I love creation myths. Athena popping out of Zeus' head, Raven letting the moon and sun float free...maybe it's part of the reason I've come to appreciate sports, particularly basketball, the obsession with genesis, the forging on schoolyard courts, not wanting to leave Ohio, having to stay until all the free throws are made.
I'm very interested in belonging (or not, as the case may be) which I think has something to do with origins and roots. Growing up on the east coast you are awash with beginnings and establishment. Either you came over on the Mayflower or you've started a Pakistani restaurant fresh off the boat. Field trips were to Plymouth Rock and Ellis Island. In school we read endless books about heritage and history- the holocaust and the middle passage...so much has been Coming To America in some capacity, willing or not, welcome or not. We memorized Emma Lazerus. In college I haunted Russ & Daughters, finding comfort and community in a culture not my own. My professional life too has been about not belonging, circling around the origins of others.
I'm murkily German on my Dad's side through a strange last name has Dutch roots...it's muddy without anything promising. My Mom's ancestry is more clear, Irish pretty much straight on, at least through her father whose parents were born there. Being Irish in America leaves you with a nebulous heritage, diffuse over generations like a Guinness pulled in New Jersey. Irish Americans are almost their own beast, not recognizable in the motherland the way Paulie Walnuts was when he went to Italy...What does it mean to be Irish? What does it mean to be anything?
My Mom's immediate family is intense, affectionately oppressive in its unity of mind and narrative. All that to say I don't think my Mom ever yearned for more family, she had enough right around her. It's only been more recently that she's become curious about her wider roots. With an artist's fellowship in Ireland it seemed a good opportunity to dig deep. She generously invited me to come along. We met in Dublin in April and immediately headed south, me giddy to be anywhere that wasn't work, even unremarkable city outskirts. Ireland was brilliantly, shockingly green and there were sheep EVERYWHERE.
After my first Easter mass ever (in Irish) and a few days of oysters and increasingly stunning countryside, we arrived in Kerry. We brought with us my great uncle's family narrative, well researched and creatively embellished. He had also sent a sketchy email with loose descriptions of where the houses of my great-grandparents were. I'd read the descriptions in Tanzania briefly when I'd first entertained the thought of meeting my Mom in Ireland but stopped when they became too enticing and my work schedule challenged my ability to travel. Now that we were actually there, I could fully embrace listening to my Mom read the stories out loud, pausing occasionally to turn down the U2 I kept turning up and to avert her eyes from a narrow turn on the wild roads.
We found my great grandfather's house first and were able to go inside because it was being renovated. Even with a new wood burning stove in the hearth and new cabinets in the kitchen, you could feel the original bones of the house, the stone floors, the massive beam (likely salvaged from a ship) that ran along the top of the fireplace. It was small and sturdy. Stepping out the door, through some scruffy hedge you could make out the small inlet of water and white sand from where my great grandfather had dragged boats out to sea and very likely where he had first seen my great grandmother, who's father used to play hurley, a maniac version of field hockey, on the beach. My great great grandfather actually died there, right on that beach, from a blow to the head during a game.
Walking around John's House, as the place was locally known, was surreal. I knew nothing of my great grandparents and struggled sometimes to remember more than impressions of my grandfather, who died when I was 7 or 8. We drove along the coast to the Derrynane House, home of Daniel O'Connell, an eccentric Irish hero who had fought for the right of Catholics to sit in the Westminster Parliament. This victory won him fame and a purple velvet carriage (chariot, actually) that would not have looked out of place at Prince's house. Apparently my great great grandfather had been The Liberator's huntsman, the care taker of his hunting dogs. I tried hard to feel the rhythms of the area...what must it have been like, more than 100 years ago, to walk to work at this house, along the beach? That night we drove to Portmagee and discussed how we'd try to find my great grandmother's house, whose description was much less specific.
After a false start that involved speaking to several older ladies at a church, post office and then in line at the post office, we resolved to forge ahead and keep searching. Knowing nothing about the local topography, we found ourselves climbing over the hills and valleys of the Ring, unexpected and un-enjoyed by my Mom who was navigating by GPS, computer and family history spread over her lap. In the spirit of my Dad I kept yelling CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT!?!? while staring out the window and generally upsetting my Mom with my lack of eyes-on-the-road. It was the most stunning scenery I'd ever seen, cliffs that ran down to almost Caribbean-blue ocean, jagged islands out in the distance. While we'd had typically Irish weather the first few days of our trip, the clouds had burned off for our most spectacular views. The Waking Ned Divine Soundtrack blasting on the stereo, we stopped across from a restaurant on the edge of a cliff, boasting 'The Best View in Ireland' beneath which, supposedly, was my great grandmother's house. After a come-to-Jesus moment, my Mom agreed to brave the steep road down the cliff to get a closer look at the neighborhood where we thought Joanna O'Connell's house had been.
It was breath taking. Worlds will absolutely fall short so here:
We found the house, now owned by a very nice professor at Trinity College in Dublin. She invited us in for a cup of tea and we discussed our trip, the house, my great uncle and her work. I had a hard time focusing, so drawn was I to the windows that looked out on this UNREAL view. How had she come by this house? How could my great grandmother had possibly left this glorious place? I gave voice to my thoughts, wondering if people missed this landscape once they had left it. I knew my great grandmother had eventually ended up in the Bronx...a great place but not one renowned for its views. "It was cold and smokey in these houses. There wasn't enough food. Life was grim. You couldn't afford to think about a view," the owner of the house answered, factually. Of course, this house during the Famine wasn't as pleasant as it was now, the second home of a well-fed professional...but I couldn't believe it would be easily forgotten. I can still see it when I close my eyes and I only looked at it for an afternoon. What if it had been there your whole life?
It turns out my great grandmother may not have lived in the house for very long/at all, as after her father died her mother remarried and lived further down the coast, closer to my great grandfather's house, actually. The house had apparently been built in 1907, a year after my great grandmother had left for America. Whether or not she had actually lived there, it was a landscape she doubtless would have known.
The small stretch of Kerry coast my family had called home is probably the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Table Mountain in South Africa is glorious, the wilds of northern Kenya are outrageous, Tuscany is stunning, the Alaska Range and the Redwoods are magnificent, but I did not come from there. I came from people who lived on these shores. I came from fisherman and farmers. Servants to eccentric liberators. My people walked along rugged coastlines to mass and had names like Crohane, Joanna, John and Charles. They were storytellers, hard workers, cranky bastards and warm-hearted charmers. They were born in a beautiful place and they left it behind. I had never been on the other side of Ellis Island, at least not for my own ancestors. I had never faced belonging and leaving so directly before. It was intense and stayed with me for the rest of the trip.
If you look up belonging in the dictionary...
ORIGIN Middle English (in the sense [be appropriately assigned to] ): from be-(as an intensifier) + the archaic verb long [belong,] based on Old English gelang[at hand, together with.]
But belonging also contains longing:
ORIGIN Old English langian [grow long, prolong,] also [dwell in thought, yearn,] of Germanic origin; related to Dutch langen ‘present, offer’ and German langen ‘reach, extend.’
Thinking back on the trip now, I'm reminded of a quote from Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, who felt the same senses of longing and loss that I did when he looked upon another evocative landscape:
I'm very interested in belonging (or not, as the case may be) which I think has something to do with origins and roots. Growing up on the east coast you are awash with beginnings and establishment. Either you came over on the Mayflower or you've started a Pakistani restaurant fresh off the boat. Field trips were to Plymouth Rock and Ellis Island. In school we read endless books about heritage and history- the holocaust and the middle passage...so much has been Coming To America in some capacity, willing or not, welcome or not. We memorized Emma Lazerus. In college I haunted Russ & Daughters, finding comfort and community in a culture not my own. My professional life too has been about not belonging, circling around the origins of others.
I'm murkily German on my Dad's side through a strange last name has Dutch roots...it's muddy without anything promising. My Mom's ancestry is more clear, Irish pretty much straight on, at least through her father whose parents were born there. Being Irish in America leaves you with a nebulous heritage, diffuse over generations like a Guinness pulled in New Jersey. Irish Americans are almost their own beast, not recognizable in the motherland the way Paulie Walnuts was when he went to Italy...What does it mean to be Irish? What does it mean to be anything?
My Mom's immediate family is intense, affectionately oppressive in its unity of mind and narrative. All that to say I don't think my Mom ever yearned for more family, she had enough right around her. It's only been more recently that she's become curious about her wider roots. With an artist's fellowship in Ireland it seemed a good opportunity to dig deep. She generously invited me to come along. We met in Dublin in April and immediately headed south, me giddy to be anywhere that wasn't work, even unremarkable city outskirts. Ireland was brilliantly, shockingly green and there were sheep EVERYWHERE.
After my first Easter mass ever (in Irish) and a few days of oysters and increasingly stunning countryside, we arrived in Kerry. We brought with us my great uncle's family narrative, well researched and creatively embellished. He had also sent a sketchy email with loose descriptions of where the houses of my great-grandparents were. I'd read the descriptions in Tanzania briefly when I'd first entertained the thought of meeting my Mom in Ireland but stopped when they became too enticing and my work schedule challenged my ability to travel. Now that we were actually there, I could fully embrace listening to my Mom read the stories out loud, pausing occasionally to turn down the U2 I kept turning up and to avert her eyes from a narrow turn on the wild roads.
We found my great grandfather's house first and were able to go inside because it was being renovated. Even with a new wood burning stove in the hearth and new cabinets in the kitchen, you could feel the original bones of the house, the stone floors, the massive beam (likely salvaged from a ship) that ran along the top of the fireplace. It was small and sturdy. Stepping out the door, through some scruffy hedge you could make out the small inlet of water and white sand from where my great grandfather had dragged boats out to sea and very likely where he had first seen my great grandmother, who's father used to play hurley, a maniac version of field hockey, on the beach. My great great grandfather actually died there, right on that beach, from a blow to the head during a game.
Walking around John's House, as the place was locally known, was surreal. I knew nothing of my great grandparents and struggled sometimes to remember more than impressions of my grandfather, who died when I was 7 or 8. We drove along the coast to the Derrynane House, home of Daniel O'Connell, an eccentric Irish hero who had fought for the right of Catholics to sit in the Westminster Parliament. This victory won him fame and a purple velvet carriage (chariot, actually) that would not have looked out of place at Prince's house. Apparently my great great grandfather had been The Liberator's huntsman, the care taker of his hunting dogs. I tried hard to feel the rhythms of the area...what must it have been like, more than 100 years ago, to walk to work at this house, along the beach? That night we drove to Portmagee and discussed how we'd try to find my great grandmother's house, whose description was much less specific.
After a false start that involved speaking to several older ladies at a church, post office and then in line at the post office, we resolved to forge ahead and keep searching. Knowing nothing about the local topography, we found ourselves climbing over the hills and valleys of the Ring, unexpected and un-enjoyed by my Mom who was navigating by GPS, computer and family history spread over her lap. In the spirit of my Dad I kept yelling CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS SHIT!?!? while staring out the window and generally upsetting my Mom with my lack of eyes-on-the-road. It was the most stunning scenery I'd ever seen, cliffs that ran down to almost Caribbean-blue ocean, jagged islands out in the distance. While we'd had typically Irish weather the first few days of our trip, the clouds had burned off for our most spectacular views. The Waking Ned Divine Soundtrack blasting on the stereo, we stopped across from a restaurant on the edge of a cliff, boasting 'The Best View in Ireland' beneath which, supposedly, was my great grandmother's house. After a come-to-Jesus moment, my Mom agreed to brave the steep road down the cliff to get a closer look at the neighborhood where we thought Joanna O'Connell's house had been.
It was breath taking. Worlds will absolutely fall short so here:
We found the house, now owned by a very nice professor at Trinity College in Dublin. She invited us in for a cup of tea and we discussed our trip, the house, my great uncle and her work. I had a hard time focusing, so drawn was I to the windows that looked out on this UNREAL view. How had she come by this house? How could my great grandmother had possibly left this glorious place? I gave voice to my thoughts, wondering if people missed this landscape once they had left it. I knew my great grandmother had eventually ended up in the Bronx...a great place but not one renowned for its views. "It was cold and smokey in these houses. There wasn't enough food. Life was grim. You couldn't afford to think about a view," the owner of the house answered, factually. Of course, this house during the Famine wasn't as pleasant as it was now, the second home of a well-fed professional...but I couldn't believe it would be easily forgotten. I can still see it when I close my eyes and I only looked at it for an afternoon. What if it had been there your whole life?
It turns out my great grandmother may not have lived in the house for very long/at all, as after her father died her mother remarried and lived further down the coast, closer to my great grandfather's house, actually. The house had apparently been built in 1907, a year after my great grandmother had left for America. Whether or not she had actually lived there, it was a landscape she doubtless would have known.
The small stretch of Kerry coast my family had called home is probably the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Table Mountain in South Africa is glorious, the wilds of northern Kenya are outrageous, Tuscany is stunning, the Alaska Range and the Redwoods are magnificent, but I did not come from there. I came from people who lived on these shores. I came from fisherman and farmers. Servants to eccentric liberators. My people walked along rugged coastlines to mass and had names like Crohane, Joanna, John and Charles. They were storytellers, hard workers, cranky bastards and warm-hearted charmers. They were born in a beautiful place and they left it behind. I had never been on the other side of Ellis Island, at least not for my own ancestors. I had never faced belonging and leaving so directly before. It was intense and stayed with me for the rest of the trip.
If you look up belonging in the dictionary...
ORIGIN Middle English (in the sense [be appropriately assigned to] ): from be-(as an intensifier) + the archaic verb long [belong,] based on Old English gelang[at hand, together with.]
But belonging also contains longing:
ORIGIN Old English langian [grow long, prolong,] also [dwell in thought, yearn,] of Germanic origin; related to Dutch langen ‘present, offer’ and German langen ‘reach, extend.’
Thinking back on the trip now, I'm reminded of a quote from Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, who felt the same senses of longing and loss that I did when he looked upon another evocative landscape:
How is it possible to feel nostalgia for a world I never knew?
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
thank you for giving me my first real sense of be-longing.
