I’m gathering paperwork for my husband’s birthright: Irish citizenship.
The process is slow, some might say glacial, but after spending hundreds of dollars and dozens of hours, I am one document away from victory.
That’s not to say Ireland won’t stamp a big REJECT on the application once they get our pile of prosaic proof.
Things didn’t work out in the USA? Ireland doesn’t care! If you have an Irish grandfather or grandmother, you simply need to prove your relationship, and bingo!
You’ll be sipping Guinness in a pub and singing Celtic songs.
The IRA Played a Part
My family history is full of farmers with 12 kids and weathered faces, and people who moved to Oklahoma to better themselves. It’s grim.
My husband, on the other hand, has a more colorful story. It’s also grim.
Around 1880, his grandfather Peter was born in deepest Ireland before it became The Republic of Ireland. He grew up in a rural community within shouting distance of UK-controlled Northern Ireland.
The IRA was hiding behind every hedge and bush, apparently, because in 1905, gangs recruited young men from villages—as still happens today in central America and other war-torn places.
At the time, Peter was recently married and his occupation was listed as “farmer,” but your profession didn’t matter: you were either for or against the British oppressors.
What made him leave? Many versions were passed down, including a close relative getting hanged by the British.
In another version, the IRA was trying to recruit Peter. Of course, both versions could be true.
Nonetheless, still in his early 20s, he and his bride Susan got on a ship for America.
Who knows what Susan was thinking? She was a couple of years younger than Peter and spoke only Gaelic. Like many Irish, she detested the British, so she refused to speak their language.
The couple moved to Ohio and had four kids. He became a cop. She drank heavily.
Peter died young—in his early 40s—after a traffic accident when he was on patrol.
My husband’s father was 12, the oldest boy, and thrust into the role of “man of the family.” According to my husband, his dad spent the rest of his life tense but also convinced he was in charge.
Instead of becoming a cop, he into car repair.
Ireland is a Compelling Land
In the 1880s on the farm, daily life was no doubt brutal. I picture green rolling hills and sheep. I also imagine scenes from Cold Comfort Farm, the brilliant parody of farm life that removes the sheen of romance and fresh air and replaces it with mud and sheep-shagging.
I would be fine living in Ireland, although I’d want to settle in the city.
It’s not cheap to live in Dublin or Limerick or Cork, however, because farm life isn’t romantic or lucrative and Ireland has nearly universal appeal.
And universal healthcare!
According to my sources, Ireland is a place where singing in the pub is completely feasible, drunk or sober.
The people are friendly, literate, and hard-working.
It is, perhaps, what Tolkien had in mind when he dreamt up hobbits and The Shire.
As an American, my Euro desires are simple: health insurance, water nearby, sane government, and a passion for literature.
I’m not saying you can’t find those things in the US. Take Seattle, for example. If you work for a company that provides health insurance, you’re golden! Then there’s Portland, OR—if you can afford a shack for half a mil and are over 65 with Medicare, life is rosy.
America is an expensive nation, but if it weren’t for the health insurance miasma, I could see myself living here till the end.
Our Visit to the Shire
We plan on visiting Ireland in April 2024. This scheme is contingent on getting our asses out the door and saving $5K.
We don’t have a stellar track record for long trips, and I can’t remember the last time we flew somewhere together.
My last flight was to Oaxaca, an ill-fated journey I’m glad I survived. Let’s just say driving through northern Mexico at 3 am in a drafty Toyota Corolla should not be part of any vacation.
But I digress, and regress, and spin ‘round in circles.
We shall make it to The Emerald Isle; we have to. Perhaps my husband will get citizenship. All we need now is Peter’s death certificate, then updated proof of our address and passports.
Then we wait for a year, or so.
I gotta hand it to my spouse: this whole process has been breezier because he and his grandfather share the same last name. He is the son of the son of an Irishman.
Final Old Country Ramblings
In my heart, I am European. I know this because I am constantly amazed by how loud and unnecessarily outgoing Americans are.
I’m sure Europe has its share of extroverts, but I long to live somewhere in which quiet is normal. For years, I pursued caving and one of the perks was the deep underground silence.
I’m discouraged by our political quagmire, and the continued existence of the con artist, ex-Prez who sucks the air out of all civil conversation, but that’s not why I want to move.
It’s the health insurance debacle in the US that’s lighting a fire under this 50-something posterior. I’d like to work for myself without paying $700 a month for bankruptcy prevention.
I’d move almost anywhere to avoid getting another cubicle job just for the sake of health insurance, but my spouse insists learning another language (even Spanish) is beyond the pale.
He’s right, English is better, especially when spoken by a Leprechaun.
Wow, that is great investigation. I am Irish too, but do not know history except that my mother's maiden name is Murphey and my grandfather's parents came to United State on a boat...wish I knew all the details. I just sent off a 23 & me DNA kit....maybe I will find more info.
I knew there was a reason I feel a kindred spirit with your husband.