Consider 1845, a hard up British landlord teasing the last of a helpless Connemara family's worth to feed social extravagances in London, consider him sending in the sheriff on Her Majesty's errand, consider the smell of the burning thatch, women wailing on the barren roadside, the men threatening obscenities, and the scramble of anyone able off of this God forsaken island.
Consider 2010, a hard up banking CEO teasing the last of a helpless Clondalkin family's worth to feed his already fat bonuses, consider the arrogant sheriff yielding to the Free State, the smell of negative equity, a baby's soiled nappy, a five-year old's lunch box and a mother's kitchen, the men shout shenanigans, they all shout rescue plans, and anyone able may note a discrepancy in the migration trend but sees it reassert its 160-year inclination as a low-fare flight takes them somewhere off this God forsaken island.
Might the Beatles have been Irish? Might JFK have been Taoiseach? Wayne Rooney an inter-county hurler? Was it for this the Wild Geese fled? Success somewhere else for it'll only be begrudged here? There was a time the island at the edge of Europe was the forerunner of modern technology; as the continent dealt with the plague, it was Ireland who helped guide her back to the light a thousand years ago. Now we put Intel in their computers and Viagra in their... Ahem, some immigrants are leaving, and our own emigrants are going too, if only someone might shout stop we could spare a generation having to go off and fight for Troy and taking the long way home.
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