The Politics of Belfast Paranoia.

     I was taking a short-cut through the downtown parking lot when I saw them coming towards me. In America I wouldn't give it a second thought. But this was Belfast, and fear immediately gripped my gut. Rather than turning and running, I picked up my pace and veered left, remaining outwardly calm and trying to show no outward sign of fear. None of the four men made any moves toward me. As I passed within uncomfortable distance to them I forced myself to look at one of them. I saw no hatred on his face or fear in his eyes, only a ‘is there something wrong with you buddy?' look. And, for the first time in my life, I knew paranoia.

     It remained vivid as I awoke in the relative safety of my suite in the Europa Hotel and I knew exactly when the nightmare had begun - my second night in Ireland, when I'd stopped with friends in a West Belfast pub to enjoy a few pints of Guinness and a se sion of
traditional Irish music. While there I decided to call a friend from Bangor, County Down. Stephen knew I was coming to Ireland but didn't know exactly when. He'd become a 'policeman' since I'd last seen him in America. A policeman, just like my dad in Cleveland had been.         
   Two friends with me that evening were Tomas, a Sinn Fein Councillor, and his spouse. Because I was having difficulty dialing
Stephen's number, I came back to the table to ask for help. My Irish friend was eager to help and I was certainly grateful. After picking through the American and British coins I held out in my palm, he dropped the appropriate ones into the slot and dialed the number in Bangor. He listened for a moment then handed me the receiver. "You're connected," he said with a smile, and then returned to the table. The call went unanswered on the other end and, returning
to our table, I sensed a change in everyone. Tomas and his spouse were ashen-faced, as if they had just received some earth-shattering news.

    In my absence, my American co-traveling friend at the table had informed them the phone number he'd dialed was to the home of a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (R.U.C.), Northern Ireland's 'police force.' They were terrified and shocked that I knew an R.U.C. man. I had been to their home and could betray their internal security. My political education had taken a sudden new direction during this, my second night in Ireland. An unnatural uneasiness came over me.

    Nationalists in the North of Ireland are, simply put, at war. Their targets?  The British Army, economic structures and loyalist paramilitaries. And, because of innumerable injustices inflicted against them over the years, I learned that anyone wearing either uniform is an enemy, including my friend from Bangor, the young man who had stayed at my home in America. They've learned to hate the British Army and R.U.C.  uniform and the man wearing it and I learned the Irish Republican Army (IRA) is the only entity Nationalists truly trust to protect them.

     Later in the week Stephen and I met at the Crown Bar, across from my hotel. He'd changed little since I'd last seen him except he now sports a mustache and he's married. His spouse, who must remain
nameless, was a charming hostess. We drove to their neighborhood where I was given the grand tour. Stopping first for a sandwich, we then pub-hopped, having a few pints of Smithwicks together as we caught up on each other's lives. I also told him, without naming names, what had happened in the Falls Road pub in West Belfast. It was déjà vu - my friend and his spouse became ashen-faced. They,
too, were terrified and shocked that a nationalist might know their name and telephone number and possibly even be able to find out where they lived. The rest of the evening for me was 'double-think' before speaking. For example, while discussing President Clinton I found myself whispering the word Republican; in the North of Ireland it means a supporter of Irish Nationalism. And in Bangor you won't find any.

    Most unionists/loyalists, including the upper echelon of the R.U.C., equate membership in the Sinn Fein political party with membership in the IRA. Therefore, by extension, anyone associated with Sinn Fein condones IRA violence. When innocent men, women and children are killed by bombs, unionists/loyalists feel outrage, the same outrage Nationalists feel when innocent Catholic men, women and children are killed by the R.U.C, the British Army or loyalist paramilitaries.          

     Obviously, I'm not calling either of my friends by their real names but suffice to say they are both Gaels. Tomas is a man who, through a stilted political process, is attempting to better the lives of his family and people. And because of that, he's a target.

     Stephen can be best described as fun-loving and apolitical; the kind of young man that would rescue a kitten from the tree where it's stuck.  I fear for both my friends. Many Sinn Fein Councillors, who aren't even paid, wear heavy body armor under baggy clothes. All have party-provided, elaborate security in their homes. It's not unusual for them to be shot at or murdered in their homes, in front of their children. Sometimes even their children are murdered.

    
 I'm afraid Stephen's work will eventually make him hateful and blindly prejudiced. I'm also afraid because, like Tomas,he,too, is a target. It's no wonder I had the damn nightmare.
I now wonder if either of these two friends or their families will ever trust me again when I go back to Ireland.

      You can bet I truly understand what freedom is. 'God save Ireland!'

2011 Postscript. I have since returned to Ireland and found vast changs had taken place. For example, the R.U.C. has been re-named Police Service of Northern Ireland, and they now actively recruit Cathlics (even though Catholics now mistrust them for being PSN).

I traveled with an American Congressman during this first trip. We met leaders of the north Ian Paisley and the then-U.S. Ambassador to Ireland Jean Kennedy Smith, sister of John F. and Robert Kennedy.

SULLIVANS VISIT IRELAND.

“It was a dream that my family has had since the christening of the ship and we felt so incredibly blessed to have had the opportunity to be involved with the festivities.” Those words describe the feelings of Kelly Sullivan Loughren, granddaughter of Albert Sullivan, one of the Fighting Sullivans. Her father, James, is the son of Albert, the only one of the five brothers who married.  He and his four brothers from Waterloo, Iowa perished when their ship, the USS Juneau, was torpedoed and sunk during the sea battle for Guadalcanal in 1942. “My brother John and I made a promise eight years ago that we would go to Ireland if the ship ever made it there,” she said. Thomas Sullivan, Loughren’s great-grandfather, left Trafrask, Adrigole, Co. Cork, in 1849. Accompanying him during An Gorta Morta, the Great Hunger, was his wife Bridget Agnes and his brother Owen.

Both Gunner's Mate George Sullivan, 27, and Coxswain Francis Sullivan, 25, had four years of prior Navy service. Joe (Red), 23, Matt, 22 and Al., 19, became seamen, second class, when they enlisted and were assigned to the new $13,000,000 light cruiser, Juneau, the first American war ship commissioned in camouflage. Nine months later, during the Battle of Guadalcanal, near the Solomon Islands, she was steaming toward base when an explosion sent her to the bottom.

"It just happened all at once and the Juneau was gone, reported an officer who witnessed it from another ship. One of the most extraordinary tragedies that have ever been met by any family in the United States, spoke Henry A. Wallace, Vice President of the United States, referring to the sinking. The Navy issued a statement: "Loss of the five Sullivan brothers ranks as the greatest single blow suffered by any one family since Pearl Harbor and probably in American Naval history. Even though the Navy has alleged that in  wartime it had been Navy policy to separate members of the same family, no evidence of that policy existis. Presence of the five Sullivans aboard the USS Juneau was supposedly, according to the Navy, at the insistence of the brothers themselves and in contradiction to the repeated recommendations of the ship's executive officer. Serving together had been one condition of their enlistment. The lads were the sons of Thomas F. and Aletta Sullivan, 98 Adams Street. Mr. Sullivan was born on a farm in Taylor Township, Allamakee County, Iowa, near Harpers Ferry, Iowa.

On April 17, 1997 Kelly Ann Sullivan Loughren and John Sullivan, grandchildren of Albert and the daughter of James and Sally Sullivan, were present at Stapleton Pier, Staten Island New York for the formal commissioning into the US Navy of the second The Sullivans (DDG68). Kelly is a schoolteacher in Cedar Falls, Iowa. The Arleigh Burke Class destroyer, with a crew of 26 officers and 315 sailors, is commanded by Richard A. Brown. The DDG68 visited Ireland this year for the O’Sullivan clan reunion and festivities. Loughren and her brother John stood on the shore to watch the ship come in. According to Loughren the locals welcomed the crew with open arms and made sure they experienced a taste of Irish culture.

"As a member of the crew of USS THE SULLIVANS (DDG 68), it was great to be part of this historic trip to Ireland,” said U.S. Navy Petty Officer Ed Flynn of Boston.  “Additionally, to be on a ship named after the five Irish-American Sullivan brothers from Waterloo, Iowa, was an honor."Flynn described the symbolism of the ship's Shield, dark blue and gold representing the sea and excellence. They are also the Navy's tradition colors. Red is emblematic of courage and sacrifice. The five interlaced swords honor the five brothers killed in action and commemorate their spirit of teamwork and patriotism. The upright points of the swords allude to the present ship's combat readiness and its missile system. The boarder reflects unity and the eleven stars represent the battle stars earned by the first USS THE SULLIVANS; nine for WW II and two for the Korean War.  The trident, symbol of sea prowess, symbolizes DDG 68's modern warfare capabilities; the AEGIS and vertical launch system. The fireball underscores the fierce battle of Guadalcanal where the five brothers courageously fought and died together and highlights its firepower of the past and present USS THE SULLIVANS. The inverted wreath, a traditional symbol of the ultimate sacrifice, is in memory of the brothers. The shamrock recalls the Irish heritage. The arms on the Seal are blazoned in full color upon a white oval enclosed by a dark blue collar edged on the outside with a gold rope and bearing the name "USS THE SULLIVANS" at the top and "DDG 68" in the base in gold.

A reception for the family was held on board the ship. Lougren said she felt like a proud mother when she saw the officers and crew at their best. “Overall, it was an experience of a lifetime, so amazing that it is difficult to explain in words.  I only wish that I could bottle the feeling I get every time I'm on the ship! We were so honored to take part in this history making event for the best ship in the Navy.”

The ships crew met all the Sullivans from Castletownbere. Flynn said the people of Ireland and County Cork were “very warm and genuine to all of the ship’s crew. “It was a trip of a lifetime, and to be an Irish-American and visit Ireland on a US Navy ship – is something you could only dream of.”  Flynn described his feelings for the World War II heroes. “The Sullivan brothers were courageous and loyal. Our country and the world itself is a better place because of this outstanding family.  The motto of our ship is We Stick Together. It was also the motto of the Sullivan brothers. That is something we are all proud of."

JC Sullivan is an Irish-American writer residing in northeast Ohio. He witnessed the commissioning of the ship at Staten Island, New York.

USS THE SULLIVANS

My Fight with Caveman

Just this week I had been thinking of updating a story I had previously written about when my family moved from the west side of Cleveland to the east side. When I wrote it JC was TJ to protect the guilty. I submitted "We're Moving to the East Side?" to the editor of the Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine. They had previously published "My First Flight". The new editor however had rejected this one, saying it appeared "contrived". Thinking about him this week for some reason, it was my intention to trim the original story and just post the part about my fight with "Caveman." In this morning's Plain Dealer is "Caveman's", Addison Anderson's, obituary.

In 1954, midway through the 7th grade, our family moved to the Buckeye Road area of Cleveland. I went from a mostly Irish-Catholic grade school to one that was primarily Hungarian. Why we moved is another story.

As far as I was concerned, the east side was the other side of the world. I was uncomfortable with the thought of moving again after only four years. I had plenty of good friends, was a Boy Scout, the catcher on the CYO baseball team and a guard on the basketball team. The new school had no sports teams at all. I would miss it all: school, friends, neighborhood and sports.

The house we were renting was smaller than our west side home and it sat in the rear of a front house. While the family was busy settling in, my education was restarted at St. Margaret of Hungary grade school.

Wanting to make my best and baddest impression on my first day at school, I carefully scanned the available supply of the clean clothes that were unpacked. The choices were pretty limited. Being the third of nine children of a Cleveland cop never allowed a budget for new and fashionable clothes. Hand-me-downs were the order in our family. I selected my favorite and best pair of trousers to wear, the pair that fit me best.  Black with a gray stripe down the side, the cuffs were 'pegged', considerably smaller than the legs. A non-descript shirt completed my ensemble and, with growing feelings of uneasiness and dread, I headed off to begin the new day.

The 7th grade teacher, Sister Mary Broken Knuckles, was beyond the golden years. Halfway through the morning the school bell clanged loudly. A Fire Drill? Air raid? What, we get a recess?  Now here was something different from St. Vincent De Paul - recess. Probably for the teachers' mental health rather than anything we students might gain. A fifteen-minute break to be spent outside in the playground. Great.  The line out to recess was surprisingly orderly. Once out in the playground I was approached by a classmate.  

"Hi, my name is Addison Anderson. When did you move here?"

Trouble began right away for what I heard was, "Hi, my name is Anderson  Anderson." A little confused at meeting someone with the same first and last names, I repeated my question. "What's your first name?"

"Anderson," I again heard repeated.

"And what's your LAST name?"

"Anderson."

Still confused, I repeated the first question. "What did you say your FIRST name is?"

"ANDERSON, MY NAME IS ANDERSON ANDERSON" he exploded. "You a wise guy or something? You wanna fight me?"

I wasn't a wimp but I didn't want to fight anybody. The last fight I was pushed into was at St. V's. That one was with Gary Dixon, the class bull’s hitter who deserved to get knocked around a bit. That one was a draw. I was average in height and thin, but wiry. Now, faced with a fight on my first day at school, I hadn't any idea how to extricate myself from the challenge. I was also the new kid on the block. To back out of a fight would mean that I was 'chicken', a label that any red-blooded school kid feared being applied to him. Following my base instincts I scowled, "Name the time and place."


"In the lavatory, right after school," Anderson quickly responded, still angry with me for what he perceived as my attempt to make him look like foolish. Anderson had another name too - Caveman. Not a bad moniker for someone about to engage in a fight. Kind of intimidates the opposition right away. The word about the fight got around. The lavatory after school was crowded with guys trying to get ringside seats to witness the fracas.

Caveman and I immediately began the time-honored tradition of warrior dialogue as we slowly circled each other. "Come-on, wiseass, make a move."

“Besides being ugly I notice you don't use deodorant."

That was enough to begin the first and only round. We pounced on each other, trading headlocks, hammerlocks and half nelsons, finally rolling on the floor clutched in hand-to-hand combat. Caveman was the home team, cheered on all his partisan supporters. The fight probably lasted only about five minutes with no bloodshed. We tired quickly and, to my recollection, the fight was deemed a standoff, nobody losing, and winning each other's respect. Caveman might have had  a different recollection of who won!

During the 7th and 8th grade Addison had the greatest birthday parties at home. His mother cleared out his bedroom and allowed us to have pillow fights in the dark, with refreshments served afterwords. It was great fun until the year we broke a bedroom window and his Mom freaked a bit about it.

In later years while I was stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, someone wrote me with his address in El Paso. He invited me to his "humble abode" but I was never able to scrape together the necessary $$ to get there.  We lost touch after that. I'd heard he went to Viet Nam and,like so many returned veterans, suffered some issues afterwards. He apparently lived in plain sight here in the Cleveland area but we could never locate him for class reunions and breakfast get-togethers. I was saddened to learn he was right under our noses the whole the time.

I will see you on the other side Anderson Anderson