the chalk between his fingers to loosen some of its particles and then realized with a terrible chill up his spine that the class had gone preternaturally silent and some forty pairs of eyes, including the apoplectic looking professor, were now staring at him. He realized in an instant what had happened and wholeheartedly wished the floor would open up and drop him into hell.
“Something you’d like to share with the class, Mr. Riordan?” The Professor said in that maddeningly smart-ass way teachers seemed to pick up with their diplomas.
Pat, not the boldest of souls in public situations, was about to stammer an unintelligible reply but then his muse turned her head and offered him a look of sympathy that shifted the parameters of his world. He answered her smile and from reserves he wasn’t aware of possessing, found courage.
“Kieran,” he said, “the man’s name was Kieran and he was never a proponent of Ribbonism,” he said with an assurance he did not feel.
“Relative of yours was he, Mr. Riordan?” the teacher said with a smirking smile.
“My great-great grandfather actually,” Pat said anger giving him firmer ground to stand upon.
“Perhaps then you’d like to enlighten us as to history as it actually happened.” The professor, smiling creamily, was certain he’d refuse, Pat saw. The teacher, however, hadn’t counted on the rather intense pair of green eyes that were gazing up at him with great interest. ‘Seize the day’ , he told himself, ‘ or it will seize you.’
“Ribbonism was a generic term covering a variety of small insurrections; it was a general term to cover a movement that never really came out from the dark of night and the shadows of hiding. It was well over by my—by Kieran’s time. Ireland by the mid-1800’s was leaving its agrarian roots behind and moving into the industrial age. Kieran believed in some of the same concepts but not necessarily in the methods. The industries based on large-scale agriculture, such as linen and brewing, were the industries that prospered but the day of the peasant farmer was over. Ribbonism was like the old Catholic priests in its call to go back to the land, to revert to some golden era that had never existed in Ireland in the first place, Kieran was the sort of man who looked forward not back. He supported the purveyors of change but never saw himself as a devout follower of anyone. He believed that a man should stand alone rather than compromise his beliefs.”
“And what exactly were those beliefs?” the professor, eyebrows arched, was intently polishing his glasses.
“He believed in a system, a world if ye will where a man is not judged by the cut of his clothes or the color of his skin nor the size of his wallet. A world where truth is not to be feared, he believed,” Pat took a deep breath and looked directly into the eyes of his Muse, “that all men should live free and that freedom is worth any price.”
“Bravo,” his Muse said, green eyes sparkling. Pat felt suddenly that, like the mythical hero Diarmuid, he could leap entire forests in a single bound.
“Commendable,” the professor was readjusting his glasses to the bridge of his beaky nose, “but words are cheap at half the price, action is what costs.”
“Well,” said Pat, recklessness still thrumming sweetly in his veins, “perhaps if ye’d read further ye’d know that my great-great-granddaddy was a Fenian an’ was hung by the English for staging an uprising an’ after they hung him they had him drawn an’ quartered, then stuck his head on a pike as a warning to the rest of the croppies not to get anymore ideas. The history of Ireland has been the history of my family.”
“Surely you don’t mean to suggest that in a land of three million people your family constitutes the entire story of a nation, do you, Mr. Riordan?”
“No, of course not,” Pat said feeling angry that the man had picked one point out of what he’d
“Something you’d like to share with the class, Mr. Riordan?” The Professor said in that maddeningly smart-ass way teachers seemed to pick up with their diplomas.
Pat, not the boldest of souls in public situations, was about to stammer an unintelligible reply but then his muse turned her head and offered him a look of sympathy that shifted the parameters of his world. He answered her smile and from reserves he wasn’t aware of possessing, found courage.
“Kieran,” he said, “the man’s name was Kieran and he was never a proponent of Ribbonism,” he said with an assurance he did not feel.
“Relative of yours was he, Mr. Riordan?” the teacher said with a smirking smile.
“My great-great grandfather actually,” Pat said anger giving him firmer ground to stand upon.
“Perhaps then you’d like to enlighten us as to history as it actually happened.” The professor, smiling creamily, was certain he’d refuse, Pat saw. The teacher, however, hadn’t counted on the rather intense pair of green eyes that were gazing up at him with great interest. ‘Seize the day’ , he told himself, ‘ or it will seize you.’
“Ribbonism was a generic term covering a variety of small insurrections; it was a general term to cover a movement that never really came out from the dark of night and the shadows of hiding. It was well over by my—by Kieran’s time. Ireland by the mid-1800’s was leaving its agrarian roots behind and moving into the industrial age. Kieran believed in some of the same concepts but not necessarily in the methods. The industries based on large-scale agriculture, such as linen and brewing, were the industries that prospered but the day of the peasant farmer was over. Ribbonism was like the old Catholic priests in its call to go back to the land, to revert to some golden era that had never existed in Ireland in the first place, Kieran was the sort of man who looked forward not back. He supported the purveyors of change but never saw himself as a devout follower of anyone. He believed that a man should stand alone rather than compromise his beliefs.”
“And what exactly were those beliefs?” the professor, eyebrows arched, was intently polishing his glasses.
“He believed in a system, a world if ye will where a man is not judged by the cut of his clothes or the color of his skin nor the size of his wallet. A world where truth is not to be feared, he believed,” Pat took a deep breath and looked directly into the eyes of his Muse, “that all men should live free and that freedom is worth any price.”
“Bravo,” his Muse said, green eyes sparkling. Pat felt suddenly that, like the mythical hero Diarmuid, he could leap entire forests in a single bound.
“Commendable,” the professor was readjusting his glasses to the bridge of his beaky nose, “but words are cheap at half the price, action is what costs.”
“Well,” said Pat, recklessness still thrumming sweetly in his veins, “perhaps if ye’d read further ye’d know that my great-great-granddaddy was a Fenian an’ was hung by the English for staging an uprising an’ after they hung him they had him drawn an’ quartered, then stuck his head on a pike as a warning to the rest of the croppies not to get anymore ideas. The history of Ireland has been the history of my family.”
“Surely you don’t mean to suggest that in a land of three million people your family constitutes the entire story of a nation, do you, Mr. Riordan?”
“No, of course not,” Pat said feeling angry that the man had picked one point out of what he’d
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