"Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile; the precious moments are all lost in the tide"

I sit in front of my laptop screen staring at a black and white grainy picture of him. Wire-framed glasses, pudgy cheeks, slicked back hair, and a goofy smile. He appears wholesome, kind, and grandfatherly. I wish I had known that side of him. I stare a minute longer wondering what that relationship could have been like when a two-letter abbreviation catches my eye. Reality snaps me back to the present as I am introduced to a suffix following my paternal grandfather’s name. He was a junior??

Port of Cobh (pronounced Cove) on the southern coast of Ireland. (Not my picture.)

Obviously, yes. But now it’s just another fact I didn’t know about him. In my handful of interactions with Claude, his name never came up. The tattoos, yes. His heritage, not so much. I knew he had been the oldest child in a brood of kids. When his father passed, his stepdad adopted all of the other children except him, so he could carry on the O’Brien last name, but that’s where my knowledge ends. Until today, I didn’t know my great-grandfather’s name.

Now, I’m transfixed, eager to learn more. I begin a search that leads me back two more generations. I have what might be my grandfather’s grandfather’s name. It’s not enough and my free time is exhausted. Yet, the question remains: did my O’Brien ancestors come to the United States from Australia?

The question presented itself two weeks ago when our summer vacation docked at Port of Cobh (pronounced Cove) in County Cork, on the southern coast of Ireland. Having never previously been, I was entranced by the colorful row of houses built into the hills and steep streets, narrow city roads with tiny cars, and a cathedral sitting at the peak of the village. A train station with a gigantic mural promoting the hundredth anniversary of Titanic (irony realized) faced our ship. Across the water were enormous squares of lush green and gold fields lightly touched by man and time.

Although I had never previously been lured by a sense of a homeland, now I was. I imagined my ancestors congregating on the streets, working the farmland, and envisioning the American dream. Surely some had stayed behind. I wanted to find them. Naively, I thought they might be waiting for me, gathered in a group with welcome signs.

I was wrong.

Then, I figured there had to be a club, “O’Briens are welcomed here.”

Wrong again.

I asked locals and tour guides where I could find the O’Briens, like they were depending on my arrival. I knew they had to be around; all of the gift shop merchandise had consistently been sold out of “O’Brien” paraphernalia.

I returned to the ship following the daylong excursion and spoke with Irish friends about my lack of discovery. It was then, and only then, I learned true Irish history. The family matriarch told me a narration I had never heard dating back to the Great Famine, also known as the Irish Potato Famine. When times were ridiculously tough, she said, many resorted to theft to feed their families. If caught, the punishments were severe. They were put on boats and forced to emigrate to Australia, where they were expected to die on the way over. If they survived, what a wonderful surprise for the supposed criminals and an opportunity to rebuild their lives. She also said one girl who faced this predicament was as young as seventeen.

I stared at her for several moments, my mouth ajar, absorbing all she had said. Then, playfully laughed and said, "well at least now I have an explanation for my kleptomaniac tendencies."

The next day, I came across an “O’Brien” placard in a local souvenir shop with a brief synopsis of the history and where its descendants can be found. The card showed one sixth of the O’Brien population lives in Australia.

I smiled, returned the card, and began to wonder.