My week began on a bittersweet nostalgic note: An evening of remembrance of the magical life of the brilliant Frank McCourt. Friends and family came from around the globe to pay tribute to the unique man who touched millions of lives through his teaching and writing and unmatchable wit.
Sadly, he lost his battle with a melanoma. His life was celebrated last Tuesday, October 6.
While we waited for the program to begin, several quotes were on the movie screen. I want to share my favorite one.
“If a child can’t learn the way we teach maybe we should teach the way they learn.” – Ignacio Estrada
I had the pleasure of knowing him through dear friend Malachy McCourt, Frank’s brother. It was during his years as a teacher at Stuyvesant High School that he was beloved for his unique ability of turning recalcitrant teenagers into talented writers.
That evening, at the packed Symphony Space on the Upper West Side, was led off by our soon-to-be King of Queens, chancellor of the New York City schools, Joel I. Klein. Frank had been a teacher in the city schools for decades and to a cheering crowd the chancellor announced that the city will create a school named for Frank. Its main mission will be to train students in writing and literature. What a fitting tribute.
The evening was broken up by the segments of Frank’s life; as a teacher; a chilling childhood growing up dirt poor in Limerick, Ireland and retiring from the school system and beginning his next life – as a writer – at 66 years old.
I had attended many parties where Malachy and Frank performed formally and informally a play they wrote, “A Couple of Blaguards.” In their telling the story of their family during the dark days of poverty, I never guessed he had all the material of writing Angela’s Ashes in his head. Interestingly, it wasn’t until he retired from teaching and his wife, Ellen, brilliantly guided, cajoled and encouraged him to write on paper what he had been speaking over the decades. How grateful we all are to her for her wisdom to do this.
His words, written in Angela’s Ashes, poetically tell it all and are a reminder to us that the human spirit, if nurtured, can survive anything; here’s a quote from the book:
“When I look back on childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood; the happy childhood is hardly worth our while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood; and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.”
How grateful I am that he did and I had the opportunity to be personally touched by him.
Then, in sharp contrast, I had a family filled perfect Sunday. I am blessed with three grandchildren from my daughters, and added to that is my husband Stu’s beautiful grandchildren. On Sunday, I got the privilege of my three-year-old Blake accompanying us to a football game that Stu’s grandson Sam was playing at the South Kent School in Kent, Connecticut.
He plays center for his school, Dalton, and they have games with other prep schools in the region. As an added bonus, his brothers Zac and Ben, Mom Mimi and Dad Jim were also there.
Kent is only two hours away and driving through the roads overflowing with trees in the golden shades of fall was an added bonus and helped deflect the crunch of the crawling traffic-filled parkways.
I think what sustained Frank McCourt is what I saw Sunday. These children are adored, loved, and repeatedly told they’re wonderful. Frank’s mom was an indomitable figure who wouldn’t be destroyed by an alcoholic husband who abandoned her with five children to care for during the dark days of Ireland’s famine.
When I saw Blake being hugged and adored by his cousins and his returning the affection my heart filled with joy and gratefulness. May the strength of the love they all give and get sustain them through the battles of life. I think the best gift we can give our children is telling them they’re loved.
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