points in common with this story, although the contexts may be quite different. And some educational resources used by the author in his English and Creative Writing classes are indeed unconventional, managing to captivate the most difficult students.
I recommend it especially (if not exclusively) to high school teachers.
September 13, 2011
Titolo: Ehi, prof!
Sottotitolo: I libri non sono oggetti. I libri hanno l'anima
Caro Frank, è ormai la terza volta che ti scrivo, ti do del tu perché ti conosco da quando eri un moccioso e vivevi a Limerick, e anche se sei morto professore a New York, io ti ricordo così, come quell'infelice infante irlandese e cattolico.
Siccome ormai abbiamo la confidenza adatta, e non mi piacerebbe essere disonesta nei tuoi confronti, te lo devo dire, ho pianto per le prime trenta pagine di questo ultimo libro. Ho pianto per quell'ultimo, anche se stavi scrivendo della tua a dir poco verosimile esperienza con l'insegnamento; onestamente credo sia da pochi riuscire a far piangere per la commozione mentre si stanno raccontando degli episodi che farebbero ridere anche il mio tutor di privato che è sempre stizzito per via del fatto che non muoiono i docenti e non si becca la cattedra. Separarmi dalle tue parole è stata una scelta per me dolorosa, ma dovuta e di coraggio, di bisogno sopratutto, perché volevo sentirmi dire da te che nella vita bisogna farsi spazio, che della vita bisogna saper apprezzare con un sorriso anche quelle situazioni in cui uno ha voglia solo di rinchiudersi in un bunker e sperare che i Maya o chi per loro c'avesse visto bene.
Non te lo dico, anzi, sì te lo dico, a costo di essere banalmente ripetitiva o insulsa: darei tutto ciò che ho per poter tornare indietro nel tempo, iscrivermi al Liceo Stuyvesant di New York e assistere alle tue lezioni di scrittura creativa.
Non tanto per l'insegnamento della scrittura creativa, dato che non ne sapevi granché, quanto per l'insegnamento di vita che m'avresti detto facendomi vedere che a volte bisogna imparare a scherzarci su, anche quando fa più male. Sorrido ad uno schermo di computer a pensare a te in cattedra, sprovveduto, infilato a forza nel ruolo di insegnante, che cercavi più di apprendere che di insegnare, che non esaurivi mai la curiosità e leggevi come leggo io, Fitzgerald come se fosse un diamante, non uno semplice scrittore.
Forse son troppo di parte, forse dovrei scriverti due note di rimprovero sul fatto che bevessi troppo, e che predicassi bene e razzolassi male, ma tutto ciò che vedo tra le tue parole, che son l'unico elemento che ho per poterti conoscere, è un'anima bella innamorata della speranza. Un po' come io non sono, un po' come io vorrei essere.
Ho letto le ultime venti pagine con una lentezza quasi stoica, con una ripugnanza per la fine che mi addolorava passo passo, parola dopo parola perché sapevo che ogni parola era una in meno verso la conclusione delle tue memorie. In generale sono abbastanza pettegola, e quando scopro un autore nuovo la prima cosa che voglio sapere era se fosse sposato/poligamo/single, se avesse vissuto scandali e tutte le cose da classici rotocalchi rosa.
Ma la tua vita l'ho letta in queste tre puntate perché dalla prima riga della prima pagina delle Ceneri di Angela sapevo - anche se tu non lo sai -, che questi libri li avevi scritti per me, affinché io imparassi. E quindi, svestitami dei panni della pettegola, ho indossato quelli della sensibilità così che ogni tua singola parola mi ha trapassata da lato a lato lasciandomi un segno, un segno che fosse una risata della grossa viste certe cagate che hai combinato, un segno che fosse un insegnamento visto certe vite che hai vissuto, che fosse un sostegno, visto che mi sei più di quanto siano molti altri.
Siccome poi odio essere sentimentale, lo sono stata abbastanza, e voglio che tutti ti odino, così che nessuno compri i tuoi libri e si legga le cose che hai scritto a me, io ti saluto Frank.
...Grazie
Sottotitolo: I libri non sono oggetti. I libri hanno l'anima
Caro Frank, è ormai la terza volta che ti scrivo, ti do del tu perché ti conosco da quando eri un moccioso e vivevi a Limerick, e anche se sei morto professore a New York, io ti ricordo così, come quell'infelice infante irlandese e cattolico.
Siccome ormai abbiamo la confidenza adatta, e non mi piacerebbe essere disonesta nei tuoi confronti, te lo devo dire, ho pianto per le prime trenta pagine di questo ultimo libro. Ho pianto per quell'ultimo, anche se stavi scrivendo della tua a dir poco verosimile esperienza con l'insegnamento; onestamente credo sia da pochi riuscire a far piangere per la commozione mentre si stanno raccontando degli episodi che farebbero ridere anche il mio tutor di privato che è sempre stizzito per via del fatto che non muoiono i docenti e non si becca la cattedra. Separarmi dalle tue parole è stata una scelta per me dolorosa, ma dovuta e di coraggio, di bisogno sopratutto, perché volevo sentirmi dire da te che nella vita bisogna farsi spazio, che della vita bisogna saper apprezzare con un sorriso anche quelle situazioni in cui uno ha voglia solo di rinchiudersi in un bunker e sperare che i Maya o chi per loro c'avesse visto bene.
Non te lo dico, anzi, sì te lo dico, a costo di essere banalmente ripetitiva o insulsa: darei tutto ciò che ho per poter tornare indietro nel tempo, iscrivermi al Liceo Stuyvesant di New York e assistere alle tue lezioni di scrittura creativa.
Non tanto per l'insegnamento della scrittura creativa, dato che non ne sapevi granché, quanto per l'insegnamento di vita che m'avresti detto facendomi vedere che a volte bisogna imparare a scherzarci su, anche quando fa più male. Sorrido ad uno schermo di computer a pensare a te in cattedra, sprovveduto, infilato a forza nel ruolo di insegnante, che cercavi più di apprendere che di insegnare, che non esaurivi mai la curiosità e leggevi come leggo io, Fitzgerald come se fosse un diamante, non uno semplice scrittore.
Forse son troppo di parte, forse dovrei scriverti due note di rimprovero sul fatto che bevessi troppo, e che predicassi bene e razzolassi male, ma tutto ciò che vedo tra le tue parole, che son l'unico elemento che ho per poterti conoscere, è un'anima bella innamorata della speranza. Un po' come io non sono, un po' come io vorrei essere.
Ho letto le ultime venti pagine con una lentezza quasi stoica, con una ripugnanza per la fine che mi addolorava passo passo, parola dopo parola perché sapevo che ogni parola era una in meno verso la conclusione delle tue memorie. In generale sono abbastanza pettegola, e quando scopro un autore nuovo la prima cosa che voglio sapere era se fosse sposato/poligamo/single, se avesse vissuto scandali e tutte le cose da classici rotocalchi rosa.
Ma la tua vita l'ho letta in queste tre puntate perché dalla prima riga della prima pagina delle Ceneri di Angela sapevo - anche se tu non lo sai -, che questi libri li avevi scritti per me, affinché io imparassi. E quindi, svestitami dei panni della pettegola, ho indossato quelli della sensibilità così che ogni tua singola parola mi ha trapassata da lato a lato lasciandomi un segno, un segno che fosse una risata della grossa viste certe cagate che hai combinato, un segno che fosse un insegnamento visto certe vite che hai vissuto, che fosse un sostegno, visto che mi sei più di quanto siano molti altri.
Siccome poi odio essere sentimentale, lo sono stata abbastanza, e voglio che tutti ti odino, così che nessuno compri i tuoi libri e si legga le cose che hai scritto a me, io ti saluto Frank.
...Grazie
June 2, 2007
McCourt has a compelling style of writing, an extraordinarily masculine style (I don't know what this means exactly, but if I were ever to try to pin down what I thought made for "masculine" writing, I'd definitely look at McCourt's book, if only to avoid the traditional recourse to Hemingway). One thing that was nice about it was that it was a memoir that happened to be about a period in his life when he was a teacher -- i.e. that happened to be about teaching. It clearly wasn't a "teacher memoir" in the traditional sense.
McCourt came off as a compelling teacher, because he is almost certainly a compelling storyteller and a compelling person to listen to. It was clear he did some good things in his classroom. But, to me at least, he didn't seem as annoyingly perfect or pedantic as other teachers I read in teacher school. He also (refreshingly) refuses to analyze or justify many of his most compelling (and strange) moments of pedagogy. There were almost certainly students who were ill-served by McCourt and who couldn't stand him. There were also years when I imagine he wasn't a very good teacher. And, of course, there were surely many students he made a great impact on and many more who dearly loved him.
In the end what drove this forward was the mixture of classic teacher-man stories (think Dead Poet Society) and McCourt's brisk, snappy sections of teacher/student dialog.
I guess I also fundamentally share McCourt's main teaching insight, which is that it's hard to represent "the system", that it makes sense when kids resist authority and that often you most sympathize (and even like) the very kids you have to reprimand for wasting the class's time.
McCourt came off as a compelling teacher, because he is almost certainly a compelling storyteller and a compelling person to listen to. It was clear he did some good things in his classroom. But, to me at least, he didn't seem as annoyingly perfect or pedantic as other teachers I read in teacher school. He also (refreshingly) refuses to analyze or justify many of his most compelling (and strange) moments of pedagogy. There were almost certainly students who were ill-served by McCourt and who couldn't stand him. There were also years when I imagine he wasn't a very good teacher. And, of course, there were surely many students he made a great impact on and many more who dearly loved him.
In the end what drove this forward was the mixture of classic teacher-man stories (think Dead Poet Society) and McCourt's brisk, snappy sections of teacher/student dialog.
I guess I also fundamentally share McCourt's main teaching insight, which is that it's hard to represent "the system", that it makes sense when kids resist authority and that often you most sympathize (and even like) the very kids you have to reprimand for wasting the class's time.
March 9, 2015
Well, I finally try something by Mr. McCourt, former New York City public high school teacher, now the celebrated and successful writer of best sellers like "Angela's Ashes" and this book here. One can see why this was a popular book. McCourt is an engaging raconteur, in the Irish tradition - witty, anecdotal, ironic - and his story is an interesting one. He never takes himself too seriously, altho some anger occasionally pokes thru.
In this book, McCourt tells a the tale of his college years, the time in his twenties he put in working as a longshoreman on the Brooklyn docks, and most importantly, his life as a teacher. There are tales of romance with a young lady who is also the lover of one of his professors. There are stories of his first couple of jobs, early years bouncing around from school to school, just getting by. He seems to have the knack of getting a little too witty with people from time to time. He teaches at a vocational school in Staten Island, and at a community college, but does not get off to a promising start. He touches a bit on marriage and fatherhood, but does not get too far into his relations with his family. Pubs and drinking seem to be a fairly consistent distraction, and one gets the sense that before he began telling his tales to a word processor, he told them in barrooms over pints of Guinness. At one point, he gets accepted to Trinity College in Dublin for a graduate program, but is unable to pull his dissertation on Irish-American literary relations into a manageable form. McCourt seems to always be the witty outsider, the smart kid from the rough side of the tracks in Limerick who can't quite find his place in the world. But redemption comes calling in the form of a substitute teaching gig at a top high school, where surprisingly enough, he is asked to stay on and ends up a popular and successful writing teacher.
There are numerous recollections of strange and funny encounters with students. There is the bizarre story of the girl whose sister's husband lost his arms in Korea, and wants sex all the time. There is Kevin, an imaginative (and probably schizophrenic) young man who takes a liking to the author. There is the gang of impossible to control Black girls that he takes to a movie in Times Square. There is the recitation of recipes with musical accompaniment. There are hilarious excuse notes which he saves and then turns into a lesson. And there is some good advice for teachers too.
This was a colorful, anecdotal read, but not lacking in some real substance and insight. Still, I am sure there have been more powerful books written about teaching and life in the schools. This is a likeable one however, and I think therein lies the core of McCourt's success as a writer.
In this book, McCourt tells a the tale of his college years, the time in his twenties he put in working as a longshoreman on the Brooklyn docks, and most importantly, his life as a teacher. There are tales of romance with a young lady who is also the lover of one of his professors. There are stories of his first couple of jobs, early years bouncing around from school to school, just getting by. He seems to have the knack of getting a little too witty with people from time to time. He teaches at a vocational school in Staten Island, and at a community college, but does not get off to a promising start. He touches a bit on marriage and fatherhood, but does not get too far into his relations with his family. Pubs and drinking seem to be a fairly consistent distraction, and one gets the sense that before he began telling his tales to a word processor, he told them in barrooms over pints of Guinness. At one point, he gets accepted to Trinity College in Dublin for a graduate program, but is unable to pull his dissertation on Irish-American literary relations into a manageable form. McCourt seems to always be the witty outsider, the smart kid from the rough side of the tracks in Limerick who can't quite find his place in the world. But redemption comes calling in the form of a substitute teaching gig at a top high school, where surprisingly enough, he is asked to stay on and ends up a popular and successful writing teacher.
There are numerous recollections of strange and funny encounters with students. There is the bizarre story of the girl whose sister's husband lost his arms in Korea, and wants sex all the time. There is Kevin, an imaginative (and probably schizophrenic) young man who takes a liking to the author. There is the gang of impossible to control Black girls that he takes to a movie in Times Square. There is the recitation of recipes with musical accompaniment. There are hilarious excuse notes which he saves and then turns into a lesson. And there is some good advice for teachers too.
This was a colorful, anecdotal read, but not lacking in some real substance and insight. Still, I am sure there have been more powerful books written about teaching and life in the schools. This is a likeable one however, and I think therein lies the core of McCourt's success as a writer.
August 18, 2016
4 estrellas, ya que es de esos libros que empiezas a leer y no esperas mucho de él... Y lo terminas con una sonrisa grande...
“There's nothing sillier in the world than a teacher telling you don't do it after you already did it.”
Debo de admitir que al empezar a leer este libro me lleve una impresión mala del mismo... no terminaba de ser un libro de carácter bibliográfico, que en lugar de comentar lo que hace a una persona ser profesor, tan solo aparentaba ser un anecdotario de la vida de Frank McCourt.
“That's what he disliked about certain artists and writers. They interfered and pointed to everything as if you couldn't see it or read for yourself.”
Después de leer algo mas, me di cuenta que esta forma de hilar la historia, hacia que la lectura fuera fácil y amena. sin pelos en la lengua te cuenta de sus encuentros sexuales y casuales, sin miedo a decirte de sus fracasos en este sentido así como escolares y sociales.
“You can't teach in a vacuum. A good teacher relates the material to real life. You understand that, don't you?”
La magia del libro es que no busca ser una guía de lo que debe de ser un profesor, sino explicarte cuales fueron las características que a el le funcionaron. ese anecdotario es algo que se puede repetir tanto en las aulas de una secundaria de New York como en las de una universidad en Sinaloa (donde soy docente).
“This is the situation in the public schools of America: The farther you travel from the classroom the greater your financial and professional rewards.”
Nos sirve para recordar que un profesor no es un trabajo mas, sino que es una actividad que trasciende las aulas y la función del profesor marca a los alumnos para bien y para mal. llena de errores, cosas que espero no hacer y cometer, pero también enseñanzas que debemos de llevarnos con nosotros. no busca ser un ejemplo a seguir, pero si un recordatorios que esto que estas viviendo, lo han vivido (y sufrido) otros antes que tu.
“El aula es un lugar de gran dramatismo. Nunca sabes lo que has hecho para o por los centenares de alumnos que llegan y se van. Los ves salir del aula: soñadores, apagados, burlones, con admiración, sonrientes, desconcertados”
“There's nothing sillier in the world than a teacher telling you don't do it after you already did it.”
Debo de admitir que al empezar a leer este libro me lleve una impresión mala del mismo... no terminaba de ser un libro de carácter bibliográfico, que en lugar de comentar lo que hace a una persona ser profesor, tan solo aparentaba ser un anecdotario de la vida de Frank McCourt.
“That's what he disliked about certain artists and writers. They interfered and pointed to everything as if you couldn't see it or read for yourself.”
Después de leer algo mas, me di cuenta que esta forma de hilar la historia, hacia que la lectura fuera fácil y amena. sin pelos en la lengua te cuenta de sus encuentros sexuales y casuales, sin miedo a decirte de sus fracasos en este sentido así como escolares y sociales.
“You can't teach in a vacuum. A good teacher relates the material to real life. You understand that, don't you?”
La magia del libro es que no busca ser una guía de lo que debe de ser un profesor, sino explicarte cuales fueron las características que a el le funcionaron. ese anecdotario es algo que se puede repetir tanto en las aulas de una secundaria de New York como en las de una universidad en Sinaloa (donde soy docente).
“This is the situation in the public schools of America: The farther you travel from the classroom the greater your financial and professional rewards.”
Nos sirve para recordar que un profesor no es un trabajo mas, sino que es una actividad que trasciende las aulas y la función del profesor marca a los alumnos para bien y para mal. llena de errores, cosas que espero no hacer y cometer, pero también enseñanzas que debemos de llevarnos con nosotros. no busca ser un ejemplo a seguir, pero si un recordatorios que esto que estas viviendo, lo han vivido (y sufrido) otros antes que tu.
“El aula es un lugar de gran dramatismo. Nunca sabes lo que has hecho para o por los centenares de alumnos que llegan y se van. Los ves salir del aula: soñadores, apagados, burlones, con admiración, sonrientes, desconcertados”
March 19, 2020
A side note: Frank McCourt (1930-2009) was born in Brooklyn, New York, to Irish immigrant parents, grew up in Limerick, Ireland, and returned to America in 1949. For thirty years he taught in New York City high schools. His first book, "Angela's Ashes," won the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award and the L.A. Times Book Award. In 2006, he won the prestigious Ellis Island Family Heritage Award for Exemplary Service in the Field of the Arts and the United Federation of Teachers John Dewey Award for Excellence in Education.
There are teacher and then there are the kind of teacher that Frank McCourt was. Here he tells of his 30-year career teaching English in New York City high schools. He was scared to death on his first day…and who wouldn’t be, facing a room of 16-year-olds at McKee Vocational and Technical High School on Staten Island, where his job was to teach five English classes per day to teenagers who were never expected to go any higher than 12th grade…if that. The year was 1958 and Frank McCourt was 27 years old and just out of New York University himself. One doesn’t have to be a teacher to appreciate his account of how reading the students’ obviously self-authored absence excuses inspired him to create a composition assignment they couldn’t resist: write a note of excuse from Adam to God. I would have loved to have tacked that one. At 38, he left for a doctoral program at Dublin’s Trinity College, returning two years later without a degree. That is a story for another book. He relates two of his most memorable teaching experiences… a vocabulary lesson involving a picnic in the park with ethnic foods brought by students in his creative-writing class, and a recipe-as-poetry class in which students read recipes aloud to the accompaniment of assorted musical instruments. As I said there are teachers and then there are teachers like Frank McCourt. If you read his memoirs’ you’ll be more than just entertained…you’ll be enlightened.
There are teacher and then there are the kind of teacher that Frank McCourt was. Here he tells of his 30-year career teaching English in New York City high schools. He was scared to death on his first day…and who wouldn’t be, facing a room of 16-year-olds at McKee Vocational and Technical High School on Staten Island, where his job was to teach five English classes per day to teenagers who were never expected to go any higher than 12th grade…if that. The year was 1958 and Frank McCourt was 27 years old and just out of New York University himself. One doesn’t have to be a teacher to appreciate his account of how reading the students’ obviously self-authored absence excuses inspired him to create a composition assignment they couldn’t resist: write a note of excuse from Adam to God. I would have loved to have tacked that one. At 38, he left for a doctoral program at Dublin’s Trinity College, returning two years later without a degree. That is a story for another book. He relates two of his most memorable teaching experiences… a vocabulary lesson involving a picnic in the park with ethnic foods brought by students in his creative-writing class, and a recipe-as-poetry class in which students read recipes aloud to the accompaniment of assorted musical instruments. As I said there are teachers and then there are teachers like Frank McCourt. If you read his memoirs’ you’ll be more than just entertained…you’ll be enlightened.
September 29, 2017
Onvan : Teacher Man (Frank McCourt, #3) - Nevisande : Frank McCourt - ISBN : 743243781 - ISBN13 : 9780743243780 - Dar 272 Safhe - Saal e Chap : 2005
May 10, 2021
This is my first audiobook in English. Thanks for inspiration @nibelungov
July 21, 2014
This is my favourite of Frank McCourt's books. I found Angela's Ashes just too unremittingly bleak.
Teacher Man is not all about teaching as it tells of how he lives in New York before accidentally becoming a teacher. Anyone who's ever been in a classroom and especially teachers will 'enjoy' his descriptions of being in a room with a group of kids who would rather eat dirt than listen to him. But he succeeds through his having 'kissed the Blarney Stone' and tells tales (mostly true) of his life. McCourt writes with the honesty of someone who has actually done all he writes of.
His advice to a new teacher is great: 'You have to make yourself comfortable in the classroom. You have to be selfish.'
Fabulous book......And I just read it again for the third time. It restores my faith in the value of teaching and the idiocy of those who decide on education policy.
Teacher Man is not all about teaching as it tells of how he lives in New York before accidentally becoming a teacher. Anyone who's ever been in a classroom and especially teachers will 'enjoy' his descriptions of being in a room with a group of kids who would rather eat dirt than listen to him. But he succeeds through his having 'kissed the Blarney Stone' and tells tales (mostly true) of his life. McCourt writes with the honesty of someone who has actually done all he writes of.
His advice to a new teacher is great: 'You have to make yourself comfortable in the classroom. You have to be selfish.'
Fabulous book......And I just read it again for the third time. It restores my faith in the value of teaching and the idiocy of those who decide on education policy.
November 5, 2012
Angela's Ashes is Frank McCourt’s Pulitzer prize-winner, but I’ve been attracted to this lesser-known memoir of his since I heard him promoting it on NPR years ago. His younger brother Malachy is also a favorite guest on NPR shows; I’ve heard him read two of his short stories on “Selected Shorts.” One of them was about an Irish doorman working in a Manhattan luxury building on Christmas, and it was absolutely hilarious. I admit I got the two brothers mixed up, but this book set me straight. Both of them are funny and incredibly talented.
Even without the author’s voice reading the book aloud, you can hear the Irish brogue just from the writing. The laughs begin right away, too. As a young, inexperienced teacher, Mr. McCourt has a sandwich thrown at him on his very first day of class. Establishing control is the bane of many a teacher, and Mr. McCourt has mere seconds to show what kind of teacher he is going to be. Will he be strict and yell at the kid? Will he ignore it and be perceived as weak? Actually, he does neither. His reaction is so off-beat, he takes the kids completely by surprise and wins them over. In so doing, he wins over his readers, too.
The rest of the book chronicles his growth as a teacher. He starts off at a vocational school with unmotivated students who need discipline and ends up at the elite Stuyvesant High School where the students demand quality teaching. Along the way, he reminisces about his childhood in Ireland and tells us about his failed marriage and brief return to the Old Country. Another Goodreader didn’t like the dips into McCourt’s personal life and wishes the book would have just stayed in the classroom. I can see the point, certainly about the failed marriage, which was the least interesting part of the book. But his pre-teaching days, particularly the overly strict Catholic education and the years spent working the docks, gave the book context. He was successful with his working class students, including some of the Stuyvesant students, because they knew he came from a world similar to theirs. The Stuyvesant section was definitely my favorite part, not just because he had mastered his style as a teacher by then but because he was teaching creative writing. He may have written Angela’s Ashes first, but some of the hints to its origins are in this book.
Since I dream of teaching and writing, it was inevitable that I’d like this book, but Frank McCourt is such a skilled storyteller, I think anyone would like it. Then again, he says all of us are writers anyway. Perhaps we’re all teachers, too.
Even without the author’s voice reading the book aloud, you can hear the Irish brogue just from the writing. The laughs begin right away, too. As a young, inexperienced teacher, Mr. McCourt has a sandwich thrown at him on his very first day of class. Establishing control is the bane of many a teacher, and Mr. McCourt has mere seconds to show what kind of teacher he is going to be. Will he be strict and yell at the kid? Will he ignore it and be perceived as weak? Actually, he does neither. His reaction is so off-beat, he takes the kids completely by surprise and wins them over. In so doing, he wins over his readers, too.
The rest of the book chronicles his growth as a teacher. He starts off at a vocational school with unmotivated students who need discipline and ends up at the elite Stuyvesant High School where the students demand quality teaching. Along the way, he reminisces about his childhood in Ireland and tells us about his failed marriage and brief return to the Old Country. Another Goodreader didn’t like the dips into McCourt’s personal life and wishes the book would have just stayed in the classroom. I can see the point, certainly about the failed marriage, which was the least interesting part of the book. But his pre-teaching days, particularly the overly strict Catholic education and the years spent working the docks, gave the book context. He was successful with his working class students, including some of the Stuyvesant students, because they knew he came from a world similar to theirs. The Stuyvesant section was definitely my favorite part, not just because he had mastered his style as a teacher by then but because he was teaching creative writing. He may have written Angela’s Ashes first, but some of the hints to its origins are in this book.
Since I dream of teaching and writing, it was inevitable that I’d like this book, but Frank McCourt is such a skilled storyteller, I think anyone would like it. Then again, he says all of us are writers anyway. Perhaps we’re all teachers, too.
December 25, 2007
Frank McCourt: The Irish-American Larry McMurtry?
I ended up with mixed feelings about this book. I loved -- no, adored -- the first section of this wry, honest memoir. The second section was solid, also, but felt a little out of place. (My reaction: What? McCourt's in Dublin drinking, cheating on his wife, and not getting the doctorate he's supposed to be working on? What does this have to do with his high school teaching career?) The third section returns to and wraps up his teaching career. It should be the climax, I guess, except that this is more memoir than novel, but what it really is, is too swift.
The quotes on the back cover say Teacher Man is the best in McCourt's trilogy (meaning it supposedly surpasses the Pullitzer Prize-winning Angela's Ashes). Now, I have not read the two previous memoirs, but if McCourt's too-brief conclusion to Teacher Man leaves me hanging after one 250-page book, I have to wonder if I wouldn't have liked it even less if it were the capper to THREE 250-page books.
Still, Teacher Man is impossible not to recommend.
I ended up with mixed feelings about this book. I loved -- no, adored -- the first section of this wry, honest memoir. The second section was solid, also, but felt a little out of place. (My reaction: What? McCourt's in Dublin drinking, cheating on his wife, and not getting the doctorate he's supposed to be working on? What does this have to do with his high school teaching career?) The third section returns to and wraps up his teaching career. It should be the climax, I guess, except that this is more memoir than novel, but what it really is, is too swift.
The quotes on the back cover say Teacher Man is the best in McCourt's trilogy (meaning it supposedly surpasses the Pullitzer Prize-winning Angela's Ashes). Now, I have not read the two previous memoirs, but if McCourt's too-brief conclusion to Teacher Man leaves me hanging after one 250-page book, I have to wonder if I wouldn't have liked it even less if it were the capper to THREE 250-page books.
Still, Teacher Man is impossible not to recommend.
November 15, 2009
Frank McCourt beschreibt auf sehr selbstironische und emotionale Art und Weise seine Karriere als Lehrer an verschiedenen New Yorker Schulen. Dabei geht es immer um sein Verhältnis zu den Schülern und um innovative Ideen, sie zu fesseln.
Sehr schön, viel leichter als McCourts erstes Buch über seine irische Kindheit. Auch nimmt er sich selbst und seine pädagogischen Fähigkeiten nicht allzu wichtig.
Sehr schön, viel leichter als McCourts erstes Buch über seine irische Kindheit. Auch nimmt er sich selbst und seine pädagogischen Fähigkeiten nicht allzu wichtig.
January 15, 2012
Almost As Good As "Angela's Ashes"
McCourties of the world rejoice! You have nothing to lose but your tears of woe anticipating when he'd return with his next book; the foremost memoirist of our time is back. Frank McCourt's "Teacher Man" is a spellbinding lyrical ode to the craft of teaching. It is a rollicking, delightful trek across nearly thirty years in New York City public school classrooms that will surely please his devout legion of fans, and perhaps win some new admirers too. Truly, without question, it is a splendid concluding volume in his trilogy of memoirs that began in spectacular fashion with "Angela's Ashes". Indeed, we find much of the same plain, yet rather poetic, prose and rich dark humor that defines his first book, along with his undiminished, seemingly timeless, skill as a mesmerizing raconteur. Is McCourt truly now one of the great writers of our time if he isn't already, with the publication of "Teacher Man"? I will say only that he was a marvellous teacher (I still feel lucky to have been a prize-winning student of his.), and that this new memoir truly captures the spirit of what it was like to be a student in his classroom.
"Teacher Man" opens with a hilarious Prologue that would seem quite self-serving if written by someone other than Frank McCourt, in which he reviews his star-struck existence in the nine years since the original publication of "Angela's Ashes". In Part I (It's a Long Road to Pedagogy) he dwells on the eight years he spent at McKee Vocational High School in Staten Island. It starts, promisingly enough, with him on the verge of ending his teaching career, just as it begins in the lawless Wild West frontier of a McKee classroom (I was nearly in stitches laughing out loud, after learning why he was nearly fired on two consecutive days, no less.). Frank manages to break every rule learned in his Education courses at New York University, but he succeeds in motivating his students, raising the craft of excuse note writing to a high literary art. He finds time too to fall in love with his first wife, Alberta Small, and then earn a M. A. degree in English from Brooklyn College.
Part II (Donkey on a Thistle) has the funniest tale; an unbelievable odyssey to a Times Square movie theater with Frank as chaperone to an unruly tribe of thirty Seward Park High School girls. But before we get there, we're treated to a spellbinding account of his all too brief time as an adjunct lecturer of English at Brooklyn's New York Community College, and of another short stint at Fashion Industries High School, where he receives a surprising, and poignant, reminder from his past. Soon Frank will forsake high school teaching, sail off to Dublin, and enroll in a doctoral program at Trinity College, in pursuit of a thesis on Irish-American literature. But, that too fails, and with Alberta pregnant, he accepts an offer to become a substitute teacher at prestigious Stuyvesant High School (The nation's oldest high school devoted to the sciences and mathematics; its alumni now include four Nobel Prize laureates in chemistry, medicine and economics; for more information please look at my ABOUT ME section, or at history at www.stuy.edu or famous alumni at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuyvesant_High... or Notables at www.ourstrongband.org.).
Surprisingly, Part III (Coming Alive in Room 205) is the shortest section of "Teacher Man". After having spent fifteen years teaching at Stuyvesant High School, you'd think that this would be this memoir's longest section, replete with many tales rich in mirth (Room 205, located a few doors from the principal's office, was Frank's room throughout his years teaching full-time at Stuyvesant High School.). Indeed I'm surprised that it is so brief. Yet there is still ample fodder for Frank's lyrical prose to dwell on, most notably a hilarious episode on cookbooks and how he taught his creative writing class to write recipes for them. He describes with equal doses of hilarity and eloquence, his unique style of teaching at Stuyvesant, which he compares and contrasts with math teachers Philip Fisher and Edward Marcantonio - the dark and good sides of Stuyvesant mathematics education in the 1970s and 1980s (I was a student of both and will let the reader decide who was my teacher while I was a student in Frank's creative writing class.) - but he still implies that his students were having the most fun.
Will "Teacher Man" earn the same critical acclaim bestowed upon "Angela's Ashes"? Who knows? Is it deserving of it? I think the answer is a resounding yes. Regardless, Frank's many devout fans - his flock of McCourties - will cherish this book as yet another inspirational tale from the foremost memoirist of our time.
(EDITORIAL NOTE 7/22/09: Elsewhere online I posted this tribute to my favorite high school teacher, and I think it is worth noting here:
I've been fortunate to have had many fine teachers in high school, college and graduate school, but there was no one like Frank McCourt. Without a doubt, he was the most inspirational, most compelling, and the funniest, teacher I ever had. I am still grateful to him for instilling in me a life-long love of literature and a keen interest in writing prose. Am still amazed that he encouraged me to enter a citywide essay contest on New York City's waterfront, and would, more than a year later, in my senior yearbook acknowledge my second prize award by thanking me for winning him money (His was also, not surprisingly, the most eloquent set of comments I had inscribed in my yearbook from teachers.). He is gone now, but I am sure that for me, and for many of my fellow alumni of his Stuyvesant High School classes, he will live in our hearts and minds for the rest of our lives.)
(Resposted from my 2005 Amazon review)
McCourties of the world rejoice! You have nothing to lose but your tears of woe anticipating when he'd return with his next book; the foremost memoirist of our time is back. Frank McCourt's "Teacher Man" is a spellbinding lyrical ode to the craft of teaching. It is a rollicking, delightful trek across nearly thirty years in New York City public school classrooms that will surely please his devout legion of fans, and perhaps win some new admirers too. Truly, without question, it is a splendid concluding volume in his trilogy of memoirs that began in spectacular fashion with "Angela's Ashes". Indeed, we find much of the same plain, yet rather poetic, prose and rich dark humor that defines his first book, along with his undiminished, seemingly timeless, skill as a mesmerizing raconteur. Is McCourt truly now one of the great writers of our time if he isn't already, with the publication of "Teacher Man"? I will say only that he was a marvellous teacher (I still feel lucky to have been a prize-winning student of his.), and that this new memoir truly captures the spirit of what it was like to be a student in his classroom.
"Teacher Man" opens with a hilarious Prologue that would seem quite self-serving if written by someone other than Frank McCourt, in which he reviews his star-struck existence in the nine years since the original publication of "Angela's Ashes". In Part I (It's a Long Road to Pedagogy) he dwells on the eight years he spent at McKee Vocational High School in Staten Island. It starts, promisingly enough, with him on the verge of ending his teaching career, just as it begins in the lawless Wild West frontier of a McKee classroom (I was nearly in stitches laughing out loud, after learning why he was nearly fired on two consecutive days, no less.). Frank manages to break every rule learned in his Education courses at New York University, but he succeeds in motivating his students, raising the craft of excuse note writing to a high literary art. He finds time too to fall in love with his first wife, Alberta Small, and then earn a M. A. degree in English from Brooklyn College.
Part II (Donkey on a Thistle) has the funniest tale; an unbelievable odyssey to a Times Square movie theater with Frank as chaperone to an unruly tribe of thirty Seward Park High School girls. But before we get there, we're treated to a spellbinding account of his all too brief time as an adjunct lecturer of English at Brooklyn's New York Community College, and of another short stint at Fashion Industries High School, where he receives a surprising, and poignant, reminder from his past. Soon Frank will forsake high school teaching, sail off to Dublin, and enroll in a doctoral program at Trinity College, in pursuit of a thesis on Irish-American literature. But, that too fails, and with Alberta pregnant, he accepts an offer to become a substitute teacher at prestigious Stuyvesant High School (The nation's oldest high school devoted to the sciences and mathematics; its alumni now include four Nobel Prize laureates in chemistry, medicine and economics; for more information please look at my ABOUT ME section, or at history at www.stuy.edu or famous alumni at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stuyvesant_High... or Notables at www.ourstrongband.org.).
Surprisingly, Part III (Coming Alive in Room 205) is the shortest section of "Teacher Man". After having spent fifteen years teaching at Stuyvesant High School, you'd think that this would be this memoir's longest section, replete with many tales rich in mirth (Room 205, located a few doors from the principal's office, was Frank's room throughout his years teaching full-time at Stuyvesant High School.). Indeed I'm surprised that it is so brief. Yet there is still ample fodder for Frank's lyrical prose to dwell on, most notably a hilarious episode on cookbooks and how he taught his creative writing class to write recipes for them. He describes with equal doses of hilarity and eloquence, his unique style of teaching at Stuyvesant, which he compares and contrasts with math teachers Philip Fisher and Edward Marcantonio - the dark and good sides of Stuyvesant mathematics education in the 1970s and 1980s (I was a student of both and will let the reader decide who was my teacher while I was a student in Frank's creative writing class.) - but he still implies that his students were having the most fun.
Will "Teacher Man" earn the same critical acclaim bestowed upon "Angela's Ashes"? Who knows? Is it deserving of it? I think the answer is a resounding yes. Regardless, Frank's many devout fans - his flock of McCourties - will cherish this book as yet another inspirational tale from the foremost memoirist of our time.
(EDITORIAL NOTE 7/22/09: Elsewhere online I posted this tribute to my favorite high school teacher, and I think it is worth noting here:
I've been fortunate to have had many fine teachers in high school, college and graduate school, but there was no one like Frank McCourt. Without a doubt, he was the most inspirational, most compelling, and the funniest, teacher I ever had. I am still grateful to him for instilling in me a life-long love of literature and a keen interest in writing prose. Am still amazed that he encouraged me to enter a citywide essay contest on New York City's waterfront, and would, more than a year later, in my senior yearbook acknowledge my second prize award by thanking me for winning him money (His was also, not surprisingly, the most eloquent set of comments I had inscribed in my yearbook from teachers.). He is gone now, but I am sure that for me, and for many of my fellow alumni of his Stuyvesant High School classes, he will live in our hearts and minds for the rest of our lives.)
(Resposted from my 2005 Amazon review)
February 24, 2008
I do not like this book. I thought, "He's a teacher, I'm a teacher. I should read it," and "He wrote 'Angela's Ashes' which people seem to like, so I'll read it." I wish I'd left it alone. I actually bought the book for someone else, but then I decided to read it myself and give her something else. I'm glad I didn't give it as a gift.
Frank McCourt was a high school teacher in New York and is an immigrant from......Ireland! He was actually born in America, but his family moves to Ireland, and he moves back again. His writing makes it sound like he's really full of himself. I don't have a thing in common with this guy, as a person or as a teacher. I am really happy I don't teach in a big city, though, and this book showed me that. McCourt seems quite self-obsessed in this book. I couldn't even finish it! I only made it to part 3, and it's been sitting on my dresser ever since, collecting dust.
Frank McCourt was a high school teacher in New York and is an immigrant from......Ireland! He was actually born in America, but his family moves to Ireland, and he moves back again. His writing makes it sound like he's really full of himself. I don't have a thing in common with this guy, as a person or as a teacher. I am really happy I don't teach in a big city, though, and this book showed me that. McCourt seems quite self-obsessed in this book. I couldn't even finish it! I only made it to part 3, and it's been sitting on my dresser ever since, collecting dust.
January 23, 2021
Me ha sorprendido mucho este libro de McCourt, puesto que hace años había intentado leer algo de este autor y no me gustó nada.
Me he sentido muy identificado con él, como profesor que soy y como emigrante. Me parece una lectura muy amena, que es fiel a los sucesos que vive un profesor en su día a día.
Muy recomendable, especialmente si te dedicas o quieres dedicarte a la docencia
Me he sentido muy identificado con él, como profesor que soy y como emigrante. Me parece una lectura muy amena, que es fiel a los sucesos que vive un profesor en su día a día.
Muy recomendable, especialmente si te dedicas o quieres dedicarte a la docencia
July 15, 2015
I tried to make it through this book, but couldn't. As endearing as a memoir about an Irish-immigrant teacher in New York sounded, I was put off by his at first minimal, and later building and consistent sexualization of young women in his classroom. To read descriptions of him, an at the time 27 year old teacher, admiring his 14-18 year old students' breasts, was inappropriate and nauseating. For him to THEN back it up explaining that it couldn't be helped given the young womens' appearances made me decide to put the book down for good. I've read enough books and seen enough movies to be tired and disgusted by the trope of the older male educator deriving sexual pleasure from his younger female students. I don't need to read a memoir about it. No thank you.
April 10, 2012
E' il primo libro di McCourt che mi capita di leggere, anche se Adelphi ne ha pubblicati altri due, sempre autobiografici. In questo l'autore si concentra sui suoi lunghi anni d'insegnamento nelle scuole superiori di New York. La prima parte è molto divertente, brillante, si simpatizza subito con questo "povero" professore costretto ad avere a che fare con branchi di alunni adolescenti senza controllo. La seconda parte è invece più frammentata, non so se fosse stanco di scrivere, ma sembra aver riunito alcuni ricordi su vari alunni e situazioni grottesche, educative, buffe, strazianti, e averle riunite in sequenza senza un filo logico molto lineare, ma merita di sicuro di essere letto.
January 25, 2017
The 3rd book of the Frank McCourt series is an inspiring book about his 30 year teaching career. It describes how he found his voice by teaching Creative Writing and all of the other classes he taught in the many different schools he taught. It was in the last school he taught as a teacher for creative writing, after 30 years of teaching, that was instrumental for him write his first highly popular book, Angela's Ashes about his childhood in Ireland. I recommend this book as part of the series of his life.
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