Itas raining so hard one day, Miss OaRiordan the librarian says, Donat go out in that or youall ruin the books youare carrying. Sit down over there and behave yourself.You can read all about the saints while youare waiting.

There are four big books, Butleras Lives of the Saints. I donat want to spend my life reading about saints but when I start I wish the rain would last forever.Whenever you see pictures of saints, men or women, theyare always looking up to heaven where there are clouds filled with little fat angels carrying flowers or harps giving praise. Uncle Pa Keating says he canat think of a single saint in heaven head want to sit down and have a pint with.The saints in these books are different.There are stories about virgins, martyrs, virgin martyrs and theyare worse than any horror film at the Lyric Cinema.

I have to look in the dictionary to find out what a virgin is. I know the Mother of G.o.d is the Virgin Mary and they call her that because she didnat have a proper husband, only poor old St. Joseph. In the Lives of 285.

the Saints the virgins are always getting into trouble and I donat know why.The dictionary says,Virgin,woman (usually a young woman) who is and remains in a state of inviolate chast.i.ty.

Now I have to look up inviolate and chast.i.ty and all I can find here is that inviolate means not violated and chast.i.ty means chaste and that means pure from unlawful s.e.xual intercourse. Now I have to look up intercourse and that leads to intromission, which leads to intromittent, the copulatory organ of any male animal. Copulatory leads to copulation, the union of the s.e.xes in the art of generation and I donat know what that means and Iam too weary going from one word to another in this heavy dictionary which leads me on a wild goose chase from this word to that word and all because the people who wrote the dictionary donat want the likes of me to know anything.

All I want to know is where I came from but if you ask anyone they tell you ask someone else or send you from word to word.

All these virgin martyrs are told by Roman judges they have to give up their faith and accept the Roman G.o.ds but they say, Nay, and the judges have them tortured and killed. My favorite is St. Christina the Astonishing who takes ages to die. The judge says, Cut off her breast, and when they do she throws it at him and he goes deaf dumb and blind. Another judge is brought on the case and he says, Cut off the other breast, and the same thing happens. They try to kill her with arrows but they just bounce off her and kill the soldiers who shot them.

They try to boil her in oil but she rocks in the vat and takes a nap for herself.Then the judges get fed up and have her head cut off and that does the job. The feast of St. Christina the Astonishing is the twentyfourth of July and I think Iall keep that for myself along with the feast of St. Francis of a.s.sisi on the fourth of October.

The librarian says,You have to go home now, the rain is stopped, and when Iam going out the door she calls me back.She wants to write a note to my mother and she doesnat mind one bit if I read it.The note says,Dear Mrs.McCourt, Just when you think Ireland is gone to the dogs altogether you find a boy sitting in the library so absorbed in the Lives of the Saints he doesnat realize the rain has stopped and you have to drag him away from the aforesaid Lives. I think, Mrs. McCourt, you might have a future priest on your hands and I will light a candle in hopes it comes true. I remain,Yours truly, Catherine OaRiordan,a.s.st. Librarian.

286.

Hoppy OaHalloran is the only master in Leamyas National School who ever sits. Thatas because heas the headmaster or because he has to rest himself from the twisting walk that comes from the short leg.The other masters walk back and forth in the front of the room or up and down the aisles and you never know when youall get a whack of a cane or a slap of a strap for giving the wrong answer or writing something sloppy.

If Hoppy wants to do anything to you he calls you to the front of the room to punish you before three cla.s.ses.

There are good days when he sits at the desk and talks about America.

He says,My boys, from the frozen wastes of North Dakota to the fragrant orange groves of Florida,Americans enjoy all climates. He talks about American history, If the American farmer, with flintlock and musket, could wrest from the English a continent, surely we, warriors ever, can recover our island.

If we donat want him tormenting us with algebra or Irish grammar all we have to do is ask him a question about America and that gets him so excited he might go on for the whole day.

He sits at his desk and recites the tribes and chiefs he loves.Arapaho, Cheyenne, Chippewa, Sioux,Apache, Iroquois. Poetry,my boys, poetry.

And listen to the chiefs, Kicking Bear, Rain-in-the-Face, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and the genius, Geronimo.

In seventh cla.s.s he hands out a small book, a poem that goes on for pages and pages, The Deserted Village, by Oliver Goldsmith. He says that this seems to be a poem about England but it is a lament for the poetas native land, our own native land, Ireland.We are to get this poem by heart, twenty lines a night to be recited every morning. Six boys are called to the front of the room for reciting and if you miss a line you are slapped twice on each hand. He tells us put the books under the desks and the whole cla.s.s chants the pa.s.sage on the schoolmaster in the village.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew.

Full well the boding tremblers learned to trace The dayas disaster in his morning face.

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Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes for many a joke had he.

Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.

He always closes his eyes and smiles when we reach the last lines of the pa.s.sage, Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault.

The village all declared how much he knew.

aTwas certain he could write, and cipher too.

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, even though vanquished, he could argue still, While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around.

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.

We know he loves these lines because theyare about a schoolmaster, about him, and heas right because we wonder how one small head could carry all he knows and we will remember him in these lines. He says, Ah, boys, boys,You can make up your own minds but first stock them.

Are you listening to me? Stock your minds and you can move through the world resplendent. Clarke, define resplendent.

I think itas shining, sir.

Pithy, Clarke, but adequate.McCourt, give us a sentence with pithy.

Clarke is pithy but adequate, sir.

Adroit, McCourt.You have a mind for the priesthood, my boy, or politics.Think of that.

I will, sir.

Tell your mother come and see me.

I will, sir.

Mam says,No, I could never go near Mr.OaHalloran. I donat have a decent dress or a proper coat.What does he want to see me for?

I donat know.

Well, ask him.

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I canat. Heall kill me. If he says bring your mother you have to bring your mother or out comes the stick.

She comes to see him and he talks to her in the hallway. He tells her that her son Frank must continue school.He must not fall into the messenger boy trap. That leads nowhere. Take him up to the Christian Brothers, tell them I sent you, tell them he is a bright boy and ought to be going to secondary school and beyond that, university.

He tells her he did not become headmaster of Leamyas National School to preside over an academy of messenger boys.

Mam says,Thank you, Mr.OaHalloran.

I wish Mr.OaHalloran would mind his own business. I donat want to go to the Christian Brothers. I want to quit school forever and get a job, get my wages every Friday, go to the pictures on Sat.u.r.day nights like everyone.

A few days later Mam tells me give my face and hands a good wash, weare going to the Christian Brothers. I tell her I donat want to go, I want to work, I want to be a man. She tells me stop the whining, Iam going to secondary school and weall all manage somehow. Iam going to school if she has to scrub floors and sheall practice on my face.

She knocks on the door at the Christian Brothers and says she wants to see the superior, Brother Murray. He comes to the door, looks at my mother and me and says,What?

Mam says,This is my son, Frank.Mr.OaHalloran at Leamyas says heas bright and would there be any chance of getting him in here for secondary school?

We donat have room for him, says Brother Murray and closes the door in our faces.

Mam turns away from the door and itas a long silent walk home.She takes off her coat, makes tea, sits by the fire. Listen to me, she says.Are you listening?

I am.

Thatas the second time a door was slammed in your face by the Church.

Is it? I donat remember.

Stephen Carey told you and your father you couldnat be an altar boy and closed the door in your face. Do you remember that?

I do.

And now Brother Murray slams the door in your face.

I donat mind. I want to get a job.

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Her face tightens and sheas angry.You are never to let anybody slam the door in your face again. Do you hear me?

She starts to cry by the fire, Oh, G.o.d, I didnat bring ye into the world to be a family of messenger boys.

I donat know what to do or say, Iam so relieved I donat have to stay in school for five or six more years.

Iam free.

Iam thirteen going on fourteen and itas June, the last month of school forever. Mam takes me to see the priest,Dr.Cowpar, about getting a job as telegram boy.The supervisor in the post office,Mrs. OaConnell, says, Do you know how to cycle, and I lie that I do. She says I canat start till Iam fourteen so come back in August.

Mr. OaHalloran tells the cla.s.s itas a disgrace that boys like McCourt, Clarke,Kennedy, have to hew wood and draw water. He is disgusted by this free and independent Ireland that keeps a cla.s.s system foisted on us by the English, that we are throwing our talented children on the dungheap.

You must get out of this country, boys. Go to America, McCourt.

Do you hear me?

I do, sir.

Priests come to the school to recruit us for the foreign missions, Redemptorists, Franciscans, Holy Ghost Fathers, all converting the distant heathen. I ignore them. Iam going to America till one priest catches my attention. He says he comes from the order of the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic Bedouin tribes and chaplains to the French Foreign Legion.

I ask for the application.

I will need a letter from the parish priest and a physical examination by my family doctor.The parish priest writes the letter on the spot. He would have been glad to see me go last year.The doctor says,Whatas this?

Thatas an application to join the White Fathers, missionaries to the nomadic tribes of the Sahara and chaplains to the French Foreign Legion.

Oh, yeh? French Foreign Legion, is it? Do you know the preferred form of transportation in the Sahara Desert?

290.

Trains?

No. Itas the camel. Do you know what a camel is?

It has a hump.

It has more than a hump. It has a nasty, mean disposition and its teeth are green with gangrene and it bites. Do you know where it bites?

In the Sahara?

No, you omadhaun. It bites your shoulder, rips it right off. Leaves you standing there tilted in the Sahara. How would you like that, eh?

And what cla.s.s of a spectacle youad be strolling down the street, lopsided in Limerick. What girl in her right mind will look at an ex-White Father with one miserable scrawny shoulder? And look at your eyes.

Theyare bad enough here in Limerick. In the Sahara theyall fester and rot and fall out of your head. How old are you?

Thirteen.

Go home to your mother.

Itas not our house and we donat feel free in it the way we did in Roden Lane, up in Italy or down in Ireland. When Laman comes home he wants to read in his bed or sleep and we have to be quiet.We stay in the streets till after dark and when we come inside thereas nothing to do but go to bed and read a book if we have a candle or paraffin oil for the lamp.

Mam tells us go to bed, sheall be after us in a minute as soon as she climbs to the loft with Lamanas last mug of tea.We often fall asleep before she goes up but there are nights we hear them talking, grunting, moaning.There are nights when she never comes down and Michael and Alphie have the big bed to themselves. Malachy says she stays up there because itas too hard for her to climb down in the dark.

Heas only twelve and he doesnat understand.

Iam thirteen and I think theyare at the excitement up there.

I know about the excitement and I know itas a sin but how can it be a sin if it comes to me in a dream where American girls pose in swimming suits on the screen at the Lyric Cinema and I wake up pushing and pumping? Itas a sin when youare wide awake and going at yourself the way the boys talked about it in Leamyas schoolyard after Mr.OaDea roared the Sixth Commandment at us,Thou Shalt Not Commit Adul- 291.

tery, which means impure thoughts, impure words, impure deeds, and thatas what adultery is, Dirty Things in General.

One Redemptorist priest barks at us all the time about the Sixth Commandment. He says impurity is so grave a sin the Virgin Mary turns her face away and weeps.

And why does she weep, boys? She weeps because of you and what you are doing to her Beloved Son. She weeps when she looks down the long dreary vista of time and beholds in horror the spectacle of Limerick boys defiling themselves, polluting themselves, interfering with themselves, abusing themselves, soiling their young bodies, which are the temples of the Holy Ghost. Our Lady weeps over these abominations knowing that every time you interfere with yourself you nail to the cross her Beloved Son, that once more you hammer into His dear head the crown of thorns, that you reopen those ghastly wounds. In an agony of thirst He hangs on the cross and what is He offered by those perfidious Romans? A lavatory sponge plunged into vinegar and gall and thrust into His poor mouth, a mouth that moves rarely except to pray, to pray even for you, boys, even for you who nailed Him to that cross. Consider Our Lordas suffering. Consider the crown of thorns. Consider a small pin driven into your skull, the agony of the piercing. Consider then twenty thorns driven into your head. Reflect, meditate on the nails tearing His hands, His feet. Could you endure a fraction of that agony? Take that pin again, that mere pin. Force it into your side. Enlarge that sensation a hundredfold and you are penetrated by that awful lance. Oh, boys, the devil wants your souls. He wants you with him in h.e.l.l and know this, that every time you interfere with yourself, every time you succ.u.mb to the vile sin of self-abuse you not only nail Christ to the cross you take another step closer to h.e.l.l itself. Retreat from the abyss, boys. Resist the devil and keep your hands to yourself.

I canat stop interfering with myself. I pray to the Virgin Mary and tell her Iam sorry I put her Son back on the cross and Iall never do it again but I canat help myself and swear Iall go to confession and after that, surely after that, Iall never never do it again. I donat want to go to h.e.l.l with devils chasing me for eternity jabbing me with hot pitchforks.

The priests of Limerick have no patience with the likes of me. I go to confession and they hiss that Iam not in a proper spirit of repentance, that if I were Iad give up this hideous sin. I go from church to church looking for an easy priest till Paddy Clohessy tells me thereas one in the Dominican church whoas ninety years old and deaf as a turnip. Every 292.

few weeks the old priest hears my confession and mumbles that I should pray for him. Sometimes he falls asleep and I donat have the heart to wake him up so I go to Communion the next day without penance or absolution. Itas not my fault if priests fall asleep on me and surely Iam in a state of grace just for going to confession.Then one day the little panel in the confession box slides back and itas not my man at all, itas a young priest with a big ear like a seash.e.l.l. Heall surely hear everything.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, itas a fortnight since my last confession.

And what have you done since then,my child?