The family spent Fitzgerald’s early years in Boston’s South End, where they lived in a halfway house run by the Catholic Worker while his mother did admin for Cardinal Bernard Francis Law - described as having “one of those big slabby Boston faces,” an image that had this Boston resident laughing in recognition. His parents stayed together, but the union was wracked by emotional and financial strain. In 12 linked essays, Fitzgerald tracks his coming of age from his early years in Boston and the depressed town of Athol, Massachusetts - “a hill town surrounded by river towns, all of them now emptied of hill people and river people” - to a scholarship ride through boarding school, to his adventures in biker bars and queer artistic spaces in San Francisco and New York City, where he began to find his tribe.
This negotiation between received “truths” and capital-T Truth is the work of every memoir, one could argue, but Fitzgerald’s project of openhearted self-interrogation still feels refreshing in a culture where men are socialized to bury their pain, or worse, turn it back on the world as misplaced resentment.
“I WAS BORN of sin,” writes Isaac Fitzgerald, “a mistake in human form, a bomb aimed perfectly to blow up both my parents’ lives.” The product of a fling between two restless, bookish, devoutly Catholic divinity students who were already married, “just to different people,” Fitzgerald internalized his origin story as shameful transgression.įitzgerald’s debut memoir, Dirtbag, Massachusetts: A Confessional, is about stories he inherited and sometimes invented, stories he dodged or clung to or performed, often in self-destructive ways, until he began to confront himself.
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