An African American in Ireland

Watching Barack Obama enjoying a pint on Monday at that pub in Moneygall, Ireland -- the town of at least some of his forebears -- during his visit to that country and the U.K., I couldn't help recalling my own biracial encounters with Ireland. Not surprisingly, the president was given a warm reception. I, too, felt very welcome -- with a few exceptions.

It was 1992, and I'd decided that I was going to do a driving tour of the island. I'd long had a fascination with Ireland's politics and culture, especially its rebellious relationship with the land where most of my own white roots lay. Being a bit of a rebel herself, my white English mother -- who had married my black American father in the U.K. in 1959 and settled in the U.S. in 1960 -- wanted to come along. We decided that we would spend a few weeks traversing Ireland and then take the ferry over to Wales to meet up with relatives.

From the start, landing in Shannon Airport, we had a wonderful time. I even enjoyed navigating the roundabouts and driving on the opposite side of the road. (Being an inexperienced driver of New York City origins, I actually didn't find it as difficult an adjustment as I could have -- or as daunting a prospect as I should have!)

This was before the Celtic Tiger -- the period of tremendous economic growth, starting in the mid- to late 1990s, that brought many immigrants to Ireland -- and so, for most of our visit, I was the darkest thing in town. At our first pub crawl in Bunratty, one guy just kept patting my hair and exclaiming, with a broad smile, "Michael Jackson!"

And overall, that kind of open-faced, even endearing racial cluelessness typified my experience there. I felt very comfortable, and my mother and I happily explored the food, culture, history and incredible scenery. We also enjoyed playing "spot a black person" (usually unsuccessfully) as we drove into town. Most of my more sobering experiences probably had more to do with my being an obvious outsider than with being black.

In Enniskillen, a town in Northern Ireland, I was stopped by a police officer and asked for identification and what I was doing there. But given the town's history with the IRA and its existence along the border with the Republic of Ireland, perhaps they had particular reason to be security-conscious. (This was before the cease-fire of 1994.)

And then there was the time I was walking back alone along the Falls Road after a visit to West Belfast, the Republican, largely Catholic area of the city. To leave that area and return to the "nonsectarian" city center, you had to go through a British-army checkpoint. I thought that this particular checkpoint would make a great photo opportunity, so at what I thought was a discreet distance, I took a bunch of photos of the British soldiers, sitting in their tanks with their guns out.

As I walked toward them, I noticed that one of the soldiers was tracking me in his sights. I found this somewhat disturbing but also thought, "What's he gonna do, shoot me? Nah!" So I continued walking, trying to present my most street-savvy New York demeanor. As I approached him, he said -- from behind the very large weapon with which he was still tracking me -- "What were you taking pictures of, then?"

Now, you have to understand that this was probably the least scenic environment on the entire island: gray, looming towers; run-down tenements; concrete. But I figured my best tactic would be to play an ugly, ignorant American. With a sweeping arm raise, I pointed to the desolate landscape and said in my broadest New York accent, "Uh, the scenery!" He said, humorlessly, "Well, don't take any more pictures of the soldiers." Right. No problem!

By far my most frightening encounter came in a small pub in a town in northwest Ireland, also near the border, called Letterkenny. Unlike most of the towns we visited, from the start this one was less than welcoming. It was very austere looking, drab, and didn't have a "fun" vibe. In the evening my mom and I decided to check out the local pub anyway, and its uninviting atmosphere immediately hit us.

Instead of friendly smiles, we got stares. We headed to a corner and tried to settle in. I forget exactly how long it took, but soon after we sat down, I could hear someone at the bar, muttering. I looked up to see a grizzled, obviously drunk man pointing at me and saying something in a loud whisper. At first I couldn't make it out, but most of the pub's inhabitants kindly shut up so that I could: "Nigger!"

"Who, me?" I looked around and realized that, yes, he must be talking to me. "Wow," I thought. "I had to leave the U.S. and come here to be called that!"

I looked at the other folks sitting in the pub, wondering if they were going to help break up this awkward moment. But I didn't notice any sheepish smiles of apology or sympathy. Just silence. And more stares. My mom and I looked at each other and wordlessly agreed that now might be a good time to leave.

We walked by the bartender as we approached the door, and to his credit, he did come up to us and apologize -- he even gave me a lighter with the pub's logo emblazoned on it. Great; a souvenir to commemorate the only time in my life I've ever been called a nigger! I probably still have it somewhere.

Editor's note: The original choice of photo to accompany this article was not meant to suggest that Ventry Post Office was involved in any account mentioned by the writer.

Teresa Ridley is a freelance editor in New York City.

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