29 years ago today, I rambled off to the US, having won a green card in the lottery. Every year on this date, I always enjoy reminiscing on what I’ve been up to and how things have progressed. I wrote a piece a few months ago about my dad, and that fateful day I headed off. I’m sharing it with you today, as a happy memory, while I sit here reflecting. Hope you enjoy it.

MAD MONEY                                                                             

He shoved £300 into my pocket, just before I walked through airport security. A huge amount of money at the time, for a girl like me.

“It’s mad money”, he lilted in his West Cork accent, trying to hide his tear-filled eyes with a smile. His quivering chin was in opposition with the sides of his mouth, as they tried to curl upwards. His cheeks were moist, misted over with nerves and perspiration and a little bit of pride, I suppose. He took out his hanky and pretended to clean his glasses.

I gazed at him lovingly, noticing my friends in a fuzzy scene behind him, a bit like portrait mode on an iPhone these days. All of them jumping up and down, waving, crying, holding each other’s hands. I can still recall that snap-shot.

“You better come back, ye mad yoke”, one said.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Laughter echoed around the terminal.

It was 1993, and I was heading off to San Francisco, having won the green card in the lottery. At 22 years old, I was barely a proper grown up. I came home one day and told my parents I was gay. It didn’t go over well.

“You’re not gay”, my mother said, “that’s just another one of your phases”, she said. “Wait until your father hears this!”, making herself a hot whiskey in our little North County Dublin kitchen.

She wasn’t far wrong. He hated it. Sure, it was still illegal at the time.

“You’ll never survive in this country”, he said. “It’s not accepted here, you’ll have to go”, his instinctive protection mode taking over. I wondered if he was embarrassed. Or ashamed. I knew I’d broken his heart. His only daughter. I watched him get redder in the face as he dialled the number on our white rotary phone. His finger angrily pressed into each digit on the circular pad, the zeros taking far too long to spin back to the start. Gripping the long spiral chord, as if grabbing it harder would make my gayness go away, he spent hours trying to find out how I could apply for the Green Card. To go away. To go to America.

And I won it. Three months later, I was standing at the airport, saying goodbye to everyone. My friends. My Dublin. My mam. My dad.

He was 51. That’s what age I am now. Why did he seem so old?  I don’t feel old.

I toured the earth as a fledgling adult. Blossoming into my late twenties, I roamed America, soaking up 23 states. As my body aged, so did my mind, guiding me into an experienced thirty-something. Experienced in what? In travel? In life?

I came home once a year for 22 years. Dad visited me too, at the start, when he could. In Boston. Then New York. Then California. His gentle voice always guided me to do the right thing. To make the right choices. I’d often ring home, forgetting the time zone and he’d answer. “How much do you need?”, laughing as he spoke. I was still his little girl.

He died when I was 37. The hole he left in me gets smaller, but at times it penetrates so much deeper.

I’d give anything to see him again. He’d be 80 this year. On Father’s Day, I’d bring him out for dinner here in Prague. That’s where I live now. And he could eat all the goulash he wanted. And I’d take out a bunch of Czech Kroner notes to pay for it. I’d look at him and smile at his hesitation.

“It’s mad-money, dad”, I’d say.

And he’d look at me again. His eyes might mist over and I’d wonder if he was proud.

“I’m very proud of you”, he’d say, cleaning his glasses with his hanky.

Thanks for reading this short piece today. I have a million memories of my 22 years in America. Not long now until my memoir finally comes out! Also, scroll down to the bottom of my home page to click on a radio interview I recently did with NearFM.