Ciao Frank!Non sono una recensitrice, non ho idea di cosa si scrive dietro una quarta di copertina per far sì che un libro - quantunque penoso - venga venduto a orde di lettori entusiasti, e il commento che seguito a scrivere è animato solo dal fatto che io non solo ho letto le tue parole, ma le ho fatte mie e le ho rese il mio insegnamento principale di vita.Ho letto 'Le ceneri di Angela' nel 2010, durante il mio secondo viaggio a Francoforte, una delle città che amo più al mondo, e all'inizio ti detestavo per quel modo così volgare e popolano che avevi di scrivere, poi ho capito, e non solo ho capito, ma ho anche divorato. Così, il 15 di Aprile, emozionatissima, ho acquistato 'Che paese, l'America' e 'Ehi, prof!', sperando di ritrovarti sincero, timido e maldestro come ti avevo lasciato quando ti sei imbarcato su la Quercia d'Irlanda che ti avrebbe portato a New York, la città dei tuoi sogni; ti ho lasciato che speravi di arrivare in America ed iniziare una nuova vita per dimenticare la merda dei bassifondi di Limerick, per dimenticare la tua infelice infanzia cattolica e irlandese con un padre che spendeva la paga in bevute, e una madre disperata che doveva far l'elemosina per crescere te e i tuoi tre fratelli.L'America, il paese della possibilità, dove chiunque può inventarsi un lavoro e reinventarsi, il paese che ti guardava male perché eri un americano, certo, fornito di visto e tutto il resto che la burocrazia ti imponeva, ma eri un irlandese trattino americano. L'Irlanda non la volevi più, l'America sembrava non volerti e così t'ha messo a fare i lavori più bassi, quelli riservati a chi ha smesso di sperare, che è venuto al mondo con due soldi e muore senza nemmeno uno, insomma quelli come te. Ma tu eri diverso, tu ti eri emozionato a leggere Shakespeare quando avevi il tifo, anche se non capivi quello che ti voleva dire, tu andavi a lavorare per riscattare una madre straziata da un marito, tuo padre, che pure non riuscivi a rifiutare, che lasciava i figli senza una briciola di pane pur di bere. Tu volevi studiare, volevi l'istruzione. E invece sei finito nell'esercito, perché dovevi combattere i 'musi gialli', dovevi combattere il comunismo di un paese capitalista, capitalismo di cui ti raccoglievi la cenere negli alberghi di lusso per avvocati, imprenditori, figli d'avvocati e imprenditori che potevano andare all'Università, magari un ateneo dell'Ivy League; ma anche in guerra non ti arrendevi, e non contro il nemico, ma contro il futuro, leggevi e sognavi di tornare a New York con i libri dell'università. E all'Università, ci sei entrato, anche senza il diploma, perché la tua forza di volontà era più forte della forza di un destino che sembrava volerti stroncare le gambe ad ogni passo in più che facevi. Subivi il razzismo, lo vedevi mentre veniva indirizzato agli altri, ti indignavi, ma rimanevi fermo sul tuo posto, ti sentivi tagliato fuori da un mondo in cui parlavano di esistenzialismo mentre tu per pagarti la retta e mantenere madri e fratelli rimasti a Limerick lavoravi ai magazzini, e ti spezzavi la schiena pur di ottenere quello che per te è il tesoro più grande, l'istruzione. L'istruzione, quella stessa istruzione che oggi i ragazzini si scocciano di raggiungere, ragazzini che a casa hanno tutto, e che pure non hanno voglia di istruirsi, di studiare, di spaccarsi il culo come hai fatto tu. Perché a loro l'istruzione la danno addirittura gratuita, e non se la prendono. Tu la volevi, anche a costo di pagarla cara. E sei arrivato ad insegnare, partendo dall'istituto tecnico per arrivare al liceo. Tu non facevi differenza, per te i tuoi alunni erano tutti importanti, che fossero ricchi o poveri, perché come ti diceva sempre il tuo maestro 'potrete anche essere poveri e avere le scarpe, ma la vostra mente sarà sempre un palazzo'. Così hai sopportato di tutto. A scuola, fuori dalla scuola. Ma non ti sei mai fermato. Sei partito dai bassifondi di Limerick con il sogno di fare l'insegnante e, anziché rinunciare, la moglie che voleva che tu facessi un altro lavoro per avere più soldi e comprare mobili Queen Ann l'hai mollata, hai continuato ad insegnare. Ed io, quando non ho più voglia, quando mi adagio, quando mi sento sfiduciata e mi dico che sto facendo tanto per niente, penso a te; che da piccolo dormivi in un letto pieno di pulci, hai visto tua madre scopare con suo cugino pur di farvi avere un tetto sopra la testa, hai rinunciato a tutto, leggevi in biblioteca, di nascosto, leggevi Dostoevskij e portavi le lettere, raccoglievi frutti di nascosto per mangiare, facevi lo scaricatore, il lavapiatti, qualsiasi cosa, pur di arrivare. Pur di insegnare, che era il tuo obiettivo. E quando penso che non ho voglia di studiare, penso che, così come tu ti sentivi in colpa nei confronti di Horace, il negro che sfidava il razzismo e lavorava in mezzo alle offese dei bianchi pur di mandare il figlio dell'università, io mi sentirei in colpa nei tuoi confronti. Che quelli come me, con i denti bianchi, il pasto pronto e le copertine belle dei libri, li invidiavi. Io ti ringrazio per aver messo nero su bianco le tue memorie, perché solo così ho aperto gli occhi; perché con te ho capito che se hai un obbiettivo, ci arrivi, anche se vivi in un appartamento di New York senza l'acqua e senza la corrente.Grazie, Frank.
My brother was the one who told me to read Frank McCourt’s 1996 Pulitzer-winning memoir Angela’s Ashes. It was one of the books that made me who am I today: a voracious reader. It took me 12 years before reading its 1999 sequel, ’Tis (short for “It is”). Reason: I wanted to let the cute and innocent boy Frank and his brothers Malachy, Michael and Alphie to stay as long as possible in my mind. I did not want them to grow up. I wanted to hold on to the image of those boys running and walking around the impoverished and dirty street of Limerick searching for coal and food. Angela’s Ashes struck me that much that I wanted the book’s memories to stay so I don’t want to imagine that those boys have grown up into men. In fact, when Frank McCourt (1930-2009) died two years ago (July 19, 2009), I did not want to hear about it. I neither read the article on the paper nor looked him up at the website. So both succeeding memoirs, ’Tis and Teacher Man (2005) had to wait. When I joined Goodreads in 2009, I added these books. One of my first friends Charles was reading these and he liked ’Tis so much that he also (same as his rating for Angela's)gave it a 5-star rating. I promised him that I would read this too but I still could not let go of Angela’s Ashes memories. My Peter Pan-like behavior still won over my promise. Then Charles had a hiatus in GR and I had another reason to bury these books at the bottom of my tbr heap of books. Last month, Charles suddenly popped up in GR after two years of absence. Worse, he also said that he would attend our group’s meet up so we will see each other face-to-face. How will I explain to him that I have not yet read ’Tis? So, I looked for this book. No need to romanticize the image of the McCourt boys. Wake up, K.D. and face the reality. People grow up, age and die. These are facts of life. Even if reading provides us the opportunity to create fictional worlds in our minds, facts are facts and Frank McCourt has long been dead.So, I picked up ’Tis and started reading. Oh I hated the first part. What? The boy Frank is now a young man at 19 years old and left Ireland on MS Irish Oak going to New York? I struggled accepting the truth and could not relate to his grown up experiences: almost becoming a sexual prey by a Catholic priest in a hotel, US Army in Europe as a Corporal, his visit back to Ireland, graduating from NYU despite not finishing high school and his first years as a teacher at McKee Vocational and Technical High School and the prestigious Stuyvesant High School where his secret came out: He is the teacher who never finished high school. The story still retains that old playful and childlike tone that I felt in love with in Angela’s Ashes. McCourt has this uncanny ability of making simple dialogues catchy and witty. His tongue-in-cheek comments about Catholic and sex are just outrageous and can put smile even during gloomy days at home. Gloomy because my daughter had an accident and she is now wearing a shoulder sling, my wife feeling so busy sending and fetching our injured daughter to and from her school, one of the maids is on vacation while the other one is 5-month pregnant with no husband.However, the second part of the book is awesome. Angela McCourt, the mother pays a visit to her sons in the US: Frank, now a high school teacher, Malachy, a bar owner, Michael, an American soldier and Alphie, living in Manhattan. Then when Angela dies in the US, she is cremated and her ashes are bought back to Ireland and was scattered in some tombs of famous people there. It explains the title of the first book as it reminds me that I had that question before in my mind.I am glad I finally read this book. Now, I can face Charles and say that I’ve read the book and we can talk about it. And during the discussion, I’ll bear in mind that all these things – the meet ups, the friends we make along the way, my daughter’s injury, my pregnant maid without a husband, etc – all these things will pass. What is important is how we live the present. And as they say, if you should do something, you might as well give it your best. 'Tis your best that you should give life. 'Tis.
What do You think about 'Tis (1999)?
Meh. Angela's Ashes was wonderful, lots of history mixed in with the memoir, and so emotionally engaging. This one was a lot more memoir and not so much history, and far too much detail about his sex life and frequent masturbation (though he does, amusingly, refer to the latter as "interfering with himself"). The beautiful Irish voice still comes through, so it's pleasant to read even when the subject matter becomes pedestrian, and there are a few brilliant moments: my favorite is when, as a first-time teacher struggling to teach English to a class of uninterested teens, he finds an old stash of essays the previous teacher had left in a closet. When these essays turn out to have been written by the kids' parents, uncles, cousins, etc., McCourt sets them to copying the decaying pages so they won't be lost--and connects the project to them by pointing out that their children might someday want to read about their lives. Based on this, I think McCourt's other book Teacher Man might be more my thing.
—Melissa McShane
Do I Detect an Irish Brogue? ;)I listened to this book as read by the Author. I recommend that, as I read Angela's Ashes and enjoyed it a lot as well, but there is something special about the reading by the author that adds a diminsion to the work that you can't quite catch reading it.Up front, many are uncomfortable with this work and Angela's Ashes because of the language, which is quite blue in places. I don't find it the most endearing quality myself, but as a memoir it captures the language of the army, the loading dock, the teachers lounge and the bar. Be warned up front, if you are not comfortable hearing swearing, then this is NOT the book for you.That having been said, listening to McCourt read, I caught the poetic, lyrical, stream of consciousness attributes that I knew were present in Angela's Ashes, but hearing the cadence, the lilting roll and flow of the language; there are parts of this book that come close to poetry. It is an amazing and endearing quality that is rarely achieved in most modern literature.McCourt has a rare transparency with his insecurity, his dysfunctional relationships, his family dynamics, his romance with his first wife and his transition to teaching and moving toward writing is very revealing and almost has a therapeutic value as you listen and can recognize the human condition in general.My one criticism, is that, perhaps, this book stretches a little long for the material he includes. The actual narrative events can be condensed to a very short story line. It is the embellishment, the thinking out loud and the dancing around in what becomes a farily discernible pattern by the end of the book to where, it "almost" becomes a little tedious, although this is faint criticism when weighed against the overall impact of the book.A very entertaining listen and read! It is hard to follow-up on a Pulitzer Prize. The goal is lofty and the expectations overwhelming. My opinion is this book does not surpass its progenitor, but it certainly comes close and provides more of the same type of reading and entertainment.I look forward to reading, and hopefully hearing the next installment.
—Bart Breen
A memorable read, an Irishman in New York. This is a sequel to Angela's Ashes. The start is one of the McCourt's eldest brother, coming into New York across the Atlantic to start a new life at the Big Apple. We are introduced to Irish culture in another land, the heartaches of work, the odd jobs to make ends meets, the bedsits, the education, marriage, and finally death. At times it is hilariously funny, at times poignant. We are introduced to books, authors, to the teaching profession and the pupils who are fed up with studying stuff they don't understand. You have to read to appreciate the sense of humour and life.
—Marwan Asmar
