By Patrick Shannon
Immigrant’s son. The phrase somehow speaks of humble beginnings, industry, and especially roots. Only in recent years did this last quality show its real strength to me. This descendant of foreigners was my father.
He was a man of tradition. Indeed, the flag of Erin was planted deep within his heart. Cork and Derry met in him, and the Irish Sea could be glimpsed in his eyes. From my earliest days I can remember the songs of the Celts and bits and pieces of Gaelic; and on St. Paddy’s Day, the wearing of the green.
Religion for the Irishman was more than just a creed, it was his identity. This my father learned well. He heard the many stories of the early days in his native Boston: “Irish need not apply.” Yes, they were in the Protestant nation. Though for some “Catholic” was a badge they hoped would keep them out of hell, to my father it was the anchor of his soul. Memories of my childhood are filled with the smells of incense, the soft light of candles, and the bigger-than-life statues at the front of the church. The hope of my father was that the traditions would be passed on by the parochial schools. I took home the little blue book, the catechism. It was around that book that my father and I spent most of what time we did have to be together. Teaching me the precepts of the faith was to him the most important thing he could do for me. Receiving the customs meant the continuance of the Children of Erin. As he received them, so would he pass them on.
The mid-Sixties brought with them an attack that even Cromwell in all his might could not launch. The attack came from where my father would have least expected it - Rome. Suddenly, the Protestants were no longer enemies but “separated brethren.” The nuns, those symbols of continuity, left their medieval garb. They told us the stories in the Bible were fiction; and leaving the convents, took to the streets waving placards, not crosses.
Like a tree that shudders with the first blow of the ax, my father was shaken by the waves of changes that were crashing upon the Church. Consequently, the family was jeopardized. Even as the tree is unaware of the danger from the lumberman, my father did not see the peril. He was in love, not only with his wife, but also with the Church and all she meant to Ireland. Dad was an oak tree. The winds of change that blew hard in those days bent, but did not break him. One by one he saw his children turn from the traditions. One became a hippie, one became enamored of Eastern mysticism, and another an atheist. He did not understand it, nor could I tell him that the keepers of the traditions had failed him. The age of duty had given way to the reign of rage.
The Baby Boomers marched on and the castles of convention fell one after another. Suddenly the parents wanted to be hip too. Dylan’s words “the old are seduced by the young” proved true. However, my father reminded me of another writer’s scenario. The Rivendell of J.R.R. Tolkien. The green flag, tattered though it was, was still flying over Castle Father.
I came to admire and see the wisdom of the ages in him. Time taught me that my father possessed a rare trait in the late 20th century: convictions. Our family could be traced back a thousand years or more; what he sought to pass on to us was just as time-honored. Somehow he knew, unlike the trendy nuns, that there “was nothing new under the sun.” While I was snacking on Keasey, Kerouac, and B.F. Skinner, he feasted on Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I began to see that my father had a grasp on real truth, truth that demanded loyalty. My generation sought for truth the way a child looks for candy at the corner store - whatever suits. Dad knew what devotion to the truth meant. He could not pretend everything was all right. The traditions were life and meaning, and those of his children that would not walk in them suffered estrangement.
There were some sayings in the little blue book I never forgot. Although during the Sixties we made gods in our own image, it took less than ten years to find out we were not divine. It was then that I remembered that God made me. Then I remembered the father that taught me.
© 2001 Patrick Shannon