Antipodean diasporic interactions...
Apr. 29th, 2003 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbcI must confess: the notion of calling upon distant relations—and staying with them, without having previously met—is a wholly foreign concept to me.
But I’m just back in Sydney after a long weekend with my cousin Gerry. Gerry’s grandmother is my grandmother’s first cousin, making them third cousins, my Da her 4th cousin/3rd once removed, and me her5th cousin (or 3rd cousin, twice removed in Irish terms). Which makes perfect sense to me, though apparently not to everyone. Here’s an abrogated family tree, if that helps
In 1873, Eugene Gibbons was a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC), the national police force of the British colonial government in Ireland. He lived in rural Galway in the west of Ireland in a town called Portumna, near Tuam, though the family referred to their home regions as Clonkela. Eugene’s Da (Johnny) had farmlands and had come through the famine years in much better shape than most of their peers. Thus Eugene must’ve been quite literate (many Irish could read but not write; to be a RIC required both), though his mother tongue was almost certainly English.
The RIC, most of whom at that time were local, Catholic men (later they would be imported from Britain, for reasons soon to be obvious), and as such most likely navigated cleverly between their articulated duties and the realities of trying to police family and neighbours, friend and foe alike. Arrests were avoided, and in all likelihood a good thumping was preferred to taking someone into custody; ‘twas all a matter of local custom. Some probably thought less of Eugene for joining the Constabulary—maybe even the majority of his community. The Famine of 1846-49 concomitantly knocked the snot out of many, shifting a resentment of the British to a full-fledged hatred. Of those who hadn’t died or emigrated—in the West of Ireland roughly one third left, one third died and one third remained.
Then there was the matter of evictions. RIC officers were required to evict tenant farmers who were behind in their rents and duties. Apparently Eugene managed to avoid evicting his neighbours for a long time (it’s unclear from family narratives if he evicted others outside Portumna). But a day came where he could avoid it no more, and would have to evict one of his neighbours.
He couldn’t.
His refusal gave him two choices: stay and go to gaol (jail), or exile himself. To avoid any difficulties for his family, Eugene disappeared without a trace. Several months later a letter arrived, detailing his journey across Ireland to the ferry (probably from Dun Laoghire, near Dublin) to Liverpool. And his subsequent voyage to South Australia and the city of Adelaide. He never saw his family—or Ireland—again.
Nearly 40 years later, his youngest brother Tom’s daughter Kathleen was growing restless herself. A bright, spirited woman—she acquired fluency in Irish in a time when the language was largely dead in her community—a few years’ itinerant teaching, combined with the tight reins of her Da made her decide to emigrate herself. Rather than following her older sister Eileen to New York, she set her sights on Australia, and perhaps Uncle Eugene—who by this time was a police chief in South Australia and had married and had 5 daughters and 4 sons—in Adelaide. The counsel of her parish priest led to give America a try instead, and its possibility of return visits if so desired.
Kathleen Gibbons Egan—my grandmother, Nanny to all—always spoke wistfully of Australia, and how her (great and wonderful) life might’ve been, had she gone to Australia instead. Nanny had 5 daughters of her own, and 3 sons, including my father Padraic. Her children had 18 children, who have had 27 more. Conversely, Eugene’s 9 kids had 8 children, whom had only 2—my cousins Gerry and John. And yes, they’re as Catholic as we are. Go figure.
As for the visit, it was grand…Gerry and I got on like a house of fire, chattering away about our experiences as Gibbons progeny, and a host of tangential subjects (she’s in the midst of her doctorate; I just finished mine). Some physical and social/customary similarities were striking. A definite highlight was lunch on Sunday with Gerry and Peter (Gerry’s husband), Gerry’s Auntie Winifred and her son John.
The Australian Gibbons are lovely folks, and we had a grand time.
I think I need to write a book about all this. Somehow.
But I’m just back in Sydney after a long weekend with my cousin Gerry. Gerry’s grandmother is my grandmother’s first cousin, making them third cousins, my Da her 4th cousin/3rd once removed, and me her5th cousin (or 3rd cousin, twice removed in Irish terms). Which makes perfect sense to me, though apparently not to everyone. Here’s an abrogated family tree, if that helps
In 1873, Eugene Gibbons was a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC), the national police force of the British colonial government in Ireland. He lived in rural Galway in the west of Ireland in a town called Portumna, near Tuam, though the family referred to their home regions as Clonkela. Eugene’s Da (Johnny) had farmlands and had come through the famine years in much better shape than most of their peers. Thus Eugene must’ve been quite literate (many Irish could read but not write; to be a RIC required both), though his mother tongue was almost certainly English.
The RIC, most of whom at that time were local, Catholic men (later they would be imported from Britain, for reasons soon to be obvious), and as such most likely navigated cleverly between their articulated duties and the realities of trying to police family and neighbours, friend and foe alike. Arrests were avoided, and in all likelihood a good thumping was preferred to taking someone into custody; ‘twas all a matter of local custom. Some probably thought less of Eugene for joining the Constabulary—maybe even the majority of his community. The Famine of 1846-49 concomitantly knocked the snot out of many, shifting a resentment of the British to a full-fledged hatred. Of those who hadn’t died or emigrated—in the West of Ireland roughly one third left, one third died and one third remained.
Then there was the matter of evictions. RIC officers were required to evict tenant farmers who were behind in their rents and duties. Apparently Eugene managed to avoid evicting his neighbours for a long time (it’s unclear from family narratives if he evicted others outside Portumna). But a day came where he could avoid it no more, and would have to evict one of his neighbours.
He couldn’t.
His refusal gave him two choices: stay and go to gaol (jail), or exile himself. To avoid any difficulties for his family, Eugene disappeared without a trace. Several months later a letter arrived, detailing his journey across Ireland to the ferry (probably from Dun Laoghire, near Dublin) to Liverpool. And his subsequent voyage to South Australia and the city of Adelaide. He never saw his family—or Ireland—again.
Nearly 40 years later, his youngest brother Tom’s daughter Kathleen was growing restless herself. A bright, spirited woman—she acquired fluency in Irish in a time when the language was largely dead in her community—a few years’ itinerant teaching, combined with the tight reins of her Da made her decide to emigrate herself. Rather than following her older sister Eileen to New York, she set her sights on Australia, and perhaps Uncle Eugene—who by this time was a police chief in South Australia and had married and had 5 daughters and 4 sons—in Adelaide. The counsel of her parish priest led to give America a try instead, and its possibility of return visits if so desired.
Kathleen Gibbons Egan—my grandmother, Nanny to all—always spoke wistfully of Australia, and how her (great and wonderful) life might’ve been, had she gone to Australia instead. Nanny had 5 daughters of her own, and 3 sons, including my father Padraic. Her children had 18 children, who have had 27 more. Conversely, Eugene’s 9 kids had 8 children, whom had only 2—my cousins Gerry and John. And yes, they’re as Catholic as we are. Go figure.
As for the visit, it was grand…Gerry and I got on like a house of fire, chattering away about our experiences as Gibbons progeny, and a host of tangential subjects (she’s in the midst of her doctorate; I just finished mine). Some physical and social/customary similarities were striking. A definite highlight was lunch on Sunday with Gerry and Peter (Gerry’s husband), Gerry’s Auntie Winifred and her son John.
The Australian Gibbons are lovely folks, and we had a grand time.
I think I need to write a book about all this. Somehow.
