My dad, the eldest of five siblings, would have to go to neighborhood bars to get his father. I can see him: a big kid, in charge, but still a child, walking to the bar through city streets. What was my father thinking? Was he playing a script in his mind about what he’d say to get his father to leave the alcohol behind?
The streets of Woodside, Queens, were loud. People coming and going from the markets. People disappearing and reappearing from the subway. Old women heading in and out of Saint Sebastian’s. The rattling El reverberating through the bodies below.
But my father walked tall and quick through it all. He was known as a tough kid. He once told me about a guy, already a man, who messed with him when he was barely a teenager. This guy caught my dad unaware, hitting him across the face with a chain on the subway. My father was with his mom and did nothing then. He got even later.
It was Easter morning. My dad was dressed in his Sunday clothes, ready to go to Catholic mass, when he saw the guy in the street. My father hit him once in the jaw, knocking him out. When the guy hit the ground, my dad didn’t stop. He kicked the unconscious man until his body lodged under a car.
My dad knew this dispute wouldn’t end. The guy he hurt would want revenge and it would be worse than what my father did. Luckily for my dad, the guy stole a car and was with his friends racing out on the LIE (Long Island Expressway) when they crashed. The guy died instantly, ending the dispute.
My father taught me how to fight. He taught me to hit first and hit hard. “Picture a face behind the face and punch the one in the background,” he said. “Punch through the actual face.” Some people were dangerous and he wanted me to know how to hurt them before they hurt me.
When my dad walked into the bar to get his father, he was no bigger than the stools the men sat on. The bartender must have known the boy getting his dad. “Vincent, your kid’s here.“ They called my grandfather Vinny or Vincent, even though his actual name was Patrick. When he was born, his mom wanted to name him after Saint Vincent, but his father wanted to name him Patrick, as the first born male is always named in our family. Not wanting to upset his wife, he named him Patrick on the birth certificate, but told his wife he named him Vincent. My grandfather didn’t find out his actual name until he joined the army and saw his birth certificate.
I wonder if my great grandfather was a little afraid of my great grandmother. I wonder if that was why he chose to hide my grandfather’s name? She was a tough lady. They were both from Abbeyfeale, Ireland. Abbeyfeale was known as a stronghold in the resistance against English occupation. In fact, during an uprising, English soldiers wiped out nearly the whole town, slaughtering entire families. Story has it that my great grandfather came to the US because he was wanted by the English government for tossing bombs into English tanks.
As a member of the IRA, my great grandfather would pedal up on a bicycle with a homemade bomb in his hand and drop it into the tank, blowing British soldiers to bits. Eventually, my great grandfather had to flee, getting passage on the Queen Mary for New York City.
I don’t know if any of this is true, though. Much later, my grandmother would tell me it was just a story my grandfather and his brothers told themselves. She said my great grandfather wasn’t in the IRA at all. He left because he was unemployed and he needed work. “There was nothing to do in Ireland,” she said.
When I told my father what his mom said, he became infuriated. It was as though he turned into a little boy again. “So, it’s all a lie,” he shouted at his mom. “Everything dad told me is a lie.” He stormed off and my grandmother remained silent, knowing it was best not to challenge her grown son when he was angry.
Regardless of why my great grandfather immigrated, before he left Ireland, he told the woman he loved that he would send money back so she could pay for passage and meet him in Harlem, New York, which had a large population of Irish immigrants. After settling in and getting a job for Con Edison, he did as he said, sending money back to Abbeyfeale so the woman he loved could join him.
But she got cold feet and refused to leave. It was her sister who took the passage and showed up in Harlem. This woman became my great grandmother.
She was a tough woman who worked as a maid for rich native New Yorkers. She didn’t marry my grandfather right away. She took her time, settled in herself, and then said yes. After her first child was born, she believed her son was named after the patron saint of the poor. She died young, of a stroke while tying my grandfather’s shoelace for school. She never knew her son’s real name.
My dad walked in the bar and grabbed my grandfather’s leg, telling him it was time to head home. “Dinner’s ready, dad,” he said. “Mom’s looking for you.”
“Go on, Vincent,” said the bartender. “You’ve had enough. We’ll see you tomorrow, hey.”
My father must’ve wondered why he was bringing him home. It didn’t stop his drinking. Even when he was walking the beat as a cop, he had a thermos filled with vodka.
Regardless, he walked his father out of the bar. They walked together down the sidewalks, the concrete pushed up and cracked by the roots of the giant elms that lined 58th Street. My father always stood a step behind his father, ready to catch him if he fell.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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