Ireland in the 1930s and 1940s was a poor place. Their hate for the English had been simmering after centuries of oppression as the English extracted all the food and wealth from the smaller Irish nation and left the locals with nothing. Despite this reality, many Irishmen went to England for work and better wages. Frank McCourt’s father went, and instead of sending the money home to his wife and four kids, he spent it on the drink.
With an absent father, his mother begged in the streets. She asked the local church for whatever they could spare and often came home empty handed. Without coal for the fire, the family spent many nights cold and hungry. She had seven children, four of whom survived to adulthood; the twins died at two and the lone baby girl didn’t make it six months. Her own mother hated her for marrying a man from North Ireland and having his children and never let her forget it. Her sister was bitter and selfish.
Throughout his childhood, Frank McCourt was hungry all the time and his physical growth was stunted from malnutrition. Breadcrumbs were priceless. Many of his teeth were rotting and falling out of his mouth, he barely survived typhoid fever, and he lived many years of his life with an eye infection that gave him blurry vision. He had one set of clothes; the ones he was wearing. He slept under newspaper and used the walls of his house for firewood. He shared a bed with his family and also a family of fleas. He was beaten at school by his teachers for insubordination.
Frank also loved to go to the cinema on the weekends and he gorged on toffees when he had an extra penny. He was proud to take care of his younger brothers when his mother and father could not. He loved to read, and had excellent hand writing—known as having a “fine fist.” Despite his bleak circumstances, he found opportunities to play.
His writing is innocent, just like a young boy would be growing up in a confusing world, and as he relates his story, he comes across as a very curious youngster. However, asking questions of his elders was frowned upon, and he was often left to wonder about the mysteries of life. Mysteries like: why is my dad an alcoholic while others aren’t? is it a sin to steal food if I’m starving? and why did the twins die when they were only two years old?
The book is captivating, heart-wrenching, and funny. It’s a great reminder that no matter how bad you think your life is, someone else’s life is harder, and even Frank McCourt’s story echo’s this sentiment: there were many families worse off than his. McCourt was lucky enough to have shoes while some kids went barefoot every day, even in the winter. He also had enough food to survive to adulthood. Other kids did not.
Reading this book made me laugh, cry, and ultimately feel grateful for the things that I have.
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