A Great Man of Letters
An interview with 2007 Commencement speaker Frank McCourt

By Rob Enslin

Frank McCourt was the keynote speaker at Syracuse University’s 2007 commencement, as well as recipient of an honorary degree, conferred upon him by Dean Cathryn Newton on behalf of The College of Arts and Sciences. The honor is one of many the 77-year-old author has received since publication of his first book, Angela’s Ashes, more than a decade ago. Raised in abject poverty in Ireland, McCourt spent 38 years as a New York City high school teacher before turning to a career in writing. Following the success of the novel, which won him the Pulitzer Prize and was adapted for the screen, McCourt wrote two more best-sellers: ‘Tis: A Memoir and Teacher Man. He is presently working on a variety of musical and literary projects, including the book Angela and the Baby Jesus, coming out in November.

At the beginning of Teacher Man, you discuss the importance of “doggedness.” How does this trait pertain to you?

It’s all I have. I developed it as a result of teaching. When I came over from Ireland, I was inverted, angry, shy, et cetera. The one thing I was certain about was not becoming a stereotypical Irish male, working in a bar or a police department, as many people told me I should have done.

What about the pitfalls of security and smugness, which you warned of at commencement?

They kill the sense of adventure. Kids watch too much television nowadays; they’ve got their iPods, cell phones, and everything else. I wonder when they dream. Kids used to sit around daydreaming. “Oh, he’s dreaming” [sarcastically]. That used to be a terrible thing. But now I think every kid who daydreams should be cherished and treasured.

Why is daydreaming important?

That’s where dreams flow, and the mind is loose and easy. When you’re a daydreamer, you’re also a dreamer.

Is storytelling a dying art?

I think it is, except for the fact that people love to talk. Good talkers—those who do witty talk—have declined. We’ve created an army of stand-up comics on television who point to what’s funny in life because we don’t see it ourselves. Because of our declining sense of humor and individuality, we need court jesters.

Has technology made us lazy?

Absolutely. I’ve never text-messaged anyone in my life, but I’ve seen my granddaughter do it, and the mangled language that comes through. I suppose the communication is quicker, but most of the stuff could be left unsaid.

Given your background, you presumably regard the printed word—and communication, in general—as sacred. Is this correct?

I think so, because we had nothing else as children. In my years in the classroom in New York, I found that once you got them going, students can talk. Teenagers demand honesty because they don’t get it anywhere else. They get lies from their parents, teachers, politicians, and the media, but all they want is honesty. I tried to create an environment in the classroom where there would be no repercussions and no retaliations, if students spoke their minds.

You’ve inspired thousands of students over the years. What did you learn from them?

To open up and be human. I was a typical Irish Catholic, very closed and uptight. The only time you confessed anything was to a priest. The rest of the time, you suffered and drowned your sorrows in drink.

In my first week of teaching, one of the kids asked me, “Yo, teacher. How come you never smile?” I wanted to explain that my teeth were lousy. The other reason was that I didn’t want to appear too easy.

You experienced unspeakable hardship as a child. Did your cloud ever have a silver lining?

It gave me material, didn’t it?

In hindsight, do you wish life had been easier?

I suppose so. As kids, my brothers and I were pretty miserable. The winter would come, and it was a horror. I don’t think I even came near in Angela’s Ashes to describing what it was like. Ireland was a great open sore, and we had to survive and dream about getting out of it.

I suppose there’s a fine line between joy and sorrow.

You need one to have the other. Growing up, we had to be content with little things—a loaf of bread and a half a pound of what we’d call “salty butter.” When my father would come home and tell us there’s no money, we began to give up. It was exciting to think about going away to America.

Who figured prominently in your development?

I had a teacher, Mr. O’Halloran, who said that there was nothing more precious than what is between our ears and that nobody could interfere with that. He also told us to get out and go to America—anywhere—because there was nothing for us in Ireland. He was the only teacher out of the eight I had who spoke to us in human terms. I remember that literature used to come alive with him.

Has education become less personalized?

No. There are hundreds and hundreds of teachers doing magnificent work, for which they get little credit. I was just reading in Time magazine about “no child left behind”; it was all about test scores, but not so much about teaching. It was like reading about surgery without mentioning the surgeons.

What should we be teaching our kids?

How to handle life. You have to make decisions, every minute of every day. We’re frightening kids with "no child left behind"—all this testing, testing, and testing. It doesn’t mean anything. And we’re downplaying subjects like history and art and music…

Things that encourage critical thinking…

…and dreaming. Watch out for those dreamers. They’re dangerous.

Did you ever feel like a writer trapped in a teacher’s body?

Yes, I was trapped. But I didn’t know enough to break out. I developed a style as a teacher, but I had no voice, whatsoever, as a writer. I imitated everybody else. I went through my Faulkner phase and my Sean O’Casey phase. I never went through a James Joyce phase, though. That would have been ridiculous.

Have you found your voice as a writer?

I’m still working on it.

What’s the hardest part about writing?

Knowing if I’ve written a true sentence or not. Hemingway used to talk about it. I knew that when I was writing Angela’s Ashes, I was hitting it. And I knew Teacher Man—parts of it—touched on things that had never been written before about teaching. 

Sometimes when I’m stuck, I write letters to people. Sometimes I send them, sometimes I don’t. They just get me going.

How has success changed your life?

People look at you differently. Even before I won the Pulitzer, my wife and I were once in a coffee shop and a woman came up to us and said, “I know you. Are you somebody? May I have your autograph?” She didn’t even know who I was. She had seen me on television but couldn’t quite place me.

Does the adulation bother you?

It’s an Irish characteristic and a writer’s characteristic to think that people are going to find out that you’re a fraud. But at the same time, you have this experience of writing a book, late in life, when other people are dying, sinking into rocking chairs, and giving up. If I had done just one book and died, I would have been content. Then came the second and the third books. But the first one—it was like having the first baby.

What’s your advice to someone writing a book?

Scribble. Just keep writing. It eventually takes shape. Arrange a Geiger counter over the hot spots, and you’ll find treasure.