The Bad Luck of the Irish

I recently enjoyed two books about Irish folk down in their luck: Betty Smith's novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Frank McCourt's memoirs Angela's Ashes.

Of course, these books have been around a while and are quite well known, but I only just read them. Both are so sad. When I say I "enjoyed" them, I mean that I thought they were well written, moving, honest stories. Both are about children of alcoholic fathers who fail to provide for their families. The mothers are overworked and tired. The children are hungry and cold. Both are coming-of-age stories in which the children grow and triumph over their impoverished circumstances.

Someone in my library class said that we read to know that "other people's lives are as crappy as our own." A sort of "catharsis" may occur when reading these books. I was reminded of how richly blessed my life is now and always has been (loving, responsible parents; cleanliness, food, and shelter; faithful husband; healthy children) as I "experienced" the situations described by Smith and McCourt.

Pursuing the American Dream--working hard in a land of opportunity to achieve a better life for oneself--delivers the protagonists in the end of both books.