On May 17th 1955, Christina Howe gave her beloved healthy baby daughter Marion into the care of the nuns at Goldenbridge Orphanage, Ireland, for two weeks, while she recovered from illness. Just four days later Marion's father Myles, who was working in England, received a bald telegram saying that Marion had died. In spite of being told to let the nuns make arrangements for Marion, Myles returned and demanded to see his eleven month old daughter. He found two identical 'silver dollar' sized burns on the inner part of her knees so deep that he could see the bone. Myles went to the police who told him that it was an unfortunate accident and that he should let it go. The death certificate recorded Marion's cause of death as acute dysentery infection.
The police re-opened the case in 1996. Upon initial questioning the Sister of Mercy denied having ever had a Marion Howe staying at Goldenbridge. Following a search of the records, the police found Marion recorded in the 'sick book' beside the entry 'leg burnt/history of vomiting.' The Sisters of Mercy never admitted any liability for what happened to baby Marion although they did pay an out of court settlement to the family of 20,000 pounds in 1977. Today the family are still fighting to have Marion's body exhumed so that they can discover the full truth about her death.
I am full of sadness today for Marion Howe, her deceased parents and all her siblings. I am full of respect for Marion's family. They have fought for 57 years for justice for Marion. It is bad enough that they had to cope with Marion's death but unacceptably cruel that they have been lied to for 57 years. It is time for a new law in Ireland requiring the religious orders to produce all their records on pain of imprisonment. Can you see another way to end this needless suffering for all families seeking information about their loved ones? I can't.
My uncle died last Sunday. He was my mother's only sibling. He loved Luke Kelly so it seems fitting to remember him with this song. The way the video is made truly reflects the process of an Irish funeral, the memories of the person shared which bring back even more memories. This sharing of memories fixes the person who has died in our hearts and in our minds. It allows us to hold onto all that is good and true and all that the person taught us. Today I want to again say thank you to him, for him, for all the wonderful days he gave me. He gave me wonderful songs and wonderful family times. He challenged me to stand up for myself and be myself. The bond forged between us in the hard times was never broken. He is part of the person I am today.
He is buried now in Annagh graveyard, at the foot of the mountains, by the sea, with all my small granny's people.
Last night it was important for me to go to the hospital to visit someone I love who is very ill. As we waited to go in to the room, a tiny baby in an incubator was rushed past us. Suddenly, I was right back in that time when my daughter Hannah died eight years ago. The same hospital, the same corridors, the same waiting and waiting, not knowing what was going to happen and when. The waiting seemed to last forever.
Hannah would have been eight last Sunday. I couldn't figure out how I was feeling. Empty was the only word I had. But last night, in that same hospital, I figured it out. Right now, I am angry. So angry. Hannah never had a fighting chance.The medical knowledge that might have saved her life is just not commonly available. When I say this, it is not about blame but a simple statement of the reality.But as I saw that tiny baby all I wanted to do was roll back the years and have someone, anyone, give Hannah that fighting chance that she never had. I wanted to hold her in my arms and will her heart to beat and her lungs to breathe. I wanted to bring her home in my arms and not in a box. I wanted to wake up this morning and hear her voice and comb her hair. All the things I cannot do...
I have learned that no peace comes from fighting these natural feelings. So down I went into the anger and the pain. And up I came again in the certain knowledge that Hannah WILL be remembered. Her name will sit proudly in our family tree. She will be recognised for the gift she was and is to us. We will not compound the pain of her death by silence and secrecy. Hannah is my daughter. Yes she died. But she also lived and she will not be forgotten.
Many of you know that I am searching for my 4 gran-uncles John Hurley , and Martin, John and Patrick Sheehan . They left Ireland for America sometime in the 1920's. They never came home. I have spent many nights reading through old records and lists online, hoping against hope to find them. I often wonder why they left. Was it for work? Or was it because of the Civil War or fear of the Black and Tans? Was there other complicated family stuff going on at the time that I don't know about? Then I wonder why they never returned or kept in touch. Did they want to disappear? Maybe they carried a deep, unhealed pain that prevented them from coming home. I was almost in that position myself. Did they all die in an accident, unknown? Did they have families of their own? Or were they like the old-timers I met in London who felt ashamed to come home because they did not have fancy cars, houses or big families to boast about? If so my heart aches for them. I remember well the two years of my time in London when I did not come home. I just couldn't afford it. I had made a huge (for me at the time) financial commitment to my counselling training and I was really struggling to make the payments. I also felt too embarrassed to go home without money in my pocket. The pressure must have been much worse for them being men. What I am sure about is that they all must have had their own reasons for leaving and more especially for not coming back. I cannot know at this time what is true for them. Maybe they were simply happy and absorbed in their new lives and felt at home in America. I do hope so. My intention, as I continue to search for them, is to honour their experience and give them back their place in our family history.
I remember vividly my parents, aunts and uncles, talking about meeting these signs when they first went to London in the late 1950's. My mother's face would close up as she turned away. My father's voice would take on a hearty 'divil may care' tone. Often he would draw a deep breath and begin to sing Paddy works on the railway. Gradually, tin whistle, banjo, guitar and other voices would join in.
They sang about things they couldn't say in words. They sang of the cruelly hard work that they did. They sang of the contempt they met from some people. They sang of the endless struggle to keep a roof over their heads and children fed. They sang out the shame they felt when they did not understand English ways. They were able to sing the thoughts and feelings that strangled words.
But they did not heal. The singing brought only temporary relief from the feelings. Even as a child, I felt they needed more than a few jars and a good session. My decision to train as a Counsellor began right there, in an overwhelming desire to understand my complicated family. In the end I gained so much more than I expected. I made peace with the past. I found my freedom from family expectations. I found compassion for myself. And I found the work I love, Coaching. During my time as a Counsellor, helping people with complicated families took years but now with Coaching the time frame is so much less. Nothing gives me greater joy than hearing peoples' voices change when they make peace with the past.I am so truly grateful for how much better my life became. If you are searching, I would like to share this peace with you at Solutions
I will never be six feet tall and I will never not be Irish. This is how I feel. Even if I had stayed in London, I would always be Irish. I will always have blue eyes and I will always be Irish. It's in my DNA, it's in my blood and bones. I could try to fight it but I would never win. I could wear purple contact lenses but I will always have blue eyes. I could get myself another accent, English, American or Australian, but I will always be Irish.. This is how I feel. This is who I am.
Ireland doesn't belong to me. I belong to Ireland. Something in me lets out a long sigh when I come home. I can live in other places. I can even love other places. But something in me unfurls and says 'home' when I am in Ireland. Though I might hate the corruption, the nepotism, the lies and the injustice I am 'ceangailt' to this place. (ceangailt can mean tied as in chained or it can mean a deep bond, a warm connection. Pronounced kang-guilt.)
I have experienced both kinds of ties to Ireland.
Today, my bond with Ireland is deep and warm. I no longer feel chained by the past. I cherish the freedom I now know I have. This would never have been possible for me had I not lived in London. London taught me to make my own choices. It taught me to ask for what I want and to persist until I had it.
...In a strange kind of way, living in London gave me back my heritage, my identity as an Irishwoman.
I would love to know if you have had a similar experience.
Do you feel more Irish, living and working in another country?
Has being abroad helped you to overcome the shadows of the past?
Do you feel this 'ceangailt', this bond with Ireland though you were born and reared in another country?
Do you know yourself to be Irish though your passport says something else?
Join the conversation below and welcome.
The conversation went like this 'I am never going to be one of those old guys crying into their pints about missing the auld sod'. We vowed this to each other when newly arrived on foreign shores. Over the years this turned into the conversation we never had about how hard it was to adapt and change to our new country. It wasn't cool to say 'it's hard' out loud. It wasn't cool to say 'how do I figure this out', 'how do I make the transition?'. So we'd meet in the pub on Friday night and someone would say 'where is Johnny?' and someone would reply "oh he upped and left for home yesterday'. Someone else would say 'he couldn't hack it' and that would be the end of the conversation.We were all afraid, afraid that it was contagious, afraid to talk about how we really felt, afraid to prove we weren't cool.If you are feeling torn between home and your new country, if you want to figure out a way to make your new life work better for you I'd love to help so mailto:martinetheirishgenealogycoach@gmail.com to request a free 20min solution session today.
Sometimes
I grieve for my father and brother who died
in addiction, their own strong Spirits
stolen by the spirits in
the drink. If I could hold my dying father in
my arms now I
would say, "It's okay. It's okay. It's been a
long, hard time,
hasn't it?"
I would rock him and I would rock the denial that was kil-
ing him, the denial that was desperately
trying to protect him
from the horrid truth of what had happened
to
his Life,
his Family,
his Freedom,
his very Soul.
I would soften the fear and soften the
shame
to break through to his own Strong heart.
But I cannot. I never could. As it is, I
have only Today to soar
into Freedom, breaking the chains that
bind me. I have the Hope
of Healing the Cross-Generational chains
that bind
my Children.
~From "Irish Spirit",
by Mary Teresa M.
Mother's Day is always bittersweet for me. I am so grateful to be a Mom to two daughters who are alive and well. I watch them growing, becoming their own people and I learn so much from them. But I am also an invisible Mom. My daughter Hannah died in 2004. Hannah died just before birth as a result of what is called a cord accident. These are such innocous words for such a shocking, shocking death. Hannah is one of millions of invisible babies dying every day in our world in spite of modern medicine. On Monday, Hannah's heart was beating strong and clear. On Friday, her heart had stopped.
Research into the causes of stillbirth is so low down on the funding agenda that it barely gets a look in. It is far more common than what used to be called Cot Death. As many as one in 30 babies in the developing world die just before or at birth. In Australia alone, stillbirth, is the third largest cause of death. Ground breaking research is taking place see International Stillbirth Alliance but even doctors and midwives are unaware of the research.
We live in a world of invisible babies..and invisible mothers. If today you are an invisible mother through failed fertility treatment, miscarriage, stillbirth or forced adoption, my heart goes out to you. I will be thinking of Hannah and I will be thinking of you. If you are an adult who has been prevented from finding your mother, I will be thinking of you.
Today with my whole heart and every fibre of my being, I ask this of you.
If you can help a mother and child to be reunited by giving information to someone PLEASE do it.
If you care for expectant mothers, PLEASE, find out all you can about the prevention of stillbirth.
If your friend is an invisible mother, PLEASE find a way to acknowledge her and her baby today. Visit, text, write a letter or a card. People think they are upsetting us by 'reminding' us of our babies. I will tell you a secret. We NEVER forget our babies. We think of them every day. We walk around every day carrying the absence of our babies. Every birthday, every Christmas, every Mother's Day and Father's Day we think of them. We think how old they would be now if they were still with us. We wonder would they have been quiet or boisterous. We wonder would they have liked Barney or Bear in the Big Blue House. We NEVER EVER forget. This is OUR Truth. Support for bereaved parents is available at Feileacain Support for people who survived Irish Institutions Justice for Magdalenes
For all the years I lived in England, the longing to go home would jump up and bite me at odd times. I would find myself humming Clare to here and remembering all the years when I was blessed to enjoy the music of the Furey Brothers and Davy Arthurs, never knowing that I would sing this song with tears in my eyes first in Birmingham and later in London.
I could be at work or on the London Underground when there would be this song, ringing in my ears. Suddenly, I would be daydreaming of packing my suitcase, stepping on the boat or on the plane and going home. Home to turf fires and slow walks and meeting the neighbours on the street, where everyone spoke the same as me and everyone understood what I was talking about. Don't get me wrong, I loved my work, and the wonderful opportunities living in London gave me. But Ireland wouldn't leave me alone. The love and the longing...
Over the years, I learned the hard way that if I could get home twice a year for a fortnight, I could avoid the worst of the pain. When work colleagues went to France or Spain, Martine was always saving up to go home. People never needed to ask me where I was going for my holidays, they knew. I always went home.
Like so many others, I had my dream. I wanted to come home and buy my house. It took longer than I expected and the re-entry into Irish life was far harder than I anticipated but I made it home. There was no joy greater (excepting the births of my daughters) than the day I signed for the deeds of my house. I felt so proud. I knew then that all the sacrifices were worth it. I was home.
If you live between two worlds and are figuring out what to do next mailto:martinetheirishgenealogycoach@gmail.com for support.And in the meantime, Happy Paddy's Day!
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