“Can’t they create their own fuckin Gods
without bastardising ours?”
PROFANITY WARNING: Red’s speech tended to be profane and
I’m not going to water him down to make his words acceptable to sensitive
ears. Neither am I going to soften his
speech and attitudes toward England and Englishmen. He detested both and that was part of him. He liked English women just fine, though, except for the nobility. When I tried to get him to see the illogic of this stance by reminding him that all men - even Saxons - come from women, he'd narrow his eyes and snort. A real snort. "I suppose every fuckin, bloody Saxon" - he rarely used the word English and never Angle - "has a mother, but we don't think of that. Woman embodies life, even a Saxon woman. And we Celts honour life." As usual, I found arguing with him just left me feeling a bit dizzy. Anyway...
·
I generally don’t mix my physical
universe friends with my online friends, but this time, I simply must
introduce you to a very old friend of mine, Sean “Red” O’Connor, a Communist
and a Republican. That statement is
meant to confuse my “American” friends, but will be immediately understandable
to my friends from Éire. (In Red’s honour, I will not use the name
Ireland in this piece; Red disliked it intensely. “Ire Land.
Land of Ire? Sure and that’s
wrong. Irish are people of joy and
laughter, song and dance, not ire. Until
you get us riled, I mean. Then we fight.
Like England. You’ve heard of
England? Damned, fucking Saxon scum, don’t
have the sense enough to stay in their own friggin land. The name is Éire.”
I make no attempt to write his brogue into this; I used to tease him
that he sounded like a stereotype from James Joyce that no one could understand. He’d beam with pride, “Sure and I am, at
that, me girl.” He used “Sure and…” as a
stereotypical Canadian uses, “eh?”)
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t
know Red. Colourful, loud, brazen,
profane, given to outbursts of temper one minute, gentle, calm, poetic the next. He saw no point in a balanced
approach to life. Life is to be lived to
the fullest, without reservation.
Anything else would be the purest blasphemy.
Speaking of blasphemy, religiously, he
was a very odd duck. An atheist
Catholic. He used the most evil of women to explain his atheism. “Most lovely creatures, these
ladies, the real ones, I mean, not the demons.
Me girl, what sort of God could create Maggie Thatcher or Indira Gandhi? More like a devil, if you ask me. Bah!
The Old Religion had the right idea.”
(He was very sympathetic to the Sikh Cause, as well as the Irish
Republican.) Although he denied belief
in a God, he was a great admirer of Jesus and, of course, Ste. Brigid and St.
Patrick and St. Columba. I remember him
once telling me that Ste. Brigid is really Érun, Mother Éire herself. He never styled himself a Celtic priest or
Druid or any such and had great contempt for the neo-pagans who fancied themselves
somehow spiritual descendants of the ancient Celts. “Can’t they create their own fuckin Gods
without bastardising ours?” That would
call for a shot of Kilbeggan. After a couple belts of whiskey, he'd toss back his thick mane of gloriously shining red hair and proclaim, "You know, those bloody, fuckin Saxons can never defeat us. You know why?" Of course, I knew; I had heard this dozens of times, but I loved it and always played along. "No, Red, why?" His eyes would get that twinkle I so loved, he'd put on his biggest, most mysterious grin, "We're Celts! We're magic! Can't no mortal fuckin Saxons defeat magic!"
He was a staunch Irish Republican,
supporter of sending the British back to where they came from (“Hell!”) and
reclaiming all of Éire,
“to make our land a nation once again.” It
was from him that I first heard the phrase “England’s Last Colony,” or rather “Fuckin Bastard England’s Last Bleedin Colony.” For the
sake of my “American” friends, I must point out that Irish Republicans are
polar opposite of American Republicans, who tend to be conservative,
mean-spirited, hard-hearted, rich and humourless. The Irish Republicans I have known are generally
socialist, generous, kind-hearted working class people with humour emanating
from the pores of their bodies, until their freedom is jeopardised. Then they fight in any way necessary to be
free.
One slight oddity about him. He disliked the flag of the Irish Republic and refused to fly it because he considered the orange an insult to the Irish Republican patriots and insisted that if they must have a tricolor, it should be the true Irish colours, green, white and gold, not orange. In truth, though he really preferred the old golden harp flag, which does have the advantage of being most distinctive. This is very similar to the one he flew each year on St. Patrick's Day. And Ste. Brigid's Day. And St. Columba's Day. And other occasions and non-occasions as the fancy struck him.
Red’s dearest wish was to go to Éire and join the IRA
(Irish Republican Army). That, however, was
impossible. From early childhood, Red’s
body was confined to a wheelchair, a result of polio when he was little more
than a baby. He had been brought to the
Canada for medical treatment and, although he lived, his physical recovery was
incomplete and his health always precarious.
Not only were his legs withered, but he also had great difficulty
breathing. Until his marriage, he lived
with his parents, a sickly young person, with the spirit of a dragon. At home they mostly spoke Irish (Gaelic) and
he developed an almost exaggerated brogue.
Unable to go fight, he had an old
but still serviceable Armalite rifle that he slept with – fully loaded, I must
add – and many the times, I’ve heard him singing (yes, he did keep changing the location.
This was his favourite.):
And it's up close near to
Long Kesh that’s where I long to be
Lying in the dark
with a Provo company
A comrade on me left
and another one on me right
And a clip of
ammunition for me little Armalite!
Somewhere in the
midst of his life, I think before I was born, Red met and fell in love with the
lady who was to be his lifelong companion, Mary. I never learned her maiden name and I suppose
it doesn’t matter. He called her Fiona,
much as he used to call me Maeve. All
the women he cared for, in fact, were given good, strong Irish names. Anyway, we all called her Fiona, too, which
always made her smile. Life could not
have been easy for her, with such a spirited, yet sickly husband, but she was
one of those people who seem only to grow stronger with adversity. They were very much in love, although they
bickbickered nonstop, and were, sadly,
childless, I imagine because of Red’s illness, but, of course, I never
asked. Both loved kids and wherever they
were, you could be sure to find a group of young people, eating Fiona’s
delicious snacks and being indoctrinated by Red’s leftist politics. He could, and did, go on for hours about the evils of capitalism and the genius of Marx and Engels. I suppose from an ordinary mortal, it might have gotten old and dull. But this was Red O'Connor. Nothing about him could possibly get old or dull.
Red was a great friend to me. Whenever I would get teary about some real or
imagined wrong as little and sometimes big girls do, he’d become the gentle man
of love and sweet words. He’d always
sing to me,
There's
a tear in your eye,
And I'm
wondering why,
For it never should
be there at all.
With such
pow'r in your smile,
Sure a stone
you'd beguile,
So there's
never a teardrop should fall.
When your
sweet lilting laughter's
Like some
fairy song,
And your eyes
twinkle bright as can be;
You should laugh all the while
And all other
times smile,
And now,
smile a smile for me
Of course, I’d smile – how could I
not? – and he’d go on at the top of his lungs
When
Irish eyes are smiling…
I’d try to interrupt, “But Red, my
eyes aren’t Irish!” He’d lean over and
stare into my strange blue-green-grey-brown eyes, smile and just keep singing.
"Ye're a Celt, me girl. A bloody fuckin magical Irish Celt. Sean O'Connor knows 'em when he sees 'em." At such moments he was charming and irresistible
beyond words and I tried not to get angry at the people and situation that so
often had him upset and angry. And, of course, he was right. I was much-delighted to learn from genealogical research and DNA testing that I really have a strong claim to being Irish. I'm enough of a lady (in public) to leave offthe various adjectives he used.
Back in 1967 he introduced me to the
Irish Freedom fight and I have been a supporter ever since, although, I admit, not
with his fervor. He understood that I
have my own people and my own battles to fight.
He taught me all the revolutionary Irish songs, old and new, and he
introduced me to some of the people who came to be so much a part of my life,
Wolfe Tone, Roddy McCorley, Kevin Barry and his great hero, James Connollly,
among others. He would sing the Connolly ballad
at the top of his lungs, stopping at the curse on England, speaking, not
singing it, in his most virulent tones and his slightly altered words:
God’s curse on you, England, you
cruel-hearted monster,
Your vile deeds they shame
all the devils in hell.
He would always end the song with a
bellowing FUCK THE QUEEN! Followed by a
softer, “if you’re not afraid of getting syphilis.” In spite of this, his hatred of England did
not extend to his social life. Although
everyone knew his strong beliefs, he had quite a few English friends. He did not moderate his speech around them in
the least. I suppose they must have
understood that his vitriol was aimed at the situation and those actually
fighting and not at them.
His health was so precarious that he
was only twice able to return to the land to which he dedicated his existence. The first was before I was born. I remember well when he returned from his
second visit in 1980, at the heights of what is euphemistically called the Troubles
with two tattoos: Tiocfaidh ár lá with a shamrock and the cryptic 26 + 6 = 1 He avoided “The Occupied
Counties” (he never called them anything
else) only because of his health. It's hard to be a freedom fighter when you can neither walk nor breathe. I believe the most significant
stop on his visit was at Errigal. (“Just Errigal, any more name is gilding the
fuckin lily. Heaven on earth it is and where my soul will
journey when at last I escape this useless body. Sure Errigal is heaven, nowhere else.”) When he returned, I saw a man on fire and
could only wonder what he might have been if his body were whole. I understand now very well the frustration of
wanting to do so much but being held in check by a disabled body. One, perhaps small thing, after his return, I
never saw his Armalite. When I asked him
about it, he grinned widely and said, “I expect it’s lying with a comrade on its
left and another one on its right with a full clip, ready for action. How he managed that I’ll never know, but he
was a determined and resourceful man who pretty much did whatever he wanted. Except to walk, of course.
The deaths of the ten hunger strikers
in 1981 did something hard and permanent to him. He was still our friend Red, of course, and
he still had his considerable charm and spark of life, but there was new depth
in him, a sadness, a seriousness, perhaps a bitterness, which had been lacking
before. There was no bottom to the pit
of his hatred of Margaret Thatcher. Those
deaths were very personal to him, as if they were his own brothers. I guess they were, at that. I think it was no coincidence that he died two days after her. He couldn't make that final journey until he knew that she was safely dead and burning in a hell he didn't believe in.
One strange and very visible outcome of the death of the ten patriots was that he vowed never to cut any hair anywhere on his body until Éire was united and free. He never lost his hair and although I didn't see it, Fiona tells me that his once-red mane was a dirty grey and nearly to his waist and his beard was to his chest. "A mess that birds could have nested in," in her words. And by the way, I asked her her maiden name. She giggled and said, "Ellstrom. Swedish." So I guess you never know.
The last time I saw him was in the mid-1990s,
during my last trip to New York City, where he had moved for medical care. We
were both older and possibly wiser and had been through our separate wars. He was very ill and the doctors told Fiona to
prepare for his funeral. A priest, whom he promptly threw out, came to give
him last rites. He weakly sat up and
started singing Finnegan’s Wake, a totally
memorable occasion for me in a decade where I have lost most of my memory. He grew stronger with each note and by the
end, he was sitting up unaided. He
bellowed, OK, it wasn’t quite a bellow, but it was a strong request, a demand
actually, for a full bottle of Kilbeggan. Proof again that doctors only believe they are gods.
So how old was Red when he
died? That's anybody's guess. I asked him once when he was born and got a
bunch of silver-tongued malarkey about being born before the days when Mother Érun rose the land from
beneath the seas. At least I think it
was malarkey…
He was a controversial figure, loud, brash, often violent (verbally only, though), bad tempered, smoking and drinking way too much. Opinionated, rough, prejudiced, with a really wicked sense of humour. But he was also as he would have put it, "damned, bloody, fuckin lovable. " And magical. There was something magical about the man. The world is a bit less colourful with him gone.
I have taken a picture of Errigal and
placed it in the heavens. I think he is
that greenish galaxy near the summit and believe I can see him throwing Maggie
Thatcher off it, presumably to her eternal damnation.
Godspeed, Red, wherever you are.
NOTE: If some of the names and events I've written about here are unknown to you, I suggest to google them. Irish history, both modern and ancient is fascinating. Assuming you are reading this online where I published it, you have at your fingertips the sum total of the knowledge of humanity, almost all of it anyway. I suggest you use it. Likewise with the lyrics to the songs. I believe all are easily available except "The Eyes Of Th IRA Are Upon You."
RELATED SONGS either mentioned or implied. Many of these songs are IRA songs and the language will be offensive to some. The ideas in them might be even more offensive to certain people. Tough. I believe in free expression. And I support the cause of Irish freedom.
There are many videos of these songs. I have chosen ones Red would have liked. I know he especially loved the Kennedy Memorial, singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." This video of Finnegan's Wake has an introduction that sort of explains the song and is well worth listening to.
