by Sr. Sheila Devane MMM                                Ireland                                 27.08.2025

In Ireland we do funerals well. We have definite rituals, bury our dead a few days after death and generally following a wake either in a funeral parlour or in the person’s home. In the towns and cities nowadays, the wake is more likely to be in a funeral home; in more rural areas the families still hold wakes in the house of the deceased. Today I want to talk about a ‘wake’ for the living, or an American wake. I also want to think about immigration.

American wakes have died out altogether now with the decline in emigration, but I attended several as a very small girl in a part of rural Ireland called Fanad in northeast Donegal in the 1950’s when there was still mass emigration from there. Roisin was 17 years old; she was from a large family who had too much (poor) land to allow her to qualify for whatever few scholarships, or bursaries, were available then to allow her a free secondary school education. She worked as a domestic servant in hotels in Portstewart since leaving primary school aged 14 and was now accepting a one-way ticket from relatives in Boston and leaving for America.

The night before her departure from Shannon airport everyone in the wide and sprawling locality gathered at her home where there was food for all, great music and dancing, locally brewed beer, pipe smoking, storytelling and good wishes galore. The parish priest gave a special kind of blessing in Irish – a language she would leave behind her. Being just seven or eight myself, Roisin seemed like an adult to me, but she was still only a child; she was there trying to cope with the plethora of advice and the addresses and phone numbers she was being given. They said everyone in America had a phone, so she needed to have all these different numbers. It sounded like such a wonderful country with phones everywhere. No one in Fanad had electricity then so things would be so different and great in America.

Roisin’s flight was leaving from Shannon Airport at 8am so at about 2am there was talk of leaving as the roads were windy and really bad and people started to get into the cars that were travelling to the airport with her; my uncle Manus was going as he had a big van and was taking a whole load of people so that there would be a grand, big, farewell at the airport. Most people there never expected to see Roisin again, this was the end, she would make a life in Boston, be called Rose or Rosie as Roisin was hard to pronounce in the American language, get married, have children called “The Yanks”, and probably never come back to Fanad again. My mother explained that this was why it was called ‘a wake’ – it meant the end. I thought it was so sad, and I even saw some people crying.

In 2025, thinking back on Roisin’s emigration story now, whilst sad, it seems somehow less poignant. She chose to go, had people to leave her safely to the airport and relatives in Boston to meet her and show her what to do when she got there. No one would call her bad words nor tell her she shouldn’t be there. She would not have had to learn about immigration policies, about being deported nor any of those awful things. There was already a strong Irish community especially in South Boston, catholic priests in the parishes for Sunday mass and other familiar activities, and many opportunities for work, and even a chance to go to what the Americans called “night school” to further her education. In due course Roisin, made a good life, returned some years later with her family to live in Scotland and finally retired to her beloved Fanad as a widow.

The story of the millions of Irish emigrants is challenging, at times hard to listen to, and one can only be filled with deep admiration for each and all of them. How much more difficult is the story of the immigrants coming to our own shores without proper papers, or families, with no immediate prospects and with immense hurdles to pass through before they can even walk safely around our streets?

Food for thought. Much to consider.  A living death.  A lot to change.