The main thing I am interested in is my experience as a teacher.

“The main thing I am interested in is my experience as a teacher.” Thus declared Frank McCourt, whose life was shaped not only by the telling of stories but by the giving of knowledge. Though he gained renown as the author of Angela’s Ashes, he confessed that his deepest treasure was not fame nor awards, but the quiet, daily labor of standing before students and guiding their minds. In this statement lies the humility of a man who understood that glory fades, but the shaping of young souls endures beyond one lifetime.

To be a teacher is to enter into a covenant with time itself. The hours spent in a classroom may seem ordinary, yet each moment plants seeds that can grow into forests of thought, character, and courage. McCourt, who knew poverty and hardship in his youth, understood that the experience as a teacher is not measured in pay or prestige but in the invisible harvest that comes years later, when a student remembers a word, a lesson, a kindness, and allows it to change the course of their life. His words remind us that teaching is not simply an occupation, but a sacred calling, a shaping of destiny.

History gives us shining mirrors of this truth. Think of Socrates, who wrote no books, who sought no monuments, but who poured his whole being into conversations with the youth of Athens. He knew that his greatness lay not in being remembered himself, but in awakening thought in others—most notably in Plato, who would preserve and magnify his wisdom for generations. In the same way, McCourt’s words echo with this ancient wisdom: that the true wealth of a teacher is not in their own renown but in the lives they awaken.

The experience of teaching, as McCourt understood it, is also an experience of humility. The teacher does not always see the fruit of his labor. Students may leave the classroom indifferent, restless, or even rebellious. And yet, unseen, the seed lies within them. Years may pass before it bursts forth into life. This is why McCourt said his chief interest was not in fame as a writer, but in the simple, profound reality of having stood before students, day after day, pouring forth knowledge and hope. It is the same humility found in monks who copy scriptures by hand or in farmers who plant fields they may never harvest: the labor is done in faith, not for immediate reward.

But there is also heroism in these words. To say, “The main thing I am interested in is my experience as a teacher,” is to resist the lure of vanity, to place meaning above ambition. In a world that worships power and wealth, McCourt turned his gaze inward, cherishing the nobility of ordinary service. His example speaks with power to our age: that greatness is not always found in palaces or parliaments, but in classrooms, where one voice may ignite the light of a thousand.

The lesson is clear: let us honor our teachers, past and present, for they are the guardians of wisdom. And for those who themselves teach—whether children in schools, apprentices in trades, or even friends in daily life—let McCourt’s words remind you that your labor is not small. Cherish your experience. Reflect upon it. Let it be the source of your strength and the measure of your success.

And for you, listener, take practical steps: remember a teacher who shaped you, and offer them gratitude if you can. If you guide others, however humbly, approach it with reverence, knowing that your influence may outlive you. And above all, let your measure of life’s worth not be in possessions or recognition, but in the souls you have touched. For this is the wisdom of McCourt: that the richest legacy is not written in books or carved in stone, but in the hearts of those who have been taught to see, to think, and to hope.