Summary

The author reflects on the profound sense of community and collective mourning experienced in a small Irish town following a local boy's tragic death, contrasting it with the perceived lack of empathy and community spirit in America.

Abstract

In March 2017, while staying in Ireland, the author witnessed the impact of a young boy's death on the local community of Coolgreany. The tragedy led to the cancellation of the town's St. Patrick's Day parade, as residents chose to stand in solidarity with the bereaved family instead of celebrating. This act of communal support deeply moved the author, who drew a stark contrast with the American response to crises, where individual demands and a focus on personal rights often overshadow collective grief and community care. The author laments the loss of such deep-rooted empathy in American society, longing for a return to a time when community well-being was prioritized over personal convenience and profit.

Opinions

The author believes that the Irish community's response to the boy's death exemplifies a pure form of empathy and collective support that is lacking in American society.
There is a critical view of how American culture prioritizes individual desires and business as usual, even in the face of tragedy.
The author expresses a sense of loss and nostalgia for the American community spirit that once valued people over profit and personal gain.
The article suggests that America has become fractured and self-centered, with a tendency to protest for personal rights at the expense of the collective good.
The author admires the Irish community's ability to put aside their own celebrations to honor the loss of one of their own, seeing it as a lesson America could learn from.
There is an implicit critique of the American political landscape, with the author pointing out the childish and selfish behavior of some factions that contrasts with the mature and compassionate response of the Irish community.

What a Death in Ireland Taught Me About What We’ve Lost In America

St. Patrick’s Day, 2017, and the beauty of community

Ballyfad Woods is a lovely place of dense trees, hollows, small dugouts and lanes on which to run a fine horse. I was doing that regularly in March of 2017, with a young woman from a nearby farm who played professional polo for Ireland. I was staying at a country cottage on a hobby farm. Gorey, a small spot near us, was the closest thing to a real city. Just under ten thousand. Plenty of pubs.

In March out in the country, the mornings are dewy and foggy. Cold. Precisely where I might have expected my long-distant Irish ancestors (I’m 17% Irish) to have herded their sheep and goats. When I had planned my first trip to Europe, I’d had no clue that I would be in Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day. No better place to be even if you don’t drink. The real thing.

Several days before the celebration, I was out feeding the goats, which my hobby farmer hosts were happy to let me do. I realized that the young family, which had gathered outside the kitchen, was abnormally quiet. The young girls were hushed and their parents somber, distracted.

I walked the wet grass to the big house where the father, who once was Ireland’s top motocross racer, stood staring at the driveway. Tears dripped off his nose.

As kindly as I could, I asked what was wrong.

That morning, while out bringing in the cattle on his ATV, the youngest of four sons of a nearby family had tried to head up a hill too fast and flipped the heavy machine on top of himself, crushing him instantly.

In the process, crushing the entire community. Word swiftly got around. Everyone knew the family, knew the boy. People were devastated.

I kept up with the farm chores to alleviate the daily pressures on my hosts. I’d planned to head to Gorey to see the parade. I figured it best to make myself scarce, other than to help out.

The big day came. On the way to the town, you drive heart-breakingly beautiful small country roads which wind and twist, giving you constant reasons to remember why Ireland is called Emerald. I listened to a Gaelic news station on the radio. I knew the topic. Couldn’t understand a word, but the words Trump and Merkel were thrown around along with the kind of deep sarcasm that is unmistakable in any language. Trump is much hated here, as he is the world over.

There was only one small community that was between my farm and Gorey. A tiny village, Coolgreany, anchored by the church and the pub, and a few shops for necessities. The place was quiet, only a few cars parked along the narrow main road. The bereaved family’s community.

There are few places in Ireland, no matter how small, which don’t celebrate their patron saint. This small village had a parade planned. You couldn’t tell. No bunting, no small group of people around a float, no dressed up kids or clowns or people on horseback. Horses are big around here.

Nothing.

After I watched the Gorey parade and had my fill of the local pastries, I headed back to my cottage. It was perhaps four in the afternoon, still full light.

As I turned the corner with Coolgreany in sight, I noticed cars parked everywhere. No parade. No celebrations. The entire community from miles around had come to stand with the family of the dead boy. Honor him. They’d shut down the parade, and gathered in solidarity.

As I drove slowly through the tiny town, I could see the people inside the buildings. I felt a terrible hole in my heart.

However. No armed protesters standing at the edge of town with signs demanding WE WANT OUR PARADE. I WANT MY GREEN BEER. OPEN THE SHOPS. I WANT MY PASTRY. WHERE’S MY PARTY? IT’S NOT RIGHT.

Nobody outside screaming at at the town council about how unfair it was that the parade had been shut down.

Just the deep quiet of Irish community, gathered to hold together the shattered hearts of a neighbor whose loss and grief transcended any saint.

I wept for that boy. For that family. I retired to my cottage and wept for my country. That we lose so many each day. But business must go on even though we bulldoze lives and hearts and souls. We cannot, will not stop to grieve, to truly stand with our communities, to stitch their hearts together with pieces of our collective emotional cloaks.

I hail from a small town farming community. I know how such families come together in both joy and grief.

Today as I watch the fractured factions of our American landscape battle and demand and argue and posture and behave like puerile toddlers at the expense of others as opposed to help protect the community, I weep.

Not my President. Not my country. Not my people. Profit over people, the rich above all else, selfishness and greed over community.

IWANTAHAIRCUT.

I weep for what we could have been, and for what we are, and for what we have lost.

We have plenty of communities that still bear the beating hearts of those who deeply care, but we have lost our nation.

I can only hope that we come to care enough about each other along the way to stitch ourselves back together, like the tiny community of Coolgreany, but writ large.