The poverty endured by the McCourts in Brooklyn, New York, in the 1930s, and then again in Ireland, is painful. Their rejections by family members, the impoverishing effects of the father's alcoholism, their humiliations when seeking help from charitable Catholic organizations, and the harsh treatment by Catholic clergy and schoolmasters are painful to read. I fear what I would be like if I was as oppressed as an African-American, or the Latinos and Italians of my youth, or most women. I fear I'd be very angry. The people of Ireland or America who dislike the raw quality of McCourt's storytelling, seem more offended by his words, his telling the story, than the actual cruel actions of others.
All humans live in a world of unfairness.
But I am not so poor as not to be rich enough myself that I too walk past poverty and admit I dislike the sight and smell of it. The McCourts and others lived it, and when they write about it, many of us are uncomfortable. I wonder what Christ would say. Tis continues the story of one family's pain while revealing the insensitivities of most of us. The college educated people, blind to the bathroom attendant, bus boy, gardener, or chamber maid.