Friday, March 3, 2023
Final Day at School, Derry/L'derry
On the last day of February, we rushed to Oakgrove’s Tuesday morning assembly in our five taxis—well, six, because the first driver wouldn’t clear his newspaper for a fourth passenger, so we had to wait an extra forty minutes for another cab—most of us arriving just in time to see John honored before the gathered body with a congratulatory cake and speech for becoming the permanent principal.
Over and
over again, our students were awed by his care and laughter and enormous
kindness, and wondered what it would be like to have such a principal. We would
see this in full force over the course of the day, especially in the evening,
when John would juggle between playing the generous host to our students, confronting
a student, his parents, and the police in his office for a full hour, guiding staff
through various other emergencies that had occurred through the day, and welcoming
Oakgrove Hands for a Bridge alumni for the evening’s potluck, interspersed with
his ridiculously disarming whale sound that he called out in equal parts to focus
attention and to enjoy himself.
This
would also be our day of farewell at the school.
Roosevelt
students recited three poems before all the students seated on the floor of the
hall, two by Seamus Heaney and one by Gwendolyn Brooks. They got through it in the
morning, but when called upon to do it again before the HFB alumni that
evening, some had to laugh their way through their contributions. That’s okay—John
had said his students had been intimidated by the confidence of the American
students, and a stumble would reassure Oakgrove, show it all possible.
But how our
students did lead, with marvelous poise and such joy later that morning, as we
met Fountain Primary School across the fence and just the other side of the
city’s 17th century walls, in the Protestant neighborhood and its Tory
red, white, and blue kerbs. For decades, they’d been joined by Long Tower
Primary, the elementary school on the nationalist side. This morning, the
children were in the gymnasium together when we arrived, watching a video about
dirt and butterflies. When they turned around and their teachers cleared the
tables, Roosevelt students led raucous games in a big circle before splitting
into smaller groups, which is when I cried a few times, more than the night
before: watching Taylor lean back on the wall and laugh as he took such full-bodied
delight in the little ones (wee ‘uns), watching Karen pat-pat the floor in gentle,
lovely encouragement, and above all, watching face after face—ours, Oakgrove’s,
Long Tower’s, Fountain’s—share unadulterated delight in one another, an entire
room enchanted by the moment.
Thursday, March 2, 2023
Theater of Witness
Yesterday ended in the upstairs sitting room of St. Columb’s House, everyone crying, one after the other launching into more. It’s that time in the trip, feeling close, getting moved, missing home but also not wanting to leave.
And today was the day we met with Ann and Kathleen, an event we knew in advance would greatly affect us all. Students had seen a ten minute Ann and Kathleen's Theater of Witness video, knew how they had collaborated with an American to create a narrative of their experiences to be staged, knew that Ann was with the IRA the same time the IRA had killed Kathleen’s husband, and that night after night they nevertheless shared the stage to tell of it. But it
was one thing to see segments of their performance on Youtube (here's the full 1:22 show, I Once Knew a Girl), and quite
another to be in the room with their stories and be enfolded in their laughter
and enduring friendship. They left us open-hearted and exposed, and, later that
night, reach out to each other in a precious vulnerability.
Before Ann and Kathleen arrived, Theater of Witness sent us Kieran and Fionnbar to warm us up with theater and drumming workshops. The energy of the twelve years with ours half again as old is something very sweet, the younger ones squirrely and energetic, looking up to the doting older ones and their willingness to try something new and goofy. This collaboration and play is part of the politics; the reaching the ears and hearts of audiences in a darkened theater is another.
Ann,
Kathleen, and one longer to Theater of Witness, James, joined us in an English
classroom for that part of it. Ann told us to be part of our journey; it might
be a bit challenging for yous, but you’ll be all right in the end.
James was
a former UVF terrorist, he said in his video segment—with a Bible in one hand
and a gun in the other, it’s death or glory. He looks back on thirty friends
murdered. But Teya Sepinuck of Theater of Witness chased a story out of him
that even his family hadn’t known, and then, it was a tremendous weight gone.
As Ann’s video played, she herself sat directly below the screen, one ear towards us and eyes cast down, explaining that she had been a twelve year old dating an eighteen one—how he’d showed her a gun and she’d thought it exciting, joining the IRA herself at eighteen. The night she was supposed to engage in a violent action, she’d had a brain hemorrhage instead. Soon she’d replaced the IRA with drugs, then an abusive marriage, existing within the damage of a culture that doesn’t get talked about here, she said, and back then, I didn’t know better. The narrative she told, and retold, again and again on stage, and that now replays before her as she attends the workshops where she listens again and again to her narrative on video, was multiplied by her stoic sitting presence before us, eye contact withheld.
Kathleen Gillespie told us how she’d met her husband at sixteen, married at twenty. Her story is a love story and a grief love story, where adoring kept on, and now Patsy still looks on—her parking angel, she told us, always there to help her find a place for her car. Mr. Gillespie had been a civilian worker in the kitchens at Fort George, just trying to support his family. In 1986, he was kidnapped for it, and made to drive a van of explosives into camp. That time, he got free. And he’d be forgiven for thinking lighting wouldn’t strike twice. But one day two armed men came into their home and said, If everyone does what we say, then no one will get hurt, and, Kathleen said, I was stupid enough to believe them. Patsy was chained to a van with a thousand pounds of explosives and it blew up, tearing Mr. Gillespie to pieces as well as five British soldiers. He’d yelled out to the soldiers, Kathleen told us: Run! The van’s fucking loaded! For years, Kathleen said, she wouldn’t go out of the house without makeup, because she knew those IRA men were still out there, and she had to be strong. But for the sake of her own physical health, I had to let go of my hatred and anger, deciding to give it to God. She joined peace and reconciliation efforts, sitting in the same room, at times, as the provos. But, she thought, if I can’t even sit and listen to their stories, how can I expect others to do this work? With
their videos through, Ann, Kathleen, and James laughed together. Taylor had
found that unnerving and somehow misplaced. But I didn’t feel that way at all,
I’d told him: this is some hard earned laughter, and as much as their pain
tells a story, so does their friendship and their joy, the victim of IRA, IRA,
UVA together.
Ann said
that in order to sit in the same room with someone like Kathleen, she had to be
nudged, because she felt Ann would hate her, and she also didn’t know she had a
story worth anything. But now, she told us, I know my worth. She became brave
enough to know she wanted a change.
Thank-you note to Ann |
One of us
asked, How do you find it in yourself to continue to live?
Oh, our hearts, to hear that.
But they responded, each of them, without judgment and tremendous wisdom and grace, and each of us on the trip responded too, and did all day and night. I am who I am because of the trauma in my life, Ann said. What does it take to see the humanity in another person? It’s when you see yourself in your own pain: that's when you can start treating yourself better. Understanding what happened, James said, is a way of accepting others, and of accepting yourself.
This is
why we tell stories. And this is why we witness them.