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Vorschlag B1

Life in the Ireland and the USA

Der vorliegende Vorschlag enthält in Aufgabe 3 alternative Arbeitsanweisungen.
1
Outline what the reader learns about Frank McCourt's biography and the circumstances of his life in Ireland and the USA. (Material 1 und Material 2)
(30 BE)
2
Examine Frank McCourt's images of Ireland and the USA, his experiences and his attitude towards both countries, also taking into account language and stylistic devices.
(40 BE)
3
Choose one of the following tasks:
3.1
"The immigrant's heart marches to the beat of two quite different drums, one from the old homeland and the other from the new. The immigrant has to bridge these two worlds, living comfortably in the new and bringing the best of his or her ancient identity and heritage to bear on life in an adopted homeland." (Mary McAleese, former Irish president, 1997-2011)
Comment on this statement, taking into account the experience of Frank McCourt and other American immigrant experiences dealt with in class.
(30 BE)
or
3.2
"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know." (Material 2)
As a journalist of the New York Times, you are asked to write an article for a special edition on "The Immigrant Experience". Write an article on immigration to the USA assessing the quote, referring to material dealt with in class.
(30 BE)
Material 1

Frank McCourt: Childhood in Limerick (1996)

In his memoir "Angela's Ashes", Frank McCourt presents his childhood in Ireland. The following excerpt takes place in the 1930s.
1
My father and mother should have stayed in New York where they met and married and where I was
2
born. Instead, they returned to Ireland when I was four, my brother, Malachy, three, the twins, Oliver
3
and Eugene, barely one, and my sister, Margaret, dead and gone.
4
When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable
5
childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable
6
childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.
7
People everywhere brag and whimper about the woes of their early years, but nothing can compare
8
with the Irish version; the poverty; the shiftless loquacious alcoholic father; the pious defeated mother
9
moaning by the fire; pompous priests; bullying schoolmasters; the English and the terrible things they
10
did to us for eight hundred long years.
11
Above all – we were wet.
12
Out in the Atlantic Ocean great sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up the River Shannon and settle
13
forever in Limerick. The rain dampened the city from the Feast of the Circumcision to New Year’s
14
Eve. It created a cacophony of hacking coughs, bronchial rattles, asthmatic wheezes, consumptive
15
croaks. It turned noses into fountains, lungs into bacterial sponges. [...]
16
In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced
17
with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting in from the
18
outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his week’s wages.
19
The rain drove us into the church – our refuge, our strength, our only dry place. At Mass, Benediction,
20
novenas , we huddled in great damp clumps, dozing through priest drone, while steam rose again from
21
our clothes to mingle with sweetness of incense, flowers and candles.
22
Limerick gained a reputation for piety, but we knew it was only the rain.
Frank McCourt: Angela's Ashes, New York 1996, S.9-10
Material 2

Frank McCourt: Emigration (1999)

Frank McCourt's memoir "'Tis" is about his emigration to the USA. He left Ireland in 1949. In this passage he is on the ship taking him to New York.
1
Then the peculiar thing would happen. I’d sit on a deck chair in a lovely October sun with the
2
gorgeous blue Atlantic all around me and try to imagine what New York would be like. I’d try to see
3
Fifth Avenue or Central Park or Greenwich Village where everyone looked like movie stars, powerful
4
tans, gleaming white teeth. But Limerick would push me into the past. Instead of me sauntering up
5
Fifth Avenue with the tan, the teeth, I’d be back in the lanes of Limerick, women standing at doors
6
chatting away and pulling their shawls around their shoulders, children with dirty faces from bread and
7
jam, playing and laughing and crying to their mothers. I’d see people at Mass on Sunday morning
8
where a whisper would run through the church when someone with a hunger weakness would collapse
9
in the pew and have to be carried outside by men from the back of the church who’d tell everyone,
10
Stand back, stand back, for the lovea Jaysus. [...] I’d sit on that deck chair and look into my head to
11
see myself cycling around Limerick City and out into the country delivering telegrams. I’d see myself
12
early in the morning riding along country roads with the mist rising in the fields and cows giving me
13
the old moo and dogs coming at me till I drove them away with the rocks. I’d hear babies in
14
farmhouses crying for their mothers and fathers whacking cows back to the fields after the milking.
15
And I’d start crying to myself on that deck chair with the gorgeous Atlantic all around me, New York
16
ahead, city of my dreams where I’d have the golden tan, the dazzling white teeth. I’d wonder what in
17
God’s name was wrong with me that I should be missing Limerick already, city of gray misery, the
18
place where I dreamed of escape to New York. I’d hear my mother’s warning, The devil you know is
19
better than the devil you don’t know.
Finally he arrives in New York and he finds a job cleaning the lobby of a hotel.
20
New York was the city of my dreams but now I’m here the dreams are gone and it’s not what I
21
expected at all. I never thought I’d be going around a hotel lobby cleaning up after people and
22
scouring toilet bowls in the lavatories. How could I ever write my mother or anyone in Limerick and
23
tell them the way I’m living in this rich land with two dollars to last me for a week, a bald head and
24
sore eyes, and a landlady who won’t let me turn on the light? How could I ever tell them I have to eat
25
bananas every day, the cheapest food in the world, because the hotel won’t let me near the kitchen for
26
leftovers for fear the Puerto Ricans might catch my New Guinea infection? [...] When you’re in
27
Ireland it’s hard to believe there are poor people in America because you see the Irish coming back,
28
Returned Yanks they’re called, and you can spot them a mile away with their fat arses waggling along
29
O’Connell Street in trousers too tight and colors you’d never see in Ireland, blues, pinks, light greens,
30
and even flashes of puce. They always act rich [...].
31
It’s magic to go back to Limerick in my mind even when it brings the tears. It’s hard to pass through
32
the lanes of the poor and look into their houses and hear babies crying and women trying to start fires
33
to boil water in kettles for the breakfast of tea and bread.
Frank McCourt: 'Tis New York 1999, S.13-15, 49-51

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