Congratulate him on one of his books, or the fact that "Angela’s Ashes" had been turned into a Hollywood movie, and generally you’d be greeted with a wave of the hand. As if to say, thanks, but really, there are more important things to discuss.
Part of McCourt’s humility also must have been his understanding that it could all be taken away in an instant. Look what the poor fellow had been through already.
Since his death this past Sunday, praise has poured in from all over the world. This is, of course, fitting.
But if we are to credit Frank McCourt -- a lifelong teacher -- with anything, it should be that he taught us lessons about pleasant as well as not-so-pleasant things.
"Angela’s Ashes", for example, has taught an entire generation of readers this -- don’t expect much from your fellow man. Particularly the Irish ones. If you come across a kindred spirit or generous soul, consider yourself blessed.
But remember -- don’t expect much.
Case in point -- begrudgery knows no bounds. Are the Irish (including the American variety) the worst begrudgers on the planet? Maybe, maybe not.
But McCourt’s mere presence in a room one evening, a few years back, reminded me -- don’t expect much from your fellow man.
It was a book party in Manhattan. Poor McCourt got invited to so many of these events, and astonishingly managed to show up to almost every one.
I was chatting in a circle of Irish and Irish American scribes. Someone made a comment about McCourt’s appearance. There was a strange pallor, it seemed, to his face.
Now, it could have been the poor lighting in this room, which was basically a tricked-out leaky, basement. It could have been some temporary condition. It could have been the result of a rather well-documented impoverished upbringing.
“No way. The guy’s got makeup all over his face,” the gent next to me said.
“Are your kidding? The guy’s always ready to get his face in front of some camera. Give me a break.”
Worse, a couple of heads around me nodded in agreement.
Now, trust me, I consider myself one of the most bitter souls on the planet. But if you can’t muster some admiration for a guy who was born poor, endured the neglect of his father and deaths of several brothers, worked in the New York City school system for 30 years, and only then became a success, well then, brother, you are a champion begrudger.
And they aren’t the only ones. Remember the fine lads from Limerick who hosted an "Angela’s Ashes" book burning because they didn’t like the way McCourt depicted their home county?
So they -- proudly -- torched the book. Imagine if McCourt were, indeed, some self-centered jerk? They might have burned the man himself.
But again, one lesson of McCourt’s life and literature is that while we can’t avoid the bad folks, we needn’t let them dominate or define us. McCourt had to deal with snakes and phonies, but never let it dim his sense of humor.
I spent several hours, once, talking to McCourt as part of a planned book about the famous writer’s bar the Lion’s Head. He made it feel as if I’d spent years laughing alongside himself, Hamill and so many others.
McCourt remained an advocate for education, and particularly the central role teachers, rather than administrators, should play.
As a New York City public school teacher myself, I must confess that I didn’t always agree with McCourt. I’ve come across teachers who are far less reliable and immature than even the worst students.
But still, I envied McCourt’s passion and conviction. This was no act.
Neither, of course, was his humility. A few years back, there was a big Irish arts celebration in Washington, D.C. Festivities were held at the gleaming Kennedy Center. McCourt was among the hosts.
I was just a guy with a pen and notebook covering the event. Walking back to my hotel room on a steaming hot day, who do I see in tuxedo looking a bit lost, but Frank McCourt. He asked me for directions. We walked together, just two lads discussing books and life.
You know, the important things.
(Contact “Sidewalks” at [email protected])
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