Book Review: "Angela's Ashes"
Niki Hampton
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This absolutely riveting memoir by Frank McCourt is a heart-wrenching tale of his family's coming to America from Ireland, during the Depression, and then moving back to Ireland after a string of tragedies. He takes us back to a time of severe racism towards immigrants and a time when the problems o 
f today are the shames of yesterday.
Frank grew up in a time of hatred from "Americans" because of their immigration from Europe. Also, being a child of an alcoholic, a disease not yet recognized in that time, especially among the Irish, Frank was constantly disappointed in his father and trying to hold his poor mother together.
He was very poor and often the victim of senseless bullying and patronizing. Though all this is going on in his very young life, you find an incredible strength in little Frank that is unexpected and empowering to the spirit.
He starts the book with these words:
My father and mother should have staying in New York where they met and married and where I was born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver and Eugene, barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.
When I look back at my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
When I first read those words it changed everything I thought about my own life and the experiences I had been through. I take a moment to understand and empathize with those that are in circumstances beyond their control and worse yet, beyond their understanding.
While hard to read at first because of the dialect that runs throughout the book, once you get into the flow of it, you feel as if you are having an intimate conversation with Frank McCourt himself.
Frank grew up in a time of hatred from "Americans" because of their immigration from Europe. Also, being a child of an alcoholic, a disease not yet recognized in that time, especially among the Irish, Frank was constantly disappointed in his father and trying to hold his poor mother together.
He was very poor and often the victim of senseless bullying and patronizing. Though all this is going on in his very young life, you find an incredible strength in little Frank that is unexpected and empowering to the spirit.
He starts the book with these words:
My father and mother should have staying in New York where they met and married and where I was born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver and Eugene, barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.
When I look back at my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
When I first read those words it changed everything I thought about my own life and the experiences I had been through. I take a moment to understand and empathize with those that are in circumstances beyond their control and worse yet, beyond their understanding.
While hard to read at first because of the dialect that runs throughout the book, once you get into the flow of it, you feel as if you are having an intimate conversation with Frank McCourt himself.