[MUSIC PLAYING]
FRANK MCCOURT: I was writing the first 19 pages of the book about my mother and father meeting in New York, and having me, and then I made a note on the left page, about my earliest memory, which is being on a playground on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn, on a seesaw. And I wrote, I'm on a seesaw on Classon Avenue in Brooklyn. I wrote in the pres-- I wrote this note in the present tense. Unlike these first 19 pages, which are written in the past tense. I wrote-- I'm going to play-- I'm with my brother, Malachy. He's two, I'm three. So that's the present tense. Voice of the child. I didn't know what I was doing at that moment. The next day, I continue writing there, in that voice, and in the present tense. And I was home free, so to speak. I had the voice of the-- this is what I wanted. This is what I was looking for, subconsciously. And it just came. God or somebody sent me the voice, and I was on it. And that's where I felt comfortable with, that voice. Well, you can get a sense of its. It was in DePaul Dock. It was a pig's head, and my mother wanted something else besides a pig's head for Christmas. But the butcher takes the pig's head off his shelf. And when Malachy said, oh, look at the dead dog. The butcher and ma'am burst out laughing. He wraps the head in newspaper, hands it to ma'am and says, happy Christmas. Then he wraps up some sausages, and tells her, take these sausages for your breakfast on Christmas Day. Ma'am says, oh, I can't afford sausages. And he says, am I asking you for money? Am I? Take these sausages. They might help make up for the lack of a goose or a ham. Sure you don't have to do that, says ma'am. I know that Mrs. If I had to, I wouldn't. Ma'am say she has a pain in her back, that I'll have to carry the pig's head. I hold it against my chest. But it's damp. And when the newspaper begins to fall away, everyone can see the head. Ma'am says, I'm ashamed of me life, to the whole world will know we're having pig's head for Christmas. Boys from Limely School seen me, and they point and laugh. Ah, god, look at Frankie McCourtney's pig snout. Is that what the Yanks have for Christmas dinner, Frankie? One calls to another. Hey, Christie, do you know how to eat a pig's head. No, I don't, Paddy. Grab him by the ears and chew the face off of him. And Christie says, hey, paddy, you know the only part of the pig the McCourts don't eat? No, I don't, Christie. The only part they don't eat is the oink. After a few streets, the newspaper's gone altogether. And everyone can see the pig's head. His nose is flat against my chest, and pointing up at my chin, and I feel sorry for him, because he's dead, and the world is laughing at him. My sister and two brothers are dead, too, but if anyone laughed at them, I hit them with a rock. I wish dad would come and help us, because ma'am has to stop every few steps, and lean against the wall. She's holding her back, and telling us, she'll never be able to make it up Barrett Hill. Even if dad came, he wouldn't be much use, because he never carries anything, parcels, bags, packages. If you carry such things, you lose your dignity. That's what he says. He carried the twins when they were tired. And he carried the Pope's picture, but that's not the same thing as carrying ordinary things like pig's head. He tells Malachy and me that when you grow up, you have to wear a collar and tie, and never let people see you carry things.