Mine is no great migrant success story. I still work as a nurse. The bills get paid, we chip away at the mortgage and there’s usually a little left over.
I’m one of those migrants who don’t want to be slotted into some pigeon hole. I’m not counting down the days to March 17th. I’m uneasy about this thing called the diaspora. Perhaps I’m simply just another long-gone migrant. I’m sure there’s a fair few of us scattered across the globe going on quietly, living our lives as exiles with varying degrees of success. And keeping an eye on what’s happening in Ireland from afar.
I have no particular gripe with Ireland. Nor do I think that Irish politicians are smarter or stupider than their European counterparts. But then again I left before the boom and bust, and I’m not as informed or affected as those who have had to endure the horrendous fallout. From my vantage point in Tasmania, half a world away, Irish politicians seem as adept at posturing and mastering the soundbite as politicians everywhere.
After the first few years away it gets difficult to keep up with Irish politics. The everyday vagaries and subtleties of Irish political life are soon lost despite the immediacy of social media.
I’m still trying to reconcile the evolution of Sinn Féin from a proscribed political pariah to potential kingmaker in the next Dáil. I have no idea what makes Enda Kenny or Micheál Martin tick, despite their high profiles. And Gerry Adams reinventing himself as some kind of benign twitterer is difficult to fathom.
I chose to leave Ireland. No one forced me to go. Emigrating has always been deceptively complicated. People go for all sorts of often arbitrary reasons. Perhaps it’s too simplistic to blame tough economic times. Half a lifetime later I think I’m still trying to work out my reasons for going. I really don’t understand why I left and stayed away. This leaving is a nebulous thing, but it’s hardly something that keeps me awake at night.
For me, growing up in the 1970s and 1980s in rural Ireland was a stultifying experience. The usual suspects were running the show. We were heading along a well-worn path, and the destination wasn’t especially alluring. We knew not to expect much. Faring badly in the Leaving Cert meant few or no avenues of opportunity. Heading abroad was almost akin to jumping out of a plane without a parachute. You knew you’d have to step up to the challenge. The alternative wasn’t worth contemplating.
I could have been a character in the fiction of John McGahern. Reading his Amongst Women during a visit back in the early 1990s was a searing experience. My dad and Moran had much in common. Although we never seriously fell out, we could have quite easily, and we were better off halfway around the world from each other. We always talked more on those long-distance phone calls than we ever did face to face.
I grew up imagining that going abroad was an exotic option. The reality proved to be a little more mundane. Boarding that long flight from London to Melbourne was the first time I’d set foot on a plane. Small wonder Melbourne seemed so far removed from rural Ireland back in the day.
At the back of my mind was the thought that I could and would go back if things didn’t work out. Although I don’t think I ever would have.
Pride is an integral part of many migrants’ baggage. We feel as if we have something to prove. Going is making a statement. And any premature return would be seen as coming up short and vindicating the naysayers’ predictions.
I wonder if the migrants holding out for voting rights, to have a say in what’s happening in Ireland, are wanting some sort of consolation prize – or if they’re grieving for what they’ve lost.
