Review: Katriona O’Sullivan’s “Poor”
Poor by Katriona O’Sullivan. Penguin Random House, 2023. €13.99, 287 pages.
“But ‘poor’ for me was also feeling like I had no worth. It was poverty of mind, poverty of stimulation, poverty of safety and poverty of relationships. Being poor controls how you see yourself, how you can trust and speak, how you see the world and how you dream.”
Poor is an autobiography which follows Katriona’s life through poverty, addiction and teen pregnancy through to university and life beyond. To be honest, had I not been reviewing this book it never would have been one I picked up by choice. I heard this book described as “inspiring” and “empowering”, “a tale of overcoming”. Great. More of the infamous ‘inspiration porn’ we’ve become so obsessed with. “Inspiring”, “empowering”: words often used when we want to feel better about our own lives, or guilty that we’re not working hard enough. I mean if they can overcome it with all they went through what are you doing? Great.
In this case I am quick to admit that I wrongly judged a book by its cover—its jarringly bright yellow cover. This was not the Cinderella rags-to-riches story I anticipated; it was better, real. Katriona honestly depicts the reality of addiction, poverty and the “pockets of sunshine” in between.
The book begins with Katriona’s dad in hospital, cancer. The doctor claims if he gave up smoking, he could beat it. Once over the necessary line, Tony, her dad, pulls out a cigarette. Katriona acknowledges that she would be the only one to rise out of this. “Just me. Just me. Just me. And that is the saddest thing I ever knew.”
In three short pages Katriona sets us up for what will be a common theme throughout the book: her relationship with her parents was complicated. While often filled with moments of rage, anger and frustration for how her parents failed her, Katriona shows us the harsh reality: they were all victims of a broken system and judgemental society.
The book was written simply; the language was never convoluted or philosophical as these kinds of books often are. It was an easy read, despite its harrowing content. Katriona’s ability to convey a message throughout her story telling is brilliant. Katriona’s choice of words, while so simple and easy to read, perfectly tell you exactly what she wants you to know. We are introduced to her parents initially as “dad” and “mum” in the early stages before they become just “Tony” and “Tilly”. Two people. Two addicts. Throughout the book, I both hated them and felt sorry for them as they fell short of parenthood but clearly loved Katriona. Her choice in words alone depicted this brilliantly before the story ever did. Similarly, the disconnected between her and her baby sister was depicted by only ever referred to her as “the baby” despite her brothers being referred to by name.
Her relationship with her mum, Tilly, was particularly complicated, yet understanding. From the second chapter we see Tilly use her children to feed her addiction instead of watching by the door like Katie’s mum. At age 7 Katriona told Tilly that her uncle had raped her, to which she responded “yeah... well he raped me too”. What the fuck— I think at that point I couldn’t help but say it out loud. What kind of mother does that? The next chapter opens and Katriona sets things straight:“The thing is, I love my mother. Let me start there... She just didn’t know how to love me.” It was Complicated. Her mother while albeit not the best, was a victim: a victim of men, of the system, a victim of circumstance.
In my first-year criminology lecture I heard about the concept of double criminality for the first time. The concept that women are often penalised more for the same crimes or wrongdoings as men. They are not only seen to have broken the law or moral code, but their role as woman and mothers. I think this is what Katriona so excellently portrayed throughout her book. It was subtle, told through each story and memory she shared and as a reader you could see it, feel it. In the end Katriona notes that many credit her dad for her success, her brains, but it was her mother’s ability to tell anyone to “fuck off” that really gave her strength. Her mother needed help, not persecution: Katriona made that clear.
Notably, the book was ghostwritten, which would seem odd for an autobiography. I listened to the book in audiobook format, narrated by Katriona herself. The experience felt incredibly personal as Katriona told her story, imitating each voice that spoke, struggling to tell the hard parts and overall speaking in her own dialect. I would not have noticed it was ghostwritten, and Katriona’s honesty and storytelling are some of the greatest highlights of this book. Despite all the horrific memories she recounted, the book made me laugh. The antics between her and Louise, from dancing in her living room to scaring people in wedding dresses made me laugh and smile. A young Katriona was completely likeable and honest. While she shared these moments, she did not shy away from sharing less flattering ones too. Whether it be her shouting at the “women at the wall” calling them “slags” or “sluts” or struggling with addiction herself, Katriona did not shy away from telling her story, even the ugly bits. Upon reflection it seems the colour of the book’s cover was perfectly chosen. The conflicting shade of yellow, kind of ugly, bright, confusingly comforting, matches the life depicted in the book: ugly moments, bright futures and comforting moments of self-belief. Katriona’s story was not your typical rags to riches everything did not work out because of some hard work. In fact all throughout the book, right up to the end, there were ugly moments.
The book highlights what is, for Katriona, the key issue: discrimination between those who are “good” and “not good". We see how addiction did not discriminate between her middle-class father or lower-class mother, but help did. Throughout her life Katriona had teachers who encouraged her, social workers who wished better for her, Trinity’s Access Programme to support her and overall people who believed she deserved better than what she got. On the contrary, her parents, notably her mother, dealt with snooty paramedics and handsy prison officers. The help offered to those in poverty or addiction discriminated between the likeable and the not-so-likeable. In the epilogue Katriona finally spells it out and confirms what I felt throughout: it was the help of the systems and supports received and received at the right time that makes all the difference.
Poor is not your standard inspirational tale of overcoming poverty. It is as honest as it is haunting, and this is what makes it enjoyable. The book, while Katriona’s story, highlights the class divide in Ireland and the UK. Anyone who walks through Dublin City will understand exactly what she means when she describes “us and them”, “the poshies”. It criticised everything I hate about this general genre: the need to feel good about ourselves while still judging which type of poor person deserves help. Those who do well are acclaimed and those who do not are “spoken of in hushed tones.” “Only a certain type of poor person is welcome at Trinity, and that is the one who never tries to rise above the programme and remains eternally grateful for the charity it offers.”
If you are like me and generally steer clear of this type of tale, I would recommend giving it a go. Poor is indeed inspiring and empowering, but it is also enraging, ugly, and extraordinary.
