Synchronicity

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Le do thoil, Siúr, is féidir liom dul chuig an leithreas?

This means, Please, Sister, can I go to the toilet? I’ve met several Irish people here in Dublin who say this is the first Irish language they learn in school, and it’s the only thing they remember. Then when I say Go raib maith agat (thank you) as I leave, they answer back in long strings of Irish that leave me completely stymied, and we both end up laughing.

This is just to say that everyone here has been SO lovely. And not just that they’re lovely, but also that most of them either point me somewhere new in this project/journey, or end up coming along.

Take today, for example. First, we walk downtown, not quite sure how we’ll end up arranging to get to two different laundry sites where we want to get out, walk around, take pictures, etc. We get a cab, and Greg, the driver, takes us to Sean McDermott Street (a historically notorious red light district), then parks while I jump out and ask a passing woman if she knows where the original laundry was. She stops another passing woman, an older woman, and asks her if she knows where the laundry was. The older woman says, “Ay, I know more than I want to.” She points out the building site for me (now low income housing—we’d parked right in front of it), points to a church that’s now an addiction treatment center and says, “That was my church,” shows me the main laundry entrance gate and arch (still there), and she walks on. I take pictures and get back in the cab.

Sean McDermott St. old entrance

Next, Greg takes us all over Drumcondra (another Dublin district), looking for the High Park laundry site. We can’t find it (there are no street addresses for ANY of the old laundry sites), and finally we stop in a women’s shelter, because I think, they’ll know where it was. I meet two women (domestic violence victims) who practically drag me to the building’s back windows. The shelter is BUILT on the site of the former High Park complex! They point out the old convent, the old church, and they point to where the laundry was. Soon I’m in a lively conversation with the two women and with Evelyn, the receptionist, about the Magdalens, the church, whether or not the shelter and grounds are haunted, and why I’m here. Evelyn tells me High Park used to be called “the holy land” back in the day, because the church owned so much property. On the former laundry site itself, there is a handmade poster in the lobby of the shelter dedicated to the Magdalen women, but no other official marker, monument, remembrance—nothing.

High Park former convent

Next, Greg takes us to Glasnevin cemetery, where I know many Magdalens are buried, including the cremated remains of some of the 155 women discovered in unmarked graves on the High Park laundry property after the Sisters of Charity sold off a parcel to developers. On the way, Greg begins to open up about family stories involving the church (his father stood up to the nuns and threated to put Greg and his siblings in Protestant school), and about the hard lives of working people in the Glasnevin area, where a rich dairy family once owned everything. Greg still lives near the cemetery, so when he drops us there, he stops the clock and says he’ll go home, do a few things, and come back for us in an hour.

In the cemetery office, I ask about the Magdalen gravesite. They’re quite sheepish and won’t tell me where it is, saying it’s a very sensitive issue and they want to be sure the gravesite is protected. They point me to a marker in the cemetery, away from the gravesite, dedicated to the memory of the Magdalens. Turns out the marker stands by itself, in the grassy island of a parking lot—just another way the tragedy of these women is hushed, hidden, or brushed aside.

Magdalen marker in a parking lot

for the "pentitents"

Tiny marker for Arrchbishop/Cardinal McCabe

eternal pillow fluffing

An hour later, there’s Greg. He drives us to John Kavanaugh’s Gravediggers Pub just outside the back gate of the cemetery. It’s been around since 1833, and according to their advertising, “…We cannot facilitate groups. NO BOOKINGS. First come first serve, walkins welcomed.

Cash Only. Oh and we've no TV, no Music piped or live, no Wifi and No website-Cheers!” So Greg parks outside, turns off his meter, and stays in the cab (he doesn’t drink, we learn) while we go in Gravediggers. I have a 1/2-pint and a chat with bartender Mark, who stops me from drinking my Guiness before it settles. Guiness etiquette. ;)

Gravediggers, where the gravediggers used to drink after a long day.

Mark finally lets me drink my beer.

Back in the cab, Greg drops us at our final stop for the day, the National Museum of Ireland, to see Irish glass artist Allison Lawry’s exhibit, “(A)dressing Our Hidden Truths.” The exhibit is a mix of glassworks, mixed media works, and a filmed performance piece, all relating to the laundries, Ireland’s mother & baby homes, and domestic violence. Baby booties made of glass. Christening gowns made of glass. 10,000 figures cut out of 5-euro bills, pouring out of mass offertory cups. Glass scissors hanging over a pile of hair, suspended from rosaries. Sharp, breakable, beautiful, brutal.

glass christening gown

Our total taxi fare for the day? About 50 euros, or about $55. And guess who’s picking us up tomorrow to take us to two more laundry sites? Yep. Greg.

Finally, we walk downtown for dinner and find a pub near St. Stephen’s Green. I ask a server if she knows where there is a bench in the Green dedicated to the Magdalen women. By the time we’re done talking, I know where the bench is, and I also know about a well-known poem called “Six Nuns Die in Convent Inferno” by Irish poet Paul Durcan, which portrays the inner life of a dying nun. Had I mentioned my own poetry project to this young woman? No. But I left her my card, because from all of these chance encounters, these seeds that drop and drift, who knows what more will grow?

To read a long excerpt of Durcan’s much longer poem: http://www.ronnowpoetry.com/contents/durcan/Weresided.html