The Atlanta St. Patrick’s Parade Committee is pleased to announce
The Atlanta St. Patrick’s Parade Committee is pleased to announce
The 2021 Winner
Congratulations to Divya Tadanki, the winner of the 2021 St. Patrick's Day Essay Contest for her outstanding poem “Reminisces of a Simpler Time”, posted below.
Divya is at Milton High School in Milton, Georgia. Divya will be awarded a prize of $1,000 by the Atlanta St. Patrick's Day Committee. Congratulations Divya!
Thank you to all the participants in the 2021 essay contest!
Reminisces of a Simpler Time
By Divya Tadanki
The woman reminisces of a simpler time. A time in which she could fearlessly venture to the market, stand elbow to elbow with other Irishmen, and purchase potatoes and cabbage for her favorite meal. She remembers river dancing in pubs until her ghillies frayed and tore; she misses the sound of trad music and drinking hot whiskey to warm herself on cool nights. The idea of simply being outside of her home is unimaginable now. She longs for the days of playing Camogie with her friends, returning home exhausted yet content. She wants to ask someone, “What’s the craic?” and hug them as opposed to smiling at them from behind her mask. She wishes she could dress in her best apparel, pin a shamrock to her breast, and attend Mass with her brothers and sisters on Saint Patrick’s Day. It dawns upon her that she took the annual parades and the traditional roast dinner for granted. She laments that the lively nature of Ireland has dulled, her eyes watering as she sees empty streets and the closed National Museum. Her beloved museum, the one that she would spend hours in absorbing the rich history, art, and architecture of Ireland, now deserted aside from the trademark “TEMPORARILY CLOSED” sign. Her heart breaks as she thinks of the closed theatres and shut down cinema productions and wonders when she’ll be able to return to work as a makeup artist.
Safety first, she reminds herself, Safety comes first. The safety of the actors, the directors, the crew.
Things will go back to normal, she reassures herself. But she does not know if this is true. Two weeks, they said. That seemed to be a manageable amount of time. She never thought those two weeks would turn into one year.
Now, she clings to her memories: memories of a previous life, memories a different version of herself had. Fearful that her identity will disappear, she replays these memories in her head, refusing to let herself forget what makes her unique, what makes her Irish. She watches as the numbers on her television change at a steady rate, but not in the direction she wants them to. When feelings of hopelessness begin to encroach on her mind, she stubbornly continues to relive her memories, optimistic that one day she will be able to pass on her heritage to someone else. Every day, she mutters a few words to herself in Gaeilge just to make sure she has not forgotten the language. She reads the works of James Joyce and Seamus Heaney, as it is now the safest way to explore her culture. She vows not to lose herself in solitude, and to use her culture to feel a sense of connection to others. Eager for the day in which the outdoors become safe again, she promises herself that she will not repress her “Irish-ness” anymore.
Miles away, a politician walks to his job in The Oireachtas, determined to provide aid to those suffering from the virus. He fully supports Ireland’s contribution to the UN Global Humanitarian Response Plan; he believes that there is nothing better to do than invest all resources towards battling Covid-19 around the world. He knows that nobody is safe until everyone everywhere is safe. The man struggles to find a balance between protecting public health and ensuring job security. He feels for the unemployed, wanting desperately to provide some relief. The politician wonders how to make up for the travel ban and loss of tourism and income in Ireland. To reassure himself, he takes comfort in the fact that Ireland’s advanced technology allows the healthcare system to be better equipped to fight the virus, and hopes that the country will reopen soon. As he sits down at his dark brown wooden desk to start his day, he acknowledges that he has the power to bring relief, and vows to do so.
Meanwhile, a man in Pennsylvania expresses his frustration that he cannot travel home to Ireland to visit his parents in the Marlay nursing home. He battles his feelings of helplessness as he hears the news that nursing home residents are at an increased risk for catching the virus, berating himself for not returning home sooner. Struggling with his feelings of loneliness, he seeks comfort in his sister who lives alone in Australia. The pair speak over the phone often, but feel a strong detachment and disconnect when they converse, as they are unable to put their feelings into words. After every conversation, the man puts his phone down and stares at the four empty walls of his apartment, angry that something he cannot see is wreaking so much havoc. Like the woman, he turns to his television screen, hoping to see the numbers trend downward so he may return to Ireland, but no avail. The one thousand has turned to one million, and the one million to ten million. His plans of boarding a plane back to the Emerald Isle--shattered. When he had left Ireland, he never thought he would be barred reentry, or banned from seeing his family. The man feels for those who share his story, and prays for a sense of normalcy to return soon.
A few states over, in New Jersey, a young girl relates to the Pennsylvanian. But she is not Irish; she is Indian. That, however, does not limit her understanding of how it feels to be torn away from loved ones in a pandemic. She worries about her parents living in India, wonders how they are faring in relation to the rest of the country; she obsesses over her decision to leave. Was she being selfish? Should she have stayed with her family?
She misses celebrating Diwali and dressing up in her sari to light fireworks alongside her friends and family; she regrets taking tradition and festivals for granted, wishing she enjoyed it more when she had the chance. Across the pond, her younger sister in London feels the same way.
I feel this way. And so does my family. So does the rest of the world. Everyone has put their lives on hold, waiting for Covid-19 to disappear as quickly as it presented itself. We lean on each other for support because everyone understands what others are going through. Regardless of race, gender, sexuality, or religion, everyone longs for a glimmer of hope signaling that a sense of normalcy will renew across the world.
My family sat in silent worry once we heard that numerous loved ones had tested positive for the coronavirus. There was nothing to do but wait for the news to travel nine thousand miles across two oceans. We watched as those closest to us put their lives on the line to fight the disease adamantly on the front lines.
As did many other families.
The pandemic has shown that we, as humans, are more alike than we are different. We all long for the same thing: health, happiness, safety, security. The color of our skin, our ethnicity, or our nationality does not change the fact that we are all part of one united human race, with one united goal.
Covid-19 has impacted millions of people in extremely different, yet similar, ways.
The pandemic, and the danger it poses, has united nations together to accomplish the goal of saving every life possible. Even warring nations cannot deny that they are now fighting the same enemy- a disease.
India. The United States. Ireland. All completely different nations now bound together with hundreds of other countries by a singular commonality~ the memory of the coronavirus and the determination to end it.
The 2020 Winner
Congratulations to Dante Christian, the winner of the 2020 St. Patrick's Day Essay Contest for his outstanding poem “Three Days a Green Slave”, posted below.
Dante is an 12th Grade student in the International Baccalaureate program at Douglas County High School in Douglasville, Georgia. Dante will be awarded a prize of $1,000 by the Atlanta St. Patrick's Day Committee. Congratulations Dante!
Thank you to all the participants in the 2020 essay contest!
By Dante Christian
The year 1762, and I a free negro? Ole Succat, a manic Irish servant, says there’s a party from his home here. Shoo.
He talkin’ about it startin’ with an evangelist. His name was Maewyn Succat. Stolen from England, put in Ireland.
Ole Succat swears that they shares blood. Besides, Maewyn was forced to herd ‘em sheep. And to talk Irish too.
Ere long, Maewyn introduced the Irish to Jesus. In return, they made him patron. He was growin’ on ‘em big.
Contrary, his name stopped growin’ on him. Forget Maewyn. Like a baptism, he was new, he was Pat.
If it were that easy for us, we’d all be smillin’. All be laughin’. All be livin’, not my meal, the loins of a pig.
A dreaded story pairs with my ole name. Antony, it stings my tongue. Just like that whip and my raw back.
Aw Abraham, slur and blur. That’s all I was to ‘em, nothin’ but a chair. The wood holdin’ up their pampered asses.
I see Pat, and I sees him as clear as the gospels he taught. He was imprisoned, then not. So was his skin black?
I was in the world again, greater. Dunked in the waters, and came up like Pat. Out of winter into bloomin’ springs.
Like Succat, think I has his blood and he has mine. And yes, he passed, about 1,000 years ago. But the Saint’s here.
Saint Pat’s still here today. Name praised on emerald isle. Soiled at the first parade by them fools called “kings”.
I was in the New York Colony. Brushin’ up on this English Ole Succat gave me. Hearin’ the whoopin’ and hollerin’.
All this looney celebration. Whilst, my brothers and sisters are sold. No more on Wall Street, yet I still weep.
Then I leaves out for fresh air. And around the corner, I see into my home. Men, women, and children prayin’.
Child, remember that they were being true to them. True to Pat. And true to Him.
For this slavery to this faith is how it spread. This change from imprisoned to liberated. From dead to livin’.
I, Aviv Green, changed. Only to be the truest of the true. Change to be you, not him.
I pray. As Saint Pat did. That we’ll be unchained
The year’s 2020, and I’m a free black? It’s that time of year again. I get honoring Saint Patrick, but all this money.
The affluent American drowning in Guinness. While some people barely have enough dollars for water. Shame.
But Aviv it happened. We’re living our lives. Now able to feast like how the Irish did for Patrick, with glee.
However, inside, in here, there's a cage. I may feel the wind blowing in the fields. But it’s stale in this home.
The Holy Spirit is impatient, because of Him. Wanting to travel to different places. Like this infectious day.
As soon as the “Land of Opportunity” performs, the act soars. The globe follows. Not Ireland, they salute till gloam.
Listen, this viridescent commemoration is free. It is so free that it traverses through continents. Unweighted.
Yet, some bondage called segregation still exist today. We fail to unite for the biggest threat. Protecting Earth.
I, Ace Green, had a dream. Then it was like Martin Luther King and Saint Patrick. Assassinated.
I pray. As Saint Patrick did. That we’ll be joined
The year is 3174, and I am a free African American? The day is March 17th, and all are here as one. Starting over.
They lie to survive, but when we are honest we can live. Alive like these verdient beings below. Ace they will grow.
I, Abraham Green, am free. Saint Patricius taught, free with God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Free with the Clover.
I pray. As Saint Patricius did. That we’ll be opened
Dante Christian © 2020