So nearly a year ago I moved to Philadelphia from
NC. Last year I'd only been living in the city
with my partner for a month when we set out to
see what the St. Patrick's Day parade (rumored
to be the third largest in the U.S. behind NYC
and Savannah) was like here. As I had always done
in Raleigh, I brought a provocative sign to hold
up to hopefully elicit debate with participants
in the parade or green-clad bystanders. In years
past, even though I had no longer considered myself
a traditional republican, I typically wore an
IRA shirt because I knew that the Irish in NC
were typically ignorant concerning the situation
in the North; but I knew they would recognize
those three contentious letters.
Last
year, since the IRA was all but defunct, I could
no longer in good conscience wear such a shirt,
even to provoke dialogue. So I settled on a "Tiocfaidh
Ár Lá" shirt with the oft-seen
poster of Margaret Thatcher reading: "WANTED:
FOR THE TORTURE AND MURDER OF IRISH PRISONERS.
Now these two items of propaganda might have been
contentious at a Conservative Party function,
but at a St. Patrick's Day parade they elicited
nothing but cries of drunken support and a generous
helping of 'Up the Provos'. I went home after
living in Philly for a month believing the entirety
of the Irish population supported me. I mean we
all loathe Margaret Thatcher, right? And for a
year we were one big, happy, Irish republican
family.
But
in one year, my disillusionment grew tenfold after
watching the shameless politics of Sinn Féin
and the DUP. Being an anarchist, to me party politics
is shameful wherever it takes place, but to watch
a once "radical" party like SF capitulate
to every demand the British State, and therefore
Unionists/Loyalists, made of them, I felt like
this year Margaret Thatcher wasn't going to properly
express my frustration.
I
intended to stencil my own statements concerning
the situation in the North, but the parade all
but snuck up on me, and there wassn't time. Instead,
a few hours before the parade, I started searching
the web for posters that I could print out and
carry with me. I found one on the Republican Socialist
Youth Movement's webpage depicting an armed, Northern
Irish policeman and imploring its reader to "Reject
the New RUC." I printed out two of them,
placed them side by side on a piece of sturdy
cardboard, and then decided to make it topical.
Below the images, in my neat republican handwriting,
I scrawled: "Reject the Sinn Féin
sell-out."
My
partner and I hurried over to the parade with
our non-Irish dog, and after reaching the spot
along the parade route where I felt I'd be most
visible, she informed me that she was going to
watch from the other side of the street because
it was sunnier (Read: Someone is not going to
like your sign, and I don't want to be close by
when they decide to hang you from a pole like
St. Patrick or the Pope and carry you away.) Two
hours passed and a few intelligent, well-informed
Irish Americans came up to ask what 'Ruck' was
(RUC) or 'Sin Feen' (Sinn Féin). I hadn't
generated too much attention from parade participants
other than a few members from the Ancient Order
of Hibernians yelling slurred snippets of support
and contradictory choruses of 'Up the Provos',
and one man who yelled, "What a bunch of
shite," which didn't have the same supportive
ring.
The
INA (Irish Northern Aid) contingent passed by
without a word, which was odd, since I'd heard
that many of them had become disillusioned with
SF. They were my only hope of ending up with a
free dinner that night, but they didn't seem too
interested in me one way or the other. The parade
began winding down when the last Hibernian faction
passed by. A very large man near the back of the
group looked at me and said, "You should
be ashamed of yourself." The articulate response
I managed to counter with was, "Fair enough."
I thought he might have called me a dirty name,
but I couldn't make it out; it didn't sound like
he was asking me out to dinner though. I turned
back to the parade when I heard the older man
who'd been comparing my crusade with that of Woodstock
say, "Uh oh, son, here they come." I
turned to see my friend the Hibernian and one
of his white sweater-wearing mates approaching
me in the same friendly way that American settlers
must have approached the Native Americans.
They
both got right up in my face and the one who hadn't
spoken to me yet said, "You're really going
to hold that sign up TODAY?" I responded
with, "Today's as good a day as any."
To which he said, "You're a fucking douchebag."
To which I said, "Okay." A few spectators
began to gather 'round, and the old man got behind
me, although I didn't feel like he had my back
in a fighting sense. The alcohol on their breath
might as well have been a punch in the nose, and
at that point I wasn't as worried about being
assaulted as I was about ending up with beer all
over me. They managed to call me a douchebag about
16 more times before goosestepping back to their
Hibernian boy scout troupe. The only thing I could
do was fall to my knees and thank St. Patrick
and his angels for protecting me from those bad
Irish men.
I'm
looking forward to next year when ex-IRA men and
ex-UDA/UVF men are patrolling the streets keeping
everyone safe from joyriders and dissident republicans.
I don't know what my sign will say yet, but you
can bet I'll be canceling my membership in the
Ancient Order of Hibernians.
