Boston, July 2019
Ireland to America. State-to-States. What kind of a state am I in, in Boston’s heat and crush after Ireland’s fresh winds and rural-quiet? Adjusting: in mind and body, alert to change, glad of familiar signifiers and the hospitality of family; joining the known with the unknown.
After two scorching weeks in the US there has been rain, a tornado along the east coast – that ripped roofs from buildings at Cape Cod, a favourite holiday destination for Bostonians – and a welcome drop in temperature. But, politics is burning up, following Robert Mueller’s report – on the Russian interference in the 2016 election – to the Judiciary committee, which I watched on TV for 3 hours. He was inscrutable and restrained under fire from Republicans attempting to demolish his defence and Democrats moving to sure up his case for the President’s lying about collusion with Russians.
A few weeks before ‘entering’ the States I visited Belfast during preparations for ‘the 12th’, the day in July when the ghost of William of Orange returns and Northern Ireland is again – at least more visibly – snapped in two. Unionist and Protestant iconography proliferate in designated suburbs and towns to commemorate The Battle of the Boyne of 1691: Orange bunting, the Union flag (Union Jack), the Ulster flag bearing the cross of St George and the red hand of Ulster, banners across streets – ‘safe home brethren’ – and marching pipe bands.
The blood seemed to boil over into every cell of my imagination, so that I was relieved to return to Donegal, and then to the bustle of Boston and finally to home in slow Tasmania.
Make America grate again
The Jacks proliferate
Belfast suburbs before the 12th: a bonfire being erected.