Like many people before me, after
qualifying from college, I left Ireland for far away shores in the hope of getting
a job. I quickly discovered that the grass isn’t always greener on the other
side and that it’s just as difficult to mow. My story began in March of last
year: I set out to conquer the USA armed with a B.A. English, a degree in laws,
a few hundred dollars, an Irish brogue and a head full of dreams. I bade Ireland farewell and jetted across the
Atlantic Ocean to Boston, USA. Here I was met by my Uncle Jimmy, who had
immigrated to the States some twenty years before.
The first thing that struck me upon
my arrival was the sheer size of the buildings that stretched deep into the sky
like giant monuments for American economic power and muscle. Everywhere people thronged
the streets, rushing past like work ants at frenetic paces. A cacophony of
noise and blinding lights seemed to pervade every nook and cranny. Steam rose up from the subway, yellow taxi
cabs honked their horns, and fat homeless people lay strewn on the streets,
perhaps suggesting that beneath the veneer the “American dream’ wasn’t quite what
it seemed.
Almost as soon as I unpacked my
bags I began applying for jobs that my visa stipulated I could apply for:
mostly legal work. Each application I
sent off I optimistically awaited some
kind of positive response. But after three months of fruitless applications I
hadn’t even received a solitary rejection letter. My initial enthusiasm and
optimism began to wane. The “American dream” seemed to be as elusive as an
honest Irish politician. By the time my
parents flew over to visit I still remained in limbo with no job and a rapidly
dwindling money supply. My Uncle Jimmy, decided to take us all down to visit
the beautiful seas and beaches of Ogunquit, Maine. Maine which is located to
the north of Boston is synonymous with its long sandy beaches, seafood, hunting,
fishing, hiking, and dense forestry where Black Bear’s roam.
It was here, whilst we were
breathing in some fresh salt air and surveying the epic coastline that some
random American approached us and excitedly announced that that the US
president had arrived and was down at the docks. Incredulously, we made the
short distance back to the docks half expecting to see President Obama and
other the half expecting to be the victim of some perverse tourist prank. Down at the docks we immediately spotted a
boat with a secret service logo emblazoned along the side of it. To our
amazement there was a US president in the vicinity, but it wasn’t the current
leader of “the free world,” but former President George W. Bush. He was sitting
relaxing with his entourage eating a meal in a seafood restaurant overlooking
the bay.
After a brief discussion we decided
to eat something in the same restaurant.
So we sauntered in and without anyone batting an eyelid, sat down at the
table right beside one of the most reviled US Presidents in history. My mother
immediately hightailed over and tried to get permission to shake Bush’s hand,
but one of the secret service agents refused. She then sat back down and exclaimed
“They let won’t us near him.” My father retorted “fuck Bush, where’s the menu?
I’m starving!”
I looked around nervously, even
more aware of the fact that I hadn’t shaved in two weeks, and probably resembled
some kind of Jihadist. From then on,
until the US President left, the secret service agents eyed us with
suspicion: like someone trying to figure
out who had let off the fowl Guinness fart in the unventilated room. Thankfully,
the rest of my presidential encounter passed off without further occurrence.
But in any event, the whole experience enraptured me; as it’s not too often one
gets to sit down beside a U.S. President.
After this brief break, I resumed
my job-hunt and then out of the blue I got a call offering me a job laboring on
a construction site. I jumped at the chance, even though I was violating the conditions
of my visa. I felt justified because I felt I would be violating my own sanity
if I remaining unemployed. As It turned out one of the people that was working
on the building site was the same age as me and had a degree from Harvard and
he too had found it very difficult to get a job befitting his
qualifications. So here were two guys,
one with a degree in law, and the other with a degree from Harvard, and we were
both mixing cement and digging muck for 9 dollars an hour. I smiled at my new
friend and proclaimed: “Where did it all go wrong?” It really was indicative of
the economic morass we found ourselves in but at least we had a job. After
digging holes in construction for two months we were both laid off; work was
drying up in that sector too.
One evening, I decided to do what
many an Irishman resort to when things aren’t going according to plan: hit the
pub. I found myself drinking in one of
those ubiquitous Irish American bars, dreaming of something elusive, when I
noticed a raven haired American girl glancing over at me flirtatiously. After a few beers I drummed up the courage to
begin chatting to her. As soon as I spoke
my thick Irish brogue seemed to set the sparks flying. After chatting for a
while it transpired that she was working as a mortitionist , which to me seemed
a rather unusual career, but at least she had a recession proof job and a
steady stream of clients that no banking bailout could ever effect. As the night wore on we drank a few more
beers and ended up stumbling back into her apartment.
The next morning I arose with the
gift of a pounding headache, a tongue like sandpaper, and an empty wallet. But
at least I was offered a lift home, which I gladly accepted, but to my shock
and horror she pulled outsider her apartment in a big black hearse and ushered
for me to get in. This was clearly not going to be your average ride home! So hesitantly I opened the door and sat down
into the passenger side of the hearse. The first thing that struck me was the
smell: a kind of mixture of disinfectant and some other nasty odor. Feeling slightly
uneasy, I glanced into the back of the vehicle to see that there were two red
body bags in the back of the hearse( fortunately they were empty) but not for
long as my new “girlfriend” informed me she was going to pick up some old lady
who had recently left her mortal coil.
Thankfully, she dropped me off at
my house before she had to pick up the dead body, but as we pulled up outside the
front door my Aunt happened to peer down from the window; her jaw nearly hit
the floor when she seen me in the hearse. I leant over and kissed my
mortitionist lady friend goodbye. To my thunderstruck Aunt it must have seemed
like I had just French kissed the grim reaper. Afterwards, it dawned on me that
I must have been one of the few Irishmen in history to have ever came back in a
hearse after a night out drinking, and to have walked away alive. Be grateful
for small mercies or big mercies, as was the case here, especially when there’s
a spare body bag in the vicinity.
After this episode I decided to
expand the scope of my job search and apply for marketing/sales. I quickly
discovered that sales people will hire anyone with a pulse as I got inundated
with countless job offers. I accepted one offer and began my week long training
where one particular sales expert, with a motor mouth and sharp suit, was to
act as my guide and mentor. We were selling makeup and hairdressing products;
one of our sales pitches being, “This makeup sells for $120.00 on the website
but with us it sells for only $19.99.”
In one of the first shops we walked
into we got chased out by an old woman roaring in her American accent “ Get
outta here! you think I’m a f##king idiot.”
Wise woman, I thought to myself, as my mentor hopelessly tried to
advocate the benefits of the product as an umbrella hovered precariously over
his head. We then ended up selling lots of makeup to a bunch of drunks in a
bar. When we flogged the makeup in the bar my new mentor dispensed some of his
advice, “People are like lemmings jumping off a cliff, once one goes, they all
go.” In the end, this job didn’t work out because my employers quickly discovered
my ruse with visa, but ultimately becoming a snake oil salesman is not why I
spent seven years at college.
Most Americans that I’ve met have come
across as very positive, friendly and upbeat people. My Irish accent has
usually been met with warm smiles and questions of what part of Ireland I’m
from but sometimes phrases can be lost in translation. I’ve sought to eliminate
some of my more commonly used Irish phrases such as ‘howaya’ and “what’s the
crack,” and a host of other common sayings. I met former world boxing champion, Micky Ward,
and an incident occurred that comically sums out how easy it can to be
misunderstood. Ward, a short stocky man, with a head like granite, fiery red
hair, and a left hook that could knockout a Cow was doing an autograph session
before a local boxing match.
I walked over to greet the former
world champion and exclaimed in my Irish brogue “Well Micky, what’s the crack?”
Ward just looked at me with a confused expression and said “sorry.” I was on a
roll now, or so I thought, and I boomed out in a louder voice “what’s the crack
Micky, how’s it going?!” This time he just smiled awkwardly and turned around.
It only occurred to me afterwards that on account of Wards brother, Dick
Eklund, being a former crack cocaine addict that he may have taken up by Irish
expression in the wrong way. After this experience I made sure to eliminate any
references to ‘crack.’
For me, the American dream has been
like a mirage in the desert. Something I try to clutch at but can never quite
catch. It’s lost through hundreds of applications in the black hole that is the
world wide web. I’ve been knocked down countless times, but I keep dusting
myself off, getting up and trying all over again. In spite of some of the
negativity, I’ve found myself in many humorous situations that put some of the
joy back in life when it can be easy to get disheartened by countless
rejections. At the moment I’m unemployed
with my visa drawing to a close, facing the prospect of being unemployed in the
USA, eventually going illegal, or going back to Ireland and being unemployed
over there. It’s an unenviable position, but as the infamous outlaw Ned Kelly
famously uttered as he faced the gallows, “such is life.”
