22. Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt

Here's another book that has been sitting on my shelf forever and I never read. I have no idea what possessed me to finally pick it up last week, but I did. You should probably listen to this song while you read this post. Or this one — but the other one is definitely more relevant.

I'm not Irish, but growing up I always wanted to be because most of the kids in my Catholic elementary school were. On St. Patrick's day they'd come in with green stickers, shamrock pins, Irish sweaters, and Erin Go Bragh hats. St. Joseph's Day was the closest Italian equivalent, and — though we got delicious pastries — the two days certainly can't be compared. Also, I think freckles and red hair are beautiful, which I think played a roll.

But I can't say that I contemplated seriously about the history of Ireland until my senior year of high school, and even then, it was only because of a passing comment my teacher made — she said that the British taxes on grain could have been considered genocidal, since the Irish were dealing with the potato famine.

Actually, I take that back — junior year I read Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal" in an English class, so I guess I'd thought about it a little bit then too. But Ireland often seems like a historical footnote, the Irish constantly looked down upon by the English/British, struggling to survive.

In this memoir, Frank McCourt recounts his childhood; his parents both moved from Ireland to New York, met, procreated, got married. His father's an alcoholic, squandering his money and making his boys promise to die for Ireland. When his infant sister dies, Frank's parents move him and his three brothers back to Ireland.

There's lots of suffering to go around, but the depressing existence Frank endured is lightened by the childish humor he brings to the text. One year in school he must imagine what'd have happened if Jesus had been born in his city, and he concludes that it's a good thing He was born Jewish instead because in Ireland he'd have died of consumption and there'd be no Catholics.

Another great moment is also influenced by his school teachers, who constantly try to convince the boys that they ought to be willing to die for their faith:


"The master says it's a glorious thing to die for the Faith and Dad says it's a glorious thing to die for Ireland and I wonder if there's anyone in the world who wants us to live."

In Frank's Ireland, everyone is obsessed with death — what you're dying for, if anything. Your relatives who are constantly dying, from old women to small babies. Young Frank can't help but wonder why.

Frank also deals with Catholic guilt, which Jack Donaghy describes much more eloquently than I could... But it's both humorous and sad how so many people in Frank's life use religion as a means — a way to get kids to behave, to make money at your First Communion so you can go to the cinema. At the age of 10, Frank is hospitalized with typhoid fever and is punished by a nun in the hospital for talking to a girl in the room next door. God doesn't like platonic fraternization of 10 year-olds apparently — too much temptation...

Since it's a memoir, the book doesn't have a climax or anything; the miseries just pile unto each other until the book ends. And while it's an upsetting book to read — it's upsetting to read about any suffering, I think, especially suffering that actually happened/continues to go on today, though in different corners of the globe —, it was also extremely enjoyable.