The notion that St. Patrick wasn’t Irish may sound sacrilegious, but
Ireland’s most famous patron saint was, in fact, born abroad.
Captured from mainland Britain — which was at the time under Roman rule
— he arrived in his adopted land against his wishes. Eventually
escaping Ireland, he later returned there on his own volition, leaving
his mark as the religious figure we celebrate.
Today, crowds gather — as they do every year — on account of a saint
who lived 16 centuries ago. It isn’t simply that everybody becomes Irish
for a day. It’s rather that the Irish experience, like the experience
of St. Patrick, resonates so broadly. Theirs is a story of departure as
well as arrival, a reminder of leaving home, of those left behind.
My mom’s parents lived their entire lives outside a small village in
the southwest of Ireland. My grandmother visited England once, but my
grandfather never left his country. He insisted that if the Lord had
meant for him to be anywhere else, He would have put him there.
Over the course of 24 years, my grandparents had 16 children: 8
daughters, 8 sons, no twins. My mom was the 15th. Of the 16, 14 lived
into adulthood. Thirteen left home, 12 for the United Kingdom or the
United States. Though five returned to Ireland later in life, only one
stayed behind.
For my grandparents — and for my grandmother especially — each departure delivered its own heartache.
Sixty-two years ago today, the family assembled outside their
farmhouse, speaking few words as they watched the two oldest sisters set
off to pursue vocations at a convent in Wales.
The young women got into a car that carried them up their lane and out
of sight. My mom was an infant. Her sisters were 18 and 20. Ten years
passed before they saw each other again.
When another sister, Eileen, became the first to leave for America, to
work in Sacramento, my mom was 5 by then — old enough to remember. She
stood out at the front gate beside her mother after Eileen left for
Shannon Airport. For a long while, she stared up at the sky, wondering
whether she might be able to see her sister’s airplane passing overhead.
The family only learned of Eileen’s safe arrival weeks later, when a letter arrived in the mail.
With so much of the world now at our fingertips, how easy it is for us
to deny distance. As we share moments instantly with our loved ones,
wherever they may be, it’s difficult to appreciate the significance so
often carried in an envelope from abroad.
For years, a single term applied to both emigration and immigration:
exile. Not somebody living in exile or being exiled, but the person
herself or himself branded an exile. Today, this word certainly relates
to political dissidents and the tens of millions who are displaced,
refugee or stateless. Rarely is it applied with respect to the emigrant
at home or the immigrant abroad.
Thankfully for many, the act of leaving one place for another is less
likely to involve the permanence of departures of ages past. Still, the
pain of distance remains, and is especially stark during moments
involving love or loss.
My mom’s sister Eileen moved more than 40 years ago from Sacramento to
Tucson, Ariz. I remember sitting with her there on the patio in her
backyard under the desert sun, a long distance from her childhood in the
green fields of Ireland. She recalled a short verse from a poem, its
attribution long since forgotten, but its words nevertheless remaining
with her for many years:
An exile ne’er forgets the place where he was born.
’Tis every night he goes to bed
And wakes there in the morn’.
On St. Patrick’s Day of all days, may we remember the exile in every
immigrant, from every land. It’s an Irish story, sure, but it’s also all
our stories.
Carlson was formerly a manager of global communications and public
affairs at Google. He is currently completing a book about emigration
through the lens of his mother’s experiences from Ireland to London and
New York.
