As we grow, we often meet our own parents more than once. We know them first as supervisors of our nonverbal lives, then as teachers, later as individuals. Sometimes the lessons we learn from them may be costly, other times those lessons may be life-saving. As you read this essay about Donal Mahoney's father, it would be a good moment to remember the ways in which you "met" your father or mother. This essay reminds me that no generation can stand tall, if they have had no shoulders to stand upon. We all owe something to those who have gone before us--and endured.
____________________________________________
Meeting Dad Again
by Donal Mahoney
My father emigrated from Ireland to the United States in the early 1920s.
He had been released from Spike Island by the English who "occupied"
Ireland at that time. Spike Island was the "Guantanamo" of that era,
located just off the coast of Ireland. It was there the English warehoused
prisoners of the Irish Republican Army (IRA).
My father had been imprisoned by the English at age 16 for running guns
through the marshes of County Kerry to aid the rebels fighting to free Ireland
from the rule of the English. Young Irish lads were recruited for duties like
this because they would be less apt to be captured by the English—or so the IRA
thought. My father was not coerced into doing this. He volunteered for the duty
and would have done it again if the English had not insisted that he and other
prisoners leave Ireland as a condition of their release.
On arrival in America, he found work as a grave digger in Brooklyn, New York.
Later he boxed professionally and sang in night clubs that catered to Irish
immigrants. After he married, he moved with my mother to Chicago where he was
hired by the Commonwealth Edison Company. There he spent almost four decades as
a lineman, often working as a troubleshooter who was called out in the middle
of the night when a storm knocked out the power. He liked this work and was
very good at it, or so I was told by his peers when I visited him in the
hospital. They had gathered in the hall outside his room after he had survived
an electrical accident that occurred high on a pole in an alley. He survived
12,000 volts, an incident that got his name in the Chicago Tribune.
In January 2012, decades after my father had died, my wife discovered a
photo of him on the Internet. It showed him as a prisoner on Spike Island,
circa 1920. He was a farm boy, poor as the chickens he fed when he was a child,
but the English dressed him up nicely for the photo that accompanies this
story. Perhaps they didn't want his age to show and to a degree they succeeded
in that. You would think that they had treated him well, but they broke both
his legs with rifle butts and let him sit on an earthen cell floor for a long
period of time.
In the photo, my father is in the first row, third from the left. He is
identified as “J. O’Mahony,” which was the family name until he became a
citizen of the United States. On that occasion, the judge suggested he change
his name to "Mahoney," which was "more common" in the
United States. My father agreed to the change but it was a decision he would
rue for the remainder of his life. More than once he told me, "I should
never have done it but I was a greenhorn, what did I know?"
 |
| The young Mr. J. O'Mahony is third from left, front row. |
My poem, “Meeting Dad Again,” was written many years later after my
father and I reunited in Chicago briefly after he had been out of my life for
awhile. His two years on Spike Island as an adolescent had taken a
toll. He suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome (PTSD) before that
ailment had been identified and named. Despite this problem, however, he
was a sober Irishman who labored hard in Chicago for decades to save money to put
me through college. His goal was to make certain that I would never have to
"work with my hands." He didn't have to worry. I can operate a hammer,
but have no manual skills beyond that.
My poem records our reunion when my father, back in town unexpectedly,
phoned me at work and, to my surprise, asked that I meet him for lunch. He
suggested a cafeteria that was then a Chicago landmark. No fancy restaurants
for him, even though in retirement he could afford a touch of the posh. I can't
remember for certain, but I doubt that he let me pay the check. He knew that I
had bills as the father of five stair-step children.
The lunch went well. Conversation was light. I did not ask him where he
had been or what he had been doing, and he asked only pleasant questions about
me and my children. He showed no mood swings to indicate that he had once
been a guest of the English, a confinement that affected him far more, I
believe, than absorbing 12,000 volts. The voltage crippled his hand and gnarled
his arm, but the English crippled and gnarled his nervous system. On this day,
however, he was in fine fettle, as he liked to say. This time he was more
interested in seeing me than my report card.
__________________________________________________
Meeting Dad Again
Thirty years later, Dad came back
and we met for Ham and Yams at Toffenetti’s.
Pouring his tea, he told me he had
to restore power once
at a newspaper warehouse
and the storm broke again
and the lightning cracked his ladder.
He spent the whole day, he said,
sitting in that dark warehouse,
waiting for the lightning to stop
and for the truck to bring a new ladder.
He had a great time, he said,
sitting next to a flickering lantern
and reading for hours the Sunday comics
printed and stacked
six weeks in advance.
______________________________________________________________
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.
No comments:
Post a Comment