D'Arcy McGee

I mentioned previously that the Irish family from which I’m descended is named McGee. And so Thomas D’Arcy McGee has always been special to me. He was a member of the Young Irelanders in the 1840s, a journalist in Ireland, the US, and Canada, and ended his days as one of Canada’s Fathers of Confederation. Indeed, he is arguably the man who first conceived of Canada in its modern form and extent.

He was born in Carlingford in Ireland in 1825, and he participated in the Famine Rebellion – one of the many revolutions raging across Europe in 1848 – for which a warrant was issued for his arrest, resulting in his escape to the US. He worked there as a journalist in Boston and New York before eventually moving to Montreal in 1857, where he became politically active, and within a year, was elected to the Legislative Assembly of the Province of Canada. At that time, the Province of Canada was a simple colony; a legislative union between what had been Upper Canada and Lower Canada, and would later become the provinces of Ontario and Quebec respectively in modern Canada. Canada as we know it today did not yet exist.

But it was McGee who conceived of it and urged the people of British North America on to a new nationality. As early as 1860, he stood up in the legislature, and said to the members:

I see in the not remote distance one great nationality, bound, like the shield of Achilles, by the blue of the ocean.

I see it quartered into many communities, each disposing of its own internal affairs, but all bound together by free institutions, free intercourse, free commerce.

I see, within the round of that shield, the peaks of the western mountains and the crests of the eastern waves. The winding Assinaboine, the five-fold lakes, the St. Lawrence, the Ottawa, the Sauguenay, the St. John, the Basin of Minas, by all these flowing waters in all the valleys they fertilize. In all the cities they visit in their courses, I see a generation of industrious, contented moral men, free in name and in fact – men capable of maintaining, in peace and in war, a constitution worthy of such a country.

With these words, he first gave Canadians a vision of the future, and one that ultimately came true in every respect, although he himself lived to see a Canada that stretched only from the Atlantic to Lake Superior. But he was one of those who worked to achieve it. After the US Civil War ended, the leaders of British North America, fearing annexation, came together to work out the details of Confederation. These were the Fathers of Confederation, and prominent among them was D’Arcy McGee.

The irony here is great. As a younger man, McGee fought for the independence of Ireland from Britain. Yet he ended his days as one of those most instrumental in conceiving and realizing the creation of the first dominion in the British Empire, Canada. In fact, as one of the members elected to its first parliament, he lived long enough to see his dream realized – but only just. Canada became a nation in July, 1867; McGee died not even a year later in April, 1868: assassinated by Patrick J. Whelan, a Fenian sympathizer who considered McGee a traitor to the cause.

Today, on the street on which he lived, Sparks Street in Ottawa, the prominent Thomas D’Arcy McGee Building stands near the site where he died; an office building owned by the federal government that houses the Ottawa headquarters of the Royal Bank of Canada (a private institution not to be confused with the Bank of Canada, which controls the Canadian dollar). Not far away on the same street is the pub, “D’Arcy McGee’s”, which serves as a favoured watering hole of federal politicians. Schools, towns, and electoral ridings are named after Thomas D’Arcy McGee; Patrick J. Whelan, hanged for his crime, is a footnote in Canadian history.

In the town of McGee's birth there is monument to him, dedicated there in circa 1990 by the (then) Canadian Prime Minister, Brian Mulroney, and the Irish Taioseach, Charles Haughey. As it turns out, Carlingford is in County Louth, which I didn’t realize until today. There’s another irony here, but this one’s sweet. The photograph accompanying the beginning of this post is actually composited from two photos, both taken by me. One is of the statue of McGee himself, taken by me in July, 2007 on a trip to Parliament Hill in Ottawa. In order to get the detail in the dark statue, the camera altered the white balance and completely blanked out the sky behind him. I thought it would improve it to put in a sky like the one there that day, so I decided on one from my recent trip to Ireland last May. And the one I chose I took in a backyard in... County Louth. Only after doing so did I realize how justly I had put his own native sky behind him, strangely uniting the places where his life began and ended; the nebulous possibilities of his birth and the solidity of the achievements of his life; an unintentional, but appropriate, act that pleases me. I think it would have pleased McGee, an accomplished poet:

Long, long ago, beyond the misty space
Of twice a thousand years
In Erin old there dwelt a mighty race,
Taller than Roman spears;
Like oaks and towers they had a giant grace,
Were fleet as deers,
With wind and waves they made their 'biding place,
These western shepherd seers.

From The Celts, by D’Arcy McGee

The trip home

My last morning in Dublin followed my last night in Dublin, which might have been my "last morning-after my last night-before" in Dublin. Fortunately, I wasn't hung over or any the worse for wear when I woke up.

I spent some time putting my stuff together, getting things packed, making sure I hadn't forgotten or overlooked anything, and I headed downstairs. In the living room, I found Chris and Finn sprawled on the L-shaped couch in ways guys can only manage when they're too drunk to notice how uncomfortable they are. I didn't see Jay anywhere, but later on it turned out he was sacked out in the front room, the door to which was closed. I wandered around, rejigged my stuff, brought it down, and started getting antsy about making my flight, which was around noon. In Canada, living next door to the United States of Paranoia, I've gotten used to the idea you get to the airport at least two hours in advance of your flight. But no one seemed particularly bothered about it as time went by. At one point, I started wondering if I shouldn't hail a cab. Then Jay appeared, followed not long after by Dave. Even then, the urgency didn't seem to be real to anyone else but me. I found out why. Someone turned on the radio and they happened to mention that there was a big soccer match (or something) going on in England, and everyone was catching flights to it, so you'd better be smart and give yourself lots of time at the airport... maybe even an hour early.

An hour? On an unusually busy day? No wonder nobody but me was concerned. But, like I said, some things are different.

I said my good-byes and my thanks to Mary, who never once failed to make me feel at home despite the fact she had Cara to look after and another baby due in just a few weeks. No one could doubt the sincerity of Irish hospitality after that. It was another thing that impressed me that, yes, there are some things that are different on either side of the Atlantic.

Jay and Dave took me to the airport, reversing the course we'd taken when I'd arrived. It was a perfect send-off. They didn't just drop me and go, but they didn't linger and let things get maudlin. They came in with me and stood with me as long as they could before security protocols dictated we had to part. I thought it was nice that Jay came in to see me off, too, because I'd come to see him as a friend apart from Dave. I know it's a cliche, but I as I stood there, I really did find myself wishing I could stay longer. I watched them as they walked away, staying in Ireland, forever part of what I'd only managed to touch for a few brief days.

I remembered how I'd entered Ireland as an Irish citizen, proud of my Irish passport. Now I brought out my Canadian passport, travelling back to Canada as a Canadian. It just seemed like the appropriate thing to do. Strange to be one thing one day and something the next, but really, to be the same thing all along. They put a sticker on my passport, admitted me to the secure area of the airport, and I went inside.

I lingered in the bookstore there. I saw a lot of books about Irish history, and I was tempted. My last €25 were burning a hole in my pocket. I also saw a book about a recent discovery, some 47-million-year-old primate they'd named "Ida", who was supposedly ancestral to both wet-nosed and dry-nosed primates (a no-longer-missing link, as it were), and I nearly picked that up, but didn't. I wish I had; by the time I got home, it was a big deal all over YouTube. It would have made a nice souvenir. Oh, well.

I sat in the waiting area, looking at the other passengers bound for Toronto, and I played a game trying to figure out which ones were Irish going for a trip and which ones were Canadians going home. I figured most of them were Canadians, but when I was finally standing in the line to board, and everyone's passports were out, half, or maybe more, were burgundy, not blue. It's nice to know that some people still want to visit Canada. One guy I overheard, about 20 or so, was actually from Northern Ireland and heading to Canada for some sporting event way out west or something. I didn't envy him the trip; getting to Toronto was probably just a little over half way. But he was excited. I hope he had a good time.

When I got on the plane, I had the middle seat in my row, which sucks. But I made the best of it. At the window seat was a very slight woman, who was virtually never in my way when I availed myself of opportunities to shoot out the window...

Here is the takeoff from Dublin airport.

A view over Ireland, just west of Dublin.

Other views, a little further west.


Quite a bit later on, this is over the north Atlantic. The very, very white patches are ice in the ocean. When I was looking at this stuff, I was imagining my grandmother, coming over on a steamship, almost a century ago. What must have taken her days, or even a week, took me a quarter of a day.

Video over the north Atlantic.

When I got home to Toronto, the friends who'd dropped me off the week before were there to pick me up. As I made my way out of the terminal to the pick-up zone, I remember how strange it felt to be back in Canada. It was like some place I'd made up becoming suddenly real... like a place you're used to isn't quite real for you, and its reality is only brought home to you when it's been absent from your life for a while. While being overseas made Ireland a "real" place for me, somehow something about the experience made Toronto a "real" place for me, too, instead of just the backdrop of my life. It seemed like an unexpected bonus at the end of the most wonderful trip I've ever been on. I have so much to be grateful for, and so many to be grateful to. And I hope to see them again, so I can tell them so, face to face.

Sláinte.

Ireland Park, Toronto

Since I’ve mentioned the Rowan Gillespie statues in Toronto in a previous post, I thought it fitting that I should show them here.


The statues in Dublin have been there since, if I’m not mistaken, 1999 or so. Ours are much more recent. They date from 2007. Mary McAleese, the President of Ireland, visited to open Ireland Park at that time, opposite the Island Airport.


It was there, at the foot of Bathurst Street, that 38,000 Irish emigrants arrived in the summer of 1847. At that time, the population of Toronto itself was only 20,000. The present population of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) is just shy of 6 million, so this would be the equivalent of nearly 11 million people arriving here in one year. Imagine the strain on the public purse and resources.

They arrived on “coffin ships”. Remember that Toronto is on the first of the Great Lakes, a long, long way inland... an entire time zone inland from the Atlantic Ocean. That they came this far is astounding. Many, many of them were ill with typhoid, and many of them died here — along with the many brave souls who tended to them, among them Toronto’s first Roman Catholic bishop, Michael Power; like myself, a native Nova Scotian from Halifax.

Stacks of stone, shipped here from (if I recall correctly) County Kerry, were arranged in the shape of a ship. On the sides of the stones have been carved all the known names, so far, of typhoid victims among the Irish immigrants of that summer.


A kiosk of interactive presentations has been created by the City to educate the public.


While I did see people visiting the statues in Dublin, I didn’t see evidence of tribute the way I did at Ireland Park. There, people were laying bouquets, long stemmed roses, pressing coins into the hands of the statues (in particular, that of the expectant mother)...


Most poignant of all, someone had brought four perfect potatoes (in reference to Ireland’s four provinces?) and left them at the head of the famine/typhoid victim.


The only joyful or exhalant of all of Rowan Gillespie’s Famine statues on either side of the Atlantic is this one, a man who seems to behold the future of his people. Beyond him is the city, the province, and the country the Irish Diaspora built, in concert with so many others.


Collectively, these five statues are known as "The Arrival", as I've read those in Dublin are "The Departure".

A fast introduction to Dublin

David waggled his finger at his father and brother in the pub in Santry, admonishing them, in reference to me, “This man pays for nothing while he’s here.”

To a large, and somewhat embarrassing, extent during my stay in Ireland, that was the case. I was supplied with copious amounts of drink and food, my lodgings were free, and my transportation was essentially the gift of friends of friends. Ireland, in the form of a dozen people or so, opened her arms to me, a full-fledged member of her Diaspora, and embraced me.

I crossed the Atlantic with €500 (over $800 Canadian) in various places on my person. I came home with about twenty-five. It vanished in my attempts to stand my share of rounds (I never could keep up), souvenirs for family and friends, and my insistence on paying for some of the meals out. On the whole, there’s no question I came out far, far ahead. And not just financially.

The people I lodged with were not, strictly speaking, family, though I’m not romanticizing or embellishing when I say that I strongly have that sense of them. At every instance, they treated me like blood, and honestly, without guile or pretension. This is all the more overwhelming to me because of the nature of my family here. We, and the people I know, are by and large WASPish, reserved, undemonstrative — regardless of race or religion. Even close friends maintain a certain froideure. It’s not exactly at the level of Germans who work side by side for decades and still address one another as “Herr”, but there’s a noticeable difference between Toronto and Dublin in this regard. I had never met David, or his wife Mary, before… aside from internet exchanges, phone conversations, and a few packages. But I was accorded a welcome like an old friend come home again. And not just by them, but by their extended family and friends as well. Listen to me as I tell you the story of my week in Ireland.

* * * * *

I dozed through the six-hour flight from Toronto to Dublin. I can’t strictly say I slept. My boss, originally from Spain and an adventurous traveler, gave me some non-prescription pills to battle jetlag, and I have to say, they quite did the trick, coming and going. What I do know is, I took a shot of the graphic of the plane leaving Toronto, and I remember it catching the corner of New York on its way to Montreal… and then I remember seeing us flying over Shannon and approaching Limerick. A small mercy for a guy who isn’t enamored of flying.


At some point during the flight, one of the flight attendants came around with declaration forms non-EU passengers had to fill out. It was with no small thrill that I proudly informed her I had an Irish passport. It was with an even bigger thrill that I passed through customs at the airport. People with blue passports and the forms queued up in a long, slow line. Those of us with burgundy passports passed through much more quickly. I handed the man in the booth my Irish passport; he glanced at it for three or four seconds, passed it back to me, and nodded me in. Into Ireland. My country. My other home. That was all the dreaming, all the work of getting the documents and the registration and the passport, made real... come true. I would never presume to call myself an Irishman... but I was Irish. And that was enough.


So suddenly there I was, in another country, on another continent. I’ve been to the United States, but that’s really just more Canada... or vice-versa. But here I was, in Europe, in Ireland. Standing there alone, waiting for my bag to show up on the belt, wondering what was ahead of me. Would I find my friend? Would we get along? Would I be a week-long toothache for him? I certainly hoped not.


And there I was, bag in hand, coming out into the common area. And he spotted me. He, Dave — and his friend… a man who turned out to be, in fact, his brother, Jason, of whom I had heard much over the years. Jason drives; Dave doesn’t. But Jason never showed a moment of resentment for his chore of ferrying his brother’s friend around over several days, or accompanying us on several bus trips. I came to regard Jay as a friend on his own terms… particularly later that day.

Everyone in Ireland drives standard, I guess. Jason does. His VW Rabbit zipped along the road south of the airport to his brother’s home in Ballymun, which for me, will forever be “home” when I think of Ireland and Dublin. There was an alley behind their place where we parked… a longtime fan of British television, I was reminded somehow of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole. I have seen places like that in Toronto, but it’s not quite the same.


And I met Mary, and Dave and Mary’s daughter Cara. Mary is expecting, very soon. But she seemed without a care for it, and was so gracious and considerate to me, a virtual stranger, that the sense of blood relation truly washed over me. It was a real revelation for me, come from beyond the wave, as the song goes.

It was a fast couple or hours that saw me in Ballymun, putting my things away in a the room that will soon be Cara’s. After that, it was off to Santry, where Jason and his father and some of their siblings live. This is a story for another installment.