As a little girl, the only things I knew about Ireland were the leprechaun, the shamrock and the color green.
I had always thought that the leprechaun was a cute little mythical creature in a green coat.
I was completely wrong because just some years later, I saw a different representation of a leprechaun--this time, in a horror movie.
That then made me ponder.
Why Ireland had chosen such an eerie creature to carry the Irish flag, my young mind would never understand.
I knew nothing more about this country and its culture for many years until...
Frank McCourt.
Ah, who could ever forget the author of "Angela's Ashes"? This riveting memoir tells the story of McCourt and his childhood while growing up in Limerick in deplorable living conditions.
An alcoholic father who didn't have regular employment, a mother who fell into depression after the death of her daughter, a miscarriage later on, and the subsequent death of her two sons, then two more babies afterwards, combined together make for the perfect melancholic novel.
Not to mention their family is dirt-poor, living in squalor, and the pub-loving father, the only income-earner, who only had the occasional odd job, drank away the money that was supposed to be for food.
The McCourts were so poor, Frank did not have decent shoes to cover his feet from Ireland's biting cold.
And he had to walk to school every day at that.
He was forced into child labor to bring food onto their usually empty plates.
While recuperating from typhoid fever at a hospital, young Frank was introduced to the works of Shakespeare.
This was where his love for the English language developed, and it was apparent from the start that he had a knack for it.
The whole novel is replete with sadness, anguish and suffering, yet Frank McCourt writes it with dignity.
It was just straightforward story-telling.
And you have to give it to him to make you cry and laugh on the same breath; it was just hysterical.
His humor is another story altogether.
Never in the whole book did Frank even insinuate any sort of hatred for his country of birth because in the face of such adversity, it was always love that brought Frank to eke out a living for his mother and siblings.
It was love that helped him survive with flying colors all the hardships that a young boy his age would not have been able to manage.
It was love that pushed him to go to the United States and carve a name for himself in the field of literature where he can show the whole world how a poor boy from his beloved Ireland can actually make it big someday.
I had always thought that the leprechaun was a cute little mythical creature in a green coat.
I was completely wrong because just some years later, I saw a different representation of a leprechaun--this time, in a horror movie.
That then made me ponder.
Why Ireland had chosen such an eerie creature to carry the Irish flag, my young mind would never understand.
I knew nothing more about this country and its culture for many years until...
Frank McCourt.
Ah, who could ever forget the author of "Angela's Ashes"? This riveting memoir tells the story of McCourt and his childhood while growing up in Limerick in deplorable living conditions.
An alcoholic father who didn't have regular employment, a mother who fell into depression after the death of her daughter, a miscarriage later on, and the subsequent death of her two sons, then two more babies afterwards, combined together make for the perfect melancholic novel.
Not to mention their family is dirt-poor, living in squalor, and the pub-loving father, the only income-earner, who only had the occasional odd job, drank away the money that was supposed to be for food.
The McCourts were so poor, Frank did not have decent shoes to cover his feet from Ireland's biting cold.
And he had to walk to school every day at that.
He was forced into child labor to bring food onto their usually empty plates.
While recuperating from typhoid fever at a hospital, young Frank was introduced to the works of Shakespeare.
This was where his love for the English language developed, and it was apparent from the start that he had a knack for it.
The whole novel is replete with sadness, anguish and suffering, yet Frank McCourt writes it with dignity.
It was just straightforward story-telling.
And you have to give it to him to make you cry and laugh on the same breath; it was just hysterical.
His humor is another story altogether.
Never in the whole book did Frank even insinuate any sort of hatred for his country of birth because in the face of such adversity, it was always love that brought Frank to eke out a living for his mother and siblings.
It was love that helped him survive with flying colors all the hardships that a young boy his age would not have been able to manage.
It was love that pushed him to go to the United States and carve a name for himself in the field of literature where he can show the whole world how a poor boy from his beloved Ireland can actually make it big someday.
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