Strong Like Bull

My grandmother came from the “old country”, as they call it. Her mother’s mother’s grandmother was a victim of the Great Famine in 1848, dying of hunger herself so her nine children could eat. Many Irish fled the blight, but none of her family could afford the escape to America. Her great grandmother saw the global violence of World War I and the bloodshed right at home with the Easter Rising of 1916; the combined death and destruction was horrifying. Her grandmother witnessed the Treaty that established the Irish Republic, and fell in love with a dashing young Limerick lad named Sean who joined the IRA. My grandmother’s mother died as the Troubles began, and my grandmother finally managed to save up enough to move to Philadelphia just as Dublin and Monaghan were bombed by the Northern Irish loyalists.

With all of the tanks and bombs and guns, my grandmother’s family had very few heirlooms that you would consider “nice”. The occasional china teapot or two rested in the breakfront cupboard, a nice Tipperary crystal bowl decorated the coffee table, but very little made the journey to America. One item in particular that survived all of the traveling was a small, gold-plated statue of a bull that my grandmother kept on her mantlepiece. It was a strange item to have; it was nice enough, but nothing overly special in comparison to some of the crystal crosses and porcelain figurines that sat next to it, and certainly nothing flashy. But somehow that little statue was my grandmother’s prized possession.

As a child, I asked my grandmother about the bull all the time. She would smile and say it was a gift from her mother’s mother’s grandmother and was the most valuable trinket in our family. I would stare in wide-eyed wonder as she went on to tell stories passed down through generations about the Great Famine, the Easter Rising, the Troubles, and growing up in Ballina. The way she told things, my ancestors all sounded like heroes whether they were taking part in an IRA mission or scraping up enough money to buy the children new boots for the winter. She talked about Ballina in such a bittersweet way, as if she never wanted to leave but felt that she had to in order to survive. My grandmother would always finish her story-telling sessions with the old rebel songs, sometimes by the Wolfe Tones and other times by some long forgotten poet who shared his work through word of mouth until his words became the legend and he faded into anonymity. My cousins and I would all dance our sevens and threes as she sang, trying to learn the words and keep up the old traditions.

I eventually gave up asking about the funny little bull statue. School and sports replaced singing about Great-Great-Grandpa Sean South and dancing jigs. My visits with my grandmother became fewer and farther between until I could barely remember what her house number on Clearfield Street was.

Shortly after college, I hit one of the less-desirable points of my life. I had failed out of graduate school after one semester, was unemployed with a useless undergraduate degree, broke up with my long-time boyfriend, and had no idea what to do next. I felt as though up was down and north was south. In such situations, you visit with the people who feel like home; the ones who just listen and hug you. I knocked on my grandmother’s door for the first time in a very long time, and she quickly ushered me inside for a cup of tea. I talked, and she listened. When I finished my sob story, she smiled kindly. She set down her tea cup and reached for the bull statue on the mantelpiece. I had forgotten all about the bull, but seeing her take it down from its place of honor sent memories of golden afternoons with her flashing through my mind.

“It is time for you to have this,” she said, gently placing the statue in my hands.

“Me? Now? Why?” I asked, so confused about what was so important about my terrible situation that it merited surrendering her favorite decoration.

“Because now you are old enough to understand,” she said. “This bull is the oldest of our family treasures, but it is much more than just a dusty old heirloom. My mother’s mother’s grandmother, who died during the Famine, desperately wanted to have a nice decoration in her house. Nothing fancy, just something nice. This little statue was all she could afford on the dole, so she took it home and sat it on the mantelpiece of their little cottage. When she died, she left it to my grandmother, the youngest, and told her to treasure it always as a light in the darkness. My great grandmother kept it on her mantelpiece as well, taking great care to protect it from all of the bombings during the War and the Rising. My grandmother had it on her mantel as well, but frequently took it down to hide it from the Loyalists and my mother did the same through the Troubles. I knew I had to bring it with me from Ballina so here it sits in Port Richmond to this day. And now it is yours,” she smiled, “as a reminder that we Irish women are strong like the bull. Come Famine, War, or instability, we fight on.”

I was speechless. I sat admiring the statue for nearly an hour, neglecting my half-full teacup. It had taken me 25 years to finally understand the importance of this trinket, and now it was mine; I could hardly believe it. That statue felt like it held the entire weight of all of the tragedies of my family all at once. And now it was my job to fight through my own struggles as all the women of my family before me.

“Thank you, Nanny,” I finally said.

My grandmother gave me a tight hug and a pat on the shoulder before opening the front door again.

Not having a mantelpiece of my own, I sat the shiny golden bull statue on my bureau where I would see it every day; a constant reminder to be strong like the bull.