|Mom and Dad's Irish passports.|
In 1956, the year in which my father, my mother, and my brother emigrated from Ireland, my father was the first to leave Ireland. When my dad emigrated he did so with the sole purpose of providing a better life for his family.
Ireland was experiencing tough economic times, and with job losses all over the country, many men were forced to go to England to look for work. Just like many of the over 40,000 Irish who immigrated to Canada between 1951 and 1960, my father and mother believed Canada was a brilliant dream holding the possibility of unlimited success.
Dad left Dublin Ireland on 10 April; he was 27 years old. He did not know if he would ever again see the land of his birth, or set eyes on the brothers and sisters he loved, but he was going toward the new world filled with hopes and dreams, and a little fire in his belly. His boss at the company for which he had worked in Dublin told Dad he was a fool for leaving a good posting and immigrating to Canada. However, less than a month after Dad emigrated, the company closed down, and many men were left without employment.
My mother and my brother followed Dad to Canada in October of that year. First they flew to Liverpool, with Mom's father and two of her siblings, so Mom could say goodbye to her beloved brother Patrick. In Liverpool on 31 October they boarded the ship that would take Mom and my brother to Dad, and to their new life in Canada. Mom would never again see her father.
Throughout her life my mother spoke only occasionally about their immigration to Canada, my father spoke about it even less, and my brother was too young to recall anything of their journey. Clearly it had been a very difficult time for my mother and my father. Although the 'brilliant dream' of Canada held great promise, there were aspects about the entire process which were very upsetting.
The Irish were lucky in that they were a part of that group of countries from which immigrants were deemed 'preferable'. Still, with the changes in Canadian immigration law, the directives were just ambiguous enough to ensure anyone could be refused.
To begin with there were rigorous medical and dental examinations to ensure that the prospective immigrant was in the best possible state of health. As a bright and vigorous young woman, my mother found the whole process humiliating. 'It was', she said, 'as though they were trying their best to find something wrong with me, so they could reject me. Even my teeth had to be perfect. Not a single cavity allowed.'
|'Immigrant - Landed', the visa stamp|
in Mom's passport.
Once they arrived in Canada, any feelings of doubt or discomfort were quickly quashed by Mom's happiness at being reunited with Dad. My brother, at nearly two years of age, had not seen his father for months, and was a little shy at first, but soon delighted to once again be drawn up into Daddy's arms.
From the very beginning, right after they disembarked from the ship, there were odd little things to which Mom had to adjust, the sight of tea bags, for a start. After my mother and brother were 'processed' through immigration, Mom and Dad sat down in a nearby restaurant to have tea together before boarding the train which would take them 'home'.
Mom found it odd that the tea was served in paper cups, but that oddity was quickly surpassed by the sight of a mouse floating in her tea. With tears in her eyes she begged my father to throw it away. Trying his best not to laugh at her, Dad quickly took the 'mouse' out of the cup to reveal that it was in fact a tea bag. Given that she was raised in a country in which her tea had always been loose leaves brewed in a tea pot, poured through a strainer, and served in a china cup, Mom's first cup of tea in Canada was a bit of a shock. This little episode was a bright spot about which they always laughed.
Although light hearted moments such as these dot the landscape of my mother's memories of emigrating from Ireland, there were also unpleasant memories of their early times in Canada.
|Dad's Canadian Immigration|
When Dad first arrived he stayed with the man who had 'sponsored' his immigration. An immigrant had to have a sponsor in order to immigrate into Canada. It was the duty of the sponsor to ensure the immigrant had a place to live, and had gainful employment. You could not simply arrive and go on a job hunt. If Dad had any illusions about Canada, his sponsor quickly disabused him of those notions, and gave him a true idea of what he might be up against as an Irish immigrant. Although Dad was among the 'preferred' immigrants because of his skills and his country of origin, some ordinary citizens were not so receptive to new immigrants, believing they were taking jobs away from Canadian men.
Once he was settled into his new job, Dad went in search of housing for his family. The task was not without its challenges. In some cases as soon as they heard his Irish accent the door was slammed in his face. When finally he entered into a lease agreement with a landlord, Dad was surprised at being sternly warned that the house must be kept clean. 'How else would you keep a house, other than clean?', he wondered.
My mother was also surprised to discover people were much less welcoming than she imagined they would be. Mom found it very strange that the fact of her Irish origin created odd expectations in the minds of some people. She recalled a neighbour who said she was surprised to discover how clean and well kept Mom and Dad's home was, given the stereotype of the dirty Irish. Another found it odd that Mom and Dad had no alcohol in the house, given the stereotype of the drunken Irish.
In this strange land where people behaved oddly, Mom dearly missed the warmth of her family and her friends. Once, she told me that she spent the first two years of their time in Canada crying, and longing to move back home to Ireland. Dad very much missed his friends and family too, but they both recognized Canada as a place in which he would have steady reliable employment, and a future of bright possibility for their little family.
In his working life in Canada my father encountered men who clearly had a disdain for the Irish. In the first establishment for which he worked his boss called him by the nickname 'Paddy', instead of his proper forename Michael. Some of his co-workers quickly followed suit, and if he protested they would just laugh at him. Eventually he developed a thicker emotional skin, so to speak, in order to just get through the day. As time passed and his employers saw the good quality of his work, he began to rise in their esteem. For the most part the name calling stopped, but there were still a few who engaged in it.
Throughout my father's working life this sort of name calling was something he often encountered. In the last company for which Dad worked, the son of the owner used to call him 'Muldoon'. I recall myself as a seventeen year old going to meet my father at his work one day, and angrily calling out to this man saying, 'Sir, my father's name is Michael or Mr. Geraghty, not Muldoon, and you will please address him as such'. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I thought I would be in trouble, but the man just smiled, apologized, and said I was a good kid for standing up for my dad. Dad told me not to worry about it, to just ignore the name calling, but I truly believe he found it hurtful. I think it chipped away at him over time, and made him a more negative person.
A few months before she died, I talked to my mom about their emigration from Ireland. She said that despite her initial uncertainty, she had absolutely no regrets about the choice they made to come to Canada. Mom reminded me about the fact that she felt so very proud to be a Canadian. She talked about the year she and my dad and brother became citizens. Mom said she had been in Canada for so long that she now felt more Canadian than Irish. I'll admit I was little skeptical, still am I suppose. My parents found success in Canada, good jobs, the full ownership of their own home, and money to travel the world, but I have always wondered if there wasn't still a place in their hearts with an emptiness, a longing for home that no amount of success could ever fill.
As I think back to those cool winter evenings on which my father sat alone in our darkened living room, softly crooning songs of home, I wonder if the brilliant dream of Canada had lost a little of its glow along the way, but my father knew he could never again go home.