Warming up: What does this expression mean to you ? flash your QR code and give 5 answers (words only).

The American Dream

 

 

                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Step 1

  • Now, watch this short clip and answer all the Wh- questions.
  • Make hypotheses about the protagonist's past and imagine his hopes for the future. [hint: the words in bold correspond to speaking tools] cf document attached

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Follow up work : in groups of two, imagine the character’s inner thoughts when he sees the Statue of Liberty.

 

Step 2: Reading

Now, read the beginning of Frank McCourt's memoir, Angela's Ashes.

See document attached

My father and mother should have stayed 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 on 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.

People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare with the Irish version: the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated  mother moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the terrible things they did to us for eight hundred long years.

Above all-we were wet.


Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle forever in Limerick. The rain dampened the city from the Feast of the Circumcision to New Year's Eve.It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic wheezes, consumptive croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges. It provoked cures galore; to ease the catarrh you boiled onions in milk blackened with pepper; for the congested passages you made a paste of boiled flour and nettles, wrapped it in a rag, and slapped it, sizzling, on the chest.


From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed  living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetations. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting in from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his week's wages.


The rain drove us into the church-our refuge, our strength, our only dry place. At Mass, Benediction, novenas, we huddled in great damp clumps, dozing through priest drone, while steam rose again from our clothes to mingle with the sweetness of incense, flowers and candles.


Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the rain

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