What if the Irish Never Came?

Sidewalks with Tom Deignan

What if the Irish Never Came?

March 19, 2008

By Tom Deignan

“I’M sorry, but I have to correct you,” said the old man with large glasses and a cane. We were talking about Archbishop John Hughes, “Dagger” John, as he was called, the Tyrone-born priest who helped made New York livable for the Famine Irish.

I had said earlier that the nickname “dagger” came from the knife-like crucifix he wore, and also the fact that he was seen as a dangerous threat to New York’s Protestant elite.

“The real reason they called him ‘dagger,’” the man with the cane said, “was because when he signed his name, he always drew a crucifix next to his name. And it looked like a dagger. You know how I know this?”

The man then revealed that he was a distant relative of Dagger John’s.

Presuming that this is true (and really, if the guy is lying he’s got issues), it struck me in a profound way to be standing with a man whose family tree ran directly back to the combative priest who once said if anti-Irish thugs kept attacking churches the Irish would have to turn New York into “another Moscow.”

To judge by the setting of our little chat, the Irish had come a long way. It was Borough Hall on Staten Island. The occasion was a reception honoring the lord mayor of Wexford who was visiting New York City and acknowledging a two-decade relationship between Staten Island and Wexford as sister cities. (Who knew?)

Anyway, this columnist was asked to say a few words about the Irish in New York, no easy task since the other attractions included an adorable troupe of Irish dancers as well as a couple of fine singers, including the lord mayor himself, who offered up a rousing version of “Danny Boy.”

Saying merely a few words about the New York Irish is a bit like saying a few words about the Bible or the Middle Ages. Then it hit me.

We can talk all night about what the Irish have done in New York. But what if they had never come? Or, since the Irish have been in New York going back to the 1600s, the better way to put it is — what if the Famine Irish had never come?

Coming out of St. Patrick’s Day, when all things green and gold are good, this is a bit of a disturbing question. But it’s not far-fetched.

References to anti-Irish sentiment usually boil down to recalling the old “No Irish Need Apply” signs. Such notices existed, for sure, but they were not exactly widespread. The phrase was actually popularized by a folk song meant to be sung by Irish immigrants, telling a tale of revenge against bigots.

Whatever the prevalence of such signs, there were much more powerful forces working against the Irish in New York, especially once the Famine worsened into the 1840s.

That’s when New York elected a mayor, James Harper, on a violently anti-Irish and anti-Catholic platform. That’s when churches were torched with alarming frequency.

Not for nothing is old St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Mulberry Street surrounded by a high brick wall. All the better to ward off angry nativists.

Given this hostility, the dangerous trip across the Atlantic, the difficulties of finding work, the harshness of the work if you could find it, you could imagine many a famine immigrant thinking that it’s just not worth it.

And it didn’t get much better in the years after the Famine. Nativism was one of the most powerful forces in American politics in the 1850s.

By the 1860s, the Civil War had begun. To a desperate immigrant, this seemed just another way to get himself killed.

Again, at a time of year, when we hear so many glorious celebrations about Irish success in America, it’s helpful also to remember that classic “Paddy’s Lament,” in which a father vows that he will absolutely, positively not bring his children to the U.S.

“Boys, now take my advice. /To America I’ll have you not be comin’ /There is nothing here but war. /Where the murderin’ cannons roar.”

If not for the likes of Dagger John and other Irish who, when pushed, were not afraid to push back, you can bet many more Irish would have made similar vows.

And then, no grand parade up Fifth Avenue, or maybe just a small, cozy little gathering.

No plays by Eugene O’Neill. No movies by John Ford.

And the old man with the cane? He’s a guy whose distant cousin, a long time ago, was just another priest.

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