{"product_id":"all-souls-isbn-9780807020531","title":"All Souls","description":"\u003cb\u003e“\u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e is the written equivalent of an Irish wake, where revelers dance and sing the dead person’s praises. In that same style, the book leavens tragedy with dashes of humor but preserves the heartbreaking details.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eA 25th anniversary edition of the National Bestselling memoir, with a new afterword from Michael Patrick MacDonald,  takes us deep into the South Boston housing projects during one of the city's most tumultuous times in history and tells the story of his family struggling the overcome the poverty, crime, addiction, and incarceration that overtook the neighborhood.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA breakaway bestseller since its first printing, \u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e takes us deep into Michael Patrick MacDonald’s Southie, the proudly insular neighborhood with the highest concentration of white poverty in America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRocked by Whitey Bulger’s crime schemes and busing riots, MacDonald’s Southie is populated by sharply hewn characters. We meet Ma, Michael’s mini-skirted, accordian-playing, single mother who endures the deaths of four of her eleven children. And there are Michael’s older siblings Davey, sweet artist-dreamer; Kevin, child genius of scam; and Frankie, Golden Gloves boxer and neighborhood hero whose lives are high-wire acts played out in a world of poverty and pride.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNearly suffocated by his grief and his community’s code of silence, MacDonald tells his family story here with gritty but moving honesty. \u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e is heartbreaking testimony to lives lost too early, and the story of how a place so filled with pain could still be “the best place in the world.”\u003ci\u003eAuthor’s Note\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e1. All Souls’ Night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2. Freedoms\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e3. Ghetto Heaven\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e4. Fight the Power\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e5. Looking for Whitey\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e6. August\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e7. Holy Water\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e8.  Stand-Up Guy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e9. Exile\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e10. Justice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e11. Vigil\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAfterword\u003cbr\u003eAcknowledgments\u003c\/i\u003e[A] rare and compelling book . . . Highly passionate.—Liam Ford, \u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"His anecdotes have the searing power of a redeemed sinner's fiery sermon. His swift, conversational style sweeps you into his anger and sorrow. He is a born rabble-rouser whose emotional power numbs the reader's reason.\"—Charles Carberry, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e is a memoir filled with desperation and despair, but there is also hope in it . . . MacDonald's discovery of his vocation in neighborhood activism is a refreshing change from most memoirs, which so often . . . are largely concerned with describing an ascent to celebrityhood.\" —Julian Moynahan, \u003ci\u003eNew York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Michael Patrick MacDonald takes us on a heartbreaking tour of his South Boston family.\" —Frank McCourt, \u003ci\u003eIrish America Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An incendiary, moving book that startles on nearly every page . . . MacDonald's nimble prose and detailed recall of grim times long past make for luminous reading; his hard-won conception of how ghettoized poverty spawns localized violence, and the dignity he brings to lives snuffed out in chaos, gives \u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e a moral urgency usually lacking in current memoir or crime prose. A remarkable work.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews, \u003c\/i\u003e starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e leavens tragedy with dashes of humor but preserves the heartbreaking details.\"—Brent Staples, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you were charmed by Frank McCourt's Angela's Ashes but wished at times the author would have got out of the way of his own beguiling style, try \u003ci\u003eAll Souls: A Family Story from Southie,\u003c\/i\u003e Michael Patrick MacDonald's guileless and powerful memoir of precarious life and early death in Boston's Irish ghetto.\"—R. Z. Sheppard, \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A must read . . . \u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e is poised to become one of the most significant Irish American books of the era.\"—\u003ci\u003eIrish Edition\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Time may take away a lot of things, but it can't take away our stories. Twenty-five years ago Michael Patrick MacDonald wrote one for the ages.\u003ci\u003e All Souls\u003c\/i\u003e is a book that you will carry everywhere, most especially in that eternal rag and bone shop of the heart.”\u003cbr\u003e—Colum McCann, author of \u003ci\u003eAmerican Mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This extraordinary book is so many things at once. A tender, shocking yet at times hilarious account of a beleaguered family and community; a scorching indictment of the forces that conspired against them; an elegy to lost brothers; a rallying call to hope. It is hands down the best memoir I have ever read.”\u003cbr\u003e—Louise Kennedy, author of \u003ci\u003eTrespasses\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“An honest, piercing tale—once you read it, you will never look at our country the same way.”\u003cbr\u003e—Geoffrey Canada, author \u003ci\u003eof Fist Stick Knife Gun\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"MacDonald has a gift for narrative, an eye for social detail, and a voice of earned authenticity.\"\u003cbr\u003e—Jack Beatty, Author of \u003ci\u003eThe Rascal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eMichael Patrick MacDonald\u003c\/b\u003e grew up in South Boston’s Old Colony housing project. After losing four siblings and seeing his generation decimated by poverty, crime, and addiction, he became a leading Boston activist, helping launch many antiviolence initiatives, including gun-buyback programs. He continues to work for social change nationally, collaborating with survivor families and young people.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMacDonald won the American Book Award in 2000 and has written numerous essays for the \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e Op-Ed Page. His national bestseller, \u003ci\u003eAll Souls\u003c\/i\u003e, and his follow-up, \u003ci\u003eEaster Rising: A Memoir of Roots and Rebellion\u003c\/i\u003e have been adopted by university curriculums across the country.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003eFrom Chapter 5: “Looking for Whitey”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother one to make you a slave.’’ that’s what Nana said to Ma,  looking at Seamus in the nursery at St. Margaret’s Hospital. Ma just  laughed at her. She’d never gotten along with her mother—Ma said she was  old-fashioned—and there was no sense in trying to relate now. Nana and  Grandpa hadn’t even known Ma was pregnant until she went into labor. Ma  kept it from them, knowing they’d judge her and her baby since she  wasn’t married to Coley. She just wore big coats and held her big  leather pocketbook in front of her stomach whenever she went to their  house, among those lace curtain Irish neighbors in West Roxbury. Nana  and Grandpa knew about me being illegitimate, but they never mentioned  it, since most of their friends from Ireland thought that I’d come from  Ma’s marriage to Mac—‘‘a bad marriage but a marriage before God  nonetheless,’’ as Father Murphy said. I was close to Nana; she was my  godmother and had been Patrick’s godmother too, so she took a special  liking to me. I just had to brush off the bad things she said about Ma,  and now I had to ignore her frowning gaze at Seamus. To make things more  confusing for Nana and Grandpa’s Irish friends, Ma gave Seamus the last  name King, from her short marriage to Bob King, whom they’d barely met.  She had to put some name on the birth certificate; she knew welfare  would never find Bob King, since he was probably homeless; and even  though she’d gotten back together with Coley, we couldn’t be sure he’d  stick around for too long. Ma was looking out for us again, making sure  our welfare check wouldn’t be cut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll I knew was that I was thrilled to come straight home from St.  Augustine’s every day to see my little brother. I remember how clean and  fresh he smelled even when he spit up on my shoulder. I was tired of  all the battles, the rock throwing and the protests, and I was excited  to be around something so new as Seamus. I just wanted to protect him,  to keep him as fresh as the day he was born; and I became aware of how  hard that might be when I started to take him out for a push around the  front courtyard of Patterson Way, with all the buckled-up concrete  catching the carriage wheels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMa liked me to take him outside every day after school. She always  complained that the air in our apartment was bad for kids, with the  smell of cockroach exterminator and the radiators going full blast even  on a warm Indian summer afternoon. It seemed as if all the kids in the  neighborhood had asthma. I’d walk Seamus in circles, around and around,  on the beaten-up cement out front. The women on the stoop followed me  with their eyes. I kept count so I could tell Ma how many times I’d  pushed him around. ‘‘That’s twenty-nine times already!’’ I’d yell up to  Ma. ‘‘Keep going,’’ she’d say from the window, ‘‘the air’s good for  him.’’ I liked minding Seamus, but everyone wanted to come and look at  him and smile in his face. Chickie was friendly to us now, and one time  she came up to us, fixing Seamus’s blanket in a motherly way, and  yelling up to Ma that all Ma’s kids looked like movie stars. Then she  started talking baby talk. ‘‘Hiyaaa, hiyeee sweetie,’’ she sang, in the  sweetest softest voice I’d ever heard coming out of her mouth. I started  to see how babies did that to people, changed their voices and  everything, no matter how mean or tough they seemed right before they’d  laid eyes on the baby. Skoochie came by to show me the baby clothes  she’d stolen downtown, taking them out of bags and sizing them up  against Seamus, lying in his carriage. I sent her up to Ma, and she soon  came back downstairs, folding up her empty bags. With Ma’s money in her  hand, she called over to some teenagers I’d heard were selling pills. I  just kept walking in circles, watching the action in the streets. Kids  my age would ask if they could push the carriage, and when I let them  they’d start running fast right off the curb toward the traffic—for some  excitement, I guess. That kind of stuff made me frantic and nearly got  me into a few fistfights, but everyone usually backed down from me,  since the kids in the neighborhood were still afraid of my big brothers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe worst thing about minding Seamus was when I’d hear a neighbor  down the street calling someone a douchebag or a cunt. I couldn’t  believe they’d say those words in front of a baby. Of course, they  didn’t think they were doing it in front of a baby—they were down the  street. I half realized that since Seamus was only a few weeks old  anyway, it probably didn’t matter what he heard; and when they’d come up  to the carriage the same people who’d just called someone a douchebag  would start talking baby talk to him and tucking in his blanket. But I  couldn’t help worrying for Seamus, with his fresh clean baby smell and  brand-new terry cloth baby suits, in the middle of all this anger and  confusion and drug dealing and fighting. I still loved our world of Old  Colony, but I wasn’t always so sure about that now that I had a little  brother to wheel around the broken-up courtyards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter Seamus was born, the Boston Housing Authority broke down one of  our walls for us, adding a second apartment. Only three families in Old  Colony had a ‘‘breakthrough’’ apartment. Ma had pulled a few strings  with the local politicians she’d met by volunteering for the South  Boston Information Center and by playing the accordion at political  fundraisers. We were the envy of the neighborhood now, with ten rooms in  all, including two kitchens and two bathrooms. We had so much space  that Ma had to start collecting furniture from the dumpster to fill up  the house. I’d yell out the window to Ma, begging her to stop going  through the dumpster, pulling out chairs. I didn’t want anyone to see  her. My friends all bragged about their expensive living room sets  stolen from the backs of trucks. But she’d just play it up, dragging  some contraption behind her up three flights of stairs, ‘‘Look at this  beautiful recliner!’’ It was really a lawn chair that one of the ladies  on the stoop had left outside, expecting it to still be there when she  got back. I was always afraid to let friends in the house, because they  might find something that they’d thrown in the trash or just left  outside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe had it made now. Most of us had our own bedroom, and I had a  feeling we would be in Old Colony forever. Ten fully furnished rooms  with wall-to-wall green, blue, and orange shag rugs; free heat, light,  and gas; Skoochie’s designer-label clothes for a quarter the price; all  the excitement right out our front windows—‘‘Scenes better than anything  on the TV,’’ Ma said—and the thrill of being on the inside of the  exclusive world of Old Colony. We were privileged. And even though I was  still a little worried for Seamus, I could convince myself, like  everyone else, that we were in a superior kingdom.","brand":"Beacon Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303658475749,"sku":"NP9780807020531","price":18.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780807020531.jpg?v=1767721289","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/all-souls-isbn-9780807020531","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}