I’m in Manhattan in March 1995. It’s my third time in New York but the first with my wife, Louise. The other visits were as a young photographer from the Longford Leader, covering the annual dinner dance of New York’s Longford Men’s Association in Woodside, Queens – nights of group shots and what we call “grip and grins”. During those visits, I hadn’t made it into Manhattan to see the parade.
We left our hotel early to check it out. My memories are hazy but I recall having a small rangefinder camera with a fixed lens, and two rolls of black-and-white film, 36 exposures on each. I’ve no idea why I didn’t have any more film than that, but I did shoot all 72 frames that morning.
I remember being disappointed when we got to the starting point. I assumed it would be bigger, better and brasher than our parades at home, all razzmatazz with no Irish dancers on flatbed lorries, or FCA [Fórsa Cosanta Áitiúil – the precursor to the Reserve Defence Force] members marching badly.
It actually felt kind of dull. There were bands, bagpipes and some baton twirling, but it was mainly people walking behind county banners. Younger Irish-Americans were more interested in “wetting the shamrock”, drinking openly and goofing around. It wasn’t pretty. Older people waited quietly to join the parade from the side streets off Fifth Avenue, many wore sashes indicating various levels of importance.
They looked serious and earnest, or maybe they were sad, longing for the old sod and Irish dancers dancing on the back of a lorry.
