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. And the singing carried them over into a new day so that they could do it all again. But they did not heal....
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. And the singing carried them over into a new day so that they could do it all again. But they did not heal....
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