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The First Finegan
to Return
Sara Finegan - European Center
"I know a man named
Michael Finegan,
He's got whiskers on his chin again
They fall out and then grow in again
Poor old Michael Finegan, begin again"
The old song, taunts
of my childhood, they follow me here. They walk like ghosts in my
fallen shadow cast by the Dublin sun. I am the first Finegan to
return. The moment of my arrival I realised I had been possessed.
My eyes were no longer mine but belonged to the dead who had made
them.
My Grandfather was named
Eddy Finegan. He was born in Pennsylvania, the son of an Irish immigrant.
He grew up in a newly replanted but righteously Irish family. When
my father was born, Eddy did his best to teach him about Ireland.
My father, being a true youth of the 60's, abandoned his family's
traditions. He was raised Irish Catholic, went to Catholic schools,
but that faith couldn't keep him.
My father turned 20,
bought a motorcycle, and drove it to Colombia, South America. He
learned to speak Spanish, not Irish, married my mother, had my sister
and me, and vowed not to burden us with his family's traditions.
"Tradition and religion are control mechanisms," he would
tell us.
My sister and I, being
happy tropical children, had no complaints. We were raised on lizards,
freedom and cynicism towards patriotism and Catholics.On the few
occasions we went to visit my father's parents' house, my sister
and I were encouraged not to conform to rules. We never said grace
at dinner, we barely swallowed the strange boiled vegetables and
roast beef, and if my grandfather were to mention Church or Tradition
we would roll our eyes and hope that our father would rescue us.
I was 14 when my grandfather died and I grew to wonder about him
in the years after his death. People would say of my name, "Could
you be any more Irish?" Or ask if it was one of my ancestors
in a James Joyce's novel. I wondered about my family history, something
my father could have cared less about, something I knew my grandfather
had.
I am the first Finegan
to return. Every step I take I am being accompanied by the trail
of blood behind me. My grandfather is here, by the Shannon, at the
Temple bar. Three times I catch myself looking at him on the bus.
On the sidewalks of Limerick I see my great-grandmother as a girl.
She is no longer starving and shops at the United Colors of Beneton,
but I still recognise her High cheek bones, curly hair, large round
eyes. Everyone here is familiar. Family-ar.
I am momentarily broken
from my trance when one of the other students I am travelling with
suddenly says, "Ireland sure has some ugly people." My
heart breaks. That's my family he's talking about! I find myself
defending people I've never known. I am defending my grandfather,
his father. Without them I wouldn't be. I wonder when I began to
care. Is it only now that I'm faced with their living past that
I want to be a part of it? I am proud to have an Irish history,
even if I feel it's not truly mine. I am aware that I am a tourist
in this country, staying for one week. I don't know more than three
words in Irish: I am an American.
Our teacher takes us
on an Angela's Ashes tour of Limerick. I listen to the stories of
the children picking coal up from the road to cook their dinner.
I see the tiny stone houses that are gradually being lost under
new developments. Every step I take I wonder if my feet are landing
where their feet once were. I listen to the stories about the famine,
about all of the lives lost. My Irish ancestors survived, I am grateful.
At night the other students
and I eat dinner at a Thai restaurant. I laugh to myself as my grandfather
rolls his eyes at me. Eddy Finegan, have I made you proud? Tears
get caught throat deep. The last words he ever said to me were,
"You're beautiful but dumb." What would he say of me now?
I am only a student on a field trip, but you got to come back Eddy.
I've taken you here. Isn't it strange how blood moves?
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