Michael Patrick MacDonald - Easter Rising: A Memoir of Roots and Rebellion

Copyright 2006 by Michael Patrick MacDonald

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhco.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

MacDonald, Michael Patrick

Easter rising : an Irish American coming up from under / Michael Patrick MacDonald.

p. cm.

ISBN -13: 978-0-618-47025-9

ISBN -10: 0-618-47025-5

1. MacDonald, Michael PatrickChildhood and youth. 2. Irish AmericansMassachusettsBostonBiography. 3. South Boston (Boston, Mass.)Biography. 4. MacDonald family. 5. Irish American familiesMassachusettsBoston. 6. Boston (Mass.)Biography. 7. South Boston (Boston, Mass.)Social life and customs. 8. South Boston (Boston, Mass.)Social conditions. 9. Boston (Mass.)Social life and customs. 10. Boston (Mass.)Social conditions. I. Title.

F 73.68. S 7 M 34 2006

305.891'62073074461dc22 2006009767

e ISBN 978-0-547-52723-9

v2.0415

Some names have been changed to disguise or protect some identities.

In Excelsis Deo, written by Patti Smith. Published by Linda Music (ASCAP). Used by permission. All rights reserved. Search and Destroy, words and music by Iggy Pop and James Williamson. 1973 EMI Music Publishing Ltd., James Osterberg Music, Straight James Music, and Bug Music. All rights for EMI Music Publishing Ltd. controlled and administered by Screen Gems-EMI Music Inc. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission. Good Times, by Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers. 1979 Bernards Other Music & Tommy Jymi, Inc. All rights administered by Warner Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Boogie Wonder land, words and music by Jon Lind and Allee Willis. 1979 EMI Blackwood Music Inc., Irving Music, Inc. and Big Mystique Music. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permission. We Are Family, by Bernard Edwards and Nile Rodgers. 1979 Bernards Other Music and Sony Songs, Inc. All rights for Bernards Other Music administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

CHILDREN OF

Helen (MacDonald) King

D AVID L EE M AC D ONALD

b. May 10, 1956

d. August 9, 1979, age twenty-three

J OHN J OSEPH M AC D ONALD

b. April 25, 1957

M ARY M AC D ONALD

and J OSEPH M AC D ONALD

b. April 4, 1958

F RANCIS X AVIER M AC D ONALD

b. November 24, 1959

d. July 17, 1984, age twenty-four

K ATHLEEN M AC D ONALD

b. December 26, 1961

coma JanuaryApril 1981, age nineteen

K EVIN P ATRICK M AC D ONALD

b. February 27, 1963

d. March 5, 1985, age twenty-two

P ATRICK M ICHAEL M AC D ONALD

b. March 21, 1964

d. April 15, 1964, age three weeks

M ICHAEL P ATRICK M AC D ONALD

b. March 9, 1966

S EAMUS C OLEMAN K ING

b. September 17, 1975

S TEPHEN P ATRICK K ING

b. December 3, 1976

I LEARNED TO JUMP subway fares by tagging along with my brother Kevin and his friends on shoplifting ventures outside the project. Downtown Boston was only three stops but worlds away from Old Colony Project. I was ten, and Southies busing riots of the past two years had now dissipated into the occasional scuffle with the police. Still, everyone in our neighborhood always said how dangerous it was to leave. It was still the world against Southie and Southie against the world. So for me there was a terrifying thrill in leaving the neighborhood at all. The more I snuck on those trains, the more it felt like traveling to another country, like I was a tourist about to see strange lands and stranger people for the very first time.

At first our technique was basic. Wed wait at the top of the stairs of Andrew Station until we heard a train arriving, then dart down the stairs, hop over the turnstiles, and bolt for the trains doors. By the time we were lined up at the four turnstiles, the train would be just making its final wshhhh sound, which Kevin said was the air releasing from the brake cylinder. Wed each lift off, hands on either side of the turnstile, and drive our legs over the bars feet first, landing as far out as we could. By the time we landed, the fare taker would be screaming and knocking on his scratched and blurry Plexiglas windows, mouthing what I imagined was You little fucks! Right about then I knew we would hear the train doors open with a collective rumble. If we did it according to Kevins exact timingif we started running downstairs at just the right moment, when the train was first coming to a halt with a long screech of the brakeswed usually make it inside just before we felt the suction of the doors closing behind us. No one ever chased after us in the early days, so we probably didnt have to turn it into the heart-racing caper it always felt like. But it was great each time to feel the breeze of those clackety doors nearly catching my shirt. Id take a deep breath in relief, and then in expectation.

If the train we hopped came from the suburbs, it would be one of the brand-new modern ones, carrying all whites. But if it had come from Dorchester it would be one of the old, rundown ones and filled with blacks. I would go off by myself to grab a seat and silently take in all the newness, black or white. But my brother Kevin seemed interested only in getting the fuck in, and getting the fuck outback to Southie. To him we were on a mission, and he was all business. Hed make me stand up so that we were all sticking together. Hed keep us huddled around him while he told us what to do and what not to do around all these dangerous blacks and goofy-looking white people from the world that was not Southie. And hed whack me in the head every time I snuck a glance at the people he was talking about. But after a few minutes our huddle would fall apart. As we tried to keep our feet firmly planted on the bumpy ride, I always seemed to have the worst balance, flailing backward and sideways with the trains chaotic twists and turns. I didnt mind, though, as long as I never hit the floor.

Riding the trains was my favorite thing to do even before the trips with Kevin. Ma always told us we should want to go places, like Dorchester or Jamaica Plain. For Chrissake, dont you wanna see the world? she said. On my eighth birthday she took me all the way to Park Street Station and put me on the Green Line to Jamaica Plain, where Nana would be waiting at the other end to take me out for a birthday dinner. The old trolley looked like it was the first one ever built, with bars over square windows that opened. Best of all, it had a drivers booth at both endsI guessed that was so it didnt have to turn around at the end of the line. That seemed like the greatest day in the world, being trusted to get on a Green Line trolley all by myself. I kept thinking that to drown out how nervous I was getting. I sat in the backward-facing drivers seat and waved to Ma on the platform while I pretended to myself that I was the conductor. Ma disappeared from view, and I distracted myself by trying to think up an excuse for why I was driving backward. But before I could, all the excitement and the backward driving made me puke out the window into the blackness of the tunnel. I went to sit in a normal remaining seat, to pretend like nothing had happened. On the forty-five-minute-long journey, I let my fears get the best of me, though, and imagined that I would end up on this one-way trip forever and never see my family again. Worst of all, I was soon the only passenger remaining. When the train came to a final screeching halt, the driver shut off the engine and the lights and barked, Last stop! Arborway! while packing up his things like he was going home. My heart was in my mouth until I saw Nana waving and running across the ghost town of a train yard. The sight of Nana was unmistakable, always in a loose navy blue polka-dot dress, shoes you saw at drugstores, and a flowered kerchief tied snugly under her chin. For Chrissake, you look like Mother Hubbard, Ma would snap at her when Nana complained about Mas miniskirts and spike heels. For me though, Nanas old-fashionedness was calming. And this day the sight of her was more comforting than ever. I hopped off the trolley stairs in one leap. Nana greeted me as she always did, not saying hello but spitting on a napkin that seemed like it had been in her purse forever and rubbing it into my cheeks until they hurt. Nana talked about rosy cheeks like they were the most important thing in the world for people to see. Well go for a wee supper now, she said in that Donegal way that made everything sound like both an exclamation and a question. Well over my fears, I greeted her by saying that riding the subways was just about the greatest thing in the world and that I couldnt wait to do it again.