9/11 and the Irish Famine – New York, Ireland, potatoes, planes and weapons of mass destruction

In some ways, it seems like yesterday.

Exactly a quarter of a century ago, I was rehearsing, organising costumes, making travel arrangements for actors and crew from three States and a ‘thousand’ boroughs!!!

My Famine Trilogy, Irish Ghost Stories, did not receive any of the funds officially allocated to the commemoration of the Irish Famine, but we produced, on a shoestring, and in the words of our audiences, “the most memorable and moving” of all the events. Sold out seats and standing ovations at St Clement’s Theatre.

The official NY Commemoration was at Battery Park, downtown, near the World Trade Center.

The producer was Sligo born Thomas Henry, RIP. He was the lead in Hunger Grass, and was delighted when the State of New Jersey and the Ancient Order of Hibernians offered us support, publicity and blessings for a production of Hunger Grass in their beautiful State Theatre, to coincide with the arrival of the Jeannie Johnson in Trenton, NJ.

Issue

The only issue was the date: I wanted September 8 but was outvoted for September 15. Our Lady’s Birthday vs Our Lady of Sorrows!!!  The ‘sorrows’ won!

Two months prior, I received the news that my father had passed away. Later that day, a Yemeni showed me an Arab language photo of a jet approaching the WTC and excitedly exclaimed, “Something big is going to happen! Something big is going to happen!” He was high on khat, the ‘assassins’ drug. He would not explain.

To advise my son that his grandfather had died, I booked a hotel and flew to Maine. Rooms were scarce, but no probs with that Ramada Inn. It was musty and unused, and the staff, wealthy Mid Easterner, were indifferent. They took our cards, pointed to coffee and doughnuts, and returned to their animated scrutiny of the Comfort Inn, which was directly across the way and where Mohammad Atta would spend his last day on Earth. I immediately booked out again and found the last decent room at the Hilton DoubleTree.

In Boston, two CIA agents trying to take Atta off AA 11 were blocked by the FBI. Air Defence was not informed but knew something was way off and took steps to find out”

We left the mouldy hotel, found the last decent room in the DoubleTree, and the following morning I swam in their lovely pool to commemorate my father before returning to NY via Portland Airport, three weeks before Atta and fellow terrorist were allowed to fly to Boston, thence to NY to murder three thousand people. Airport agent Michael Tuohy was highly suspicious, but afraid of accusations of racism. Similarly, Boston Airport Agents. Ironically, in Boston, two CIA agents trying to take Atta off AA 11 were blocked by the FBI. Air Defence was not informed but knew something was way off and took steps to find out.

Divided

Our family was divided, and despite my many accomplishments and awards, I was the odd one out and so spent most of my life in the USA. While I correctly diagnosed my mother’s condition, I was not informed till September 9 that my diagnosis was confirmed and that she was, at the time, in a Dublin Hospice. I resolved to honour our contract with AOH and New Jersey, then leave ASAP after opening night.

September 11, 2001. I was making the final travel arrangements for our actors and crew. This involved ferries and trains, but fortunately, not planes! Suddenly Tom Henry returned to my apartment in a fragile state. A young Polish friend had witnessed the first jet ploughing into the towers. We turned on the TV – the images were hard to witness, to believe.

Travel arrangements were suspended, so I went into the chapel. People were sitting, just sitting, staring silently, in shock. I looked at the feisty Puerto Rican hairstylist, Isabel. She looked at me and, in one accord, without a word spoken, we both approached the lectern and opened the Bible at random and read and prayed and then invited people to speak, to free their minds, ‘grab’ some peace.

I wish that I had taken note of every passage because every single verse, psalm and line on every randomly opened page, was significant to the horror of that morning.

A 300 lb 6’4” neighbour with a petite wife, Patti, and three beautiful children died that day in Cantor Fitzgerald, and within the year, his widow lost both parents through shock and stress. Her father was from Ireland.

They were met by dozens of Port Authority Police, NYPD, waiting on the platform, risking their lives to wave people off that train, into the WTC Plaza”

Mary Flynn, harpist and singer from Co. Mayo, had performed one of my songs at a publicity event. On September 11, 2001, her daughter, Cathy, a young lawyer for New York State, was in a subway car, trapped in a tunnel outside the WTC for one hour. When eventually allowed to pull into the station they were met by dozens of Port Authority Police, NYPD, waiting on the platform, risking their lives to wave people off that train, into the WTC Plaza and, then, far away from the horror of the black smoked skies, the courageous fire-fighters, knowingly going to their death, the police officers holding back friends and family from entering the collapsing towers, and the terrified people fleeing the dust and ashes that still pursued them, blocks away.

And then there was dear Fr Mychal Judge, OFM, from my ‘go-to’ church, St Francis of Assisi in Manhattan. Several causes of death have been ‘confirmed’, but his Franciscan confreres insisted to me that his heart stopped at the sight of his beloved firefighters rushing into a building that most would never leave alive.

Fr Judge, a gentle, kindly soul from Leitrim and another OFM, blessed the music that I composed for Francis Fool of God at St Peter’s College, again, in New Jersey.

Ashes

The following day, the air was filled with fumes and ashes, as were my lungs. Two days later, the AOH called Tom and cancelled the production for “security reasons”, and I was now free to fly to Ireland and visit my dying mother. While waiting for flights to be restored, I went down to the WTC several times, to help but becoming helpless in the sulphurous, particulate air.

The Eastbound Aer Lingus jet was almost empty, but one young gentleman, an undocumented immigrant glad to leave NY, assured me that no undocumented Irish were in the Towers. “We checked,” he said. “We would now.” The priceless value of social and cultural cohesion!

My mother had a brain tumour. She made one memorable gesture by taking my hand and putting it on her heart”

I stayed in Ireland after my mother’s death and was diagnosed with 60% pulmonary infiltration – of dust and ashes from the WTC.

I can diagnose underlying factors in people’s behaviour in most cases. Doesn’t mean rejection and exclusion are easy, but it soothes when seen as pathology and not as a personal insult. My mother had a brain tumour. She made one memorable gesture by taking my hand and putting it on her heart. Significant, given that she ignored me for most of my childhood.

And yet, by her illness, and my return to Ireland in respect for our Catholic teachings regarding respect for the dying, the remaining 40% of my lungs were saved from further infiltration.

Deirdre McNamara is an award-winning author and dramatist. She had her Famine play in New York cancelled due to the 9/11 attacks.