Taking flight

We flew out of Newark on March 20, full of fear for the fate of Maysie, Isabelle and Marco, stowed in some netherworld between passengers and luggage. As we waited in the long security line, I found myself thinking of my great-grandparent forebears: the Caseys, Reillys, McGoverns and McLaughlins coming to this country on crowded ships. My guess is they didn't want to leave Ireland for America. My guess is they were economic refugees, like the Spanish family that would serve me paella two days later in a Belfast market. People do what they must to survive and they adapt, but at what cost? And what is lost?

I felt like my return to Ulster is a victory for all those who went before me. Their striving and their sacrifices allowed each generation to get a bit further in the rat race. As a result, I have a luxury they were not afforded, the luxury of coming home. Of course, returning home may not have appealed to my relatives. Most of them set down roots in one place, while I've moved around all of my life. When I moved to Ulster in 1974, it was the first time I felt at home. It's strange, 33 years later, to regard this as a homecoming. But that is what it feels like.
3/20