The recent decision by the Northern Ireland Prosecution Service not to prosecute fifteen former British soldiers and one civilian for perjury concerning their testimony during the Bloody Sunday Inquiry is yet another attack on the universally accepted standards of justice and a continuing denial of the fundamental human rights of the victims and their families.

The lies told by these men were not harmless fibs; they slandered the names of innocent victims and their families, they covered up killings which former British Prime Minister David Cameron admitted forty years later were “unjustified and unjustifiable.” These lies led to an escalation of the Northern Ireland conflict and countless other killings and suffering.

For the Public Prosecution Service (PPS) to claim there is “insufficient” evidence to pursue perjury charges is an insult to the world’s intelligence. One does not need fingerprints, DNA, or advanced forensics to determine perjury, just the facts and a willingness to acknowledge them. It is ludicrous to believe that there were enough facts to motivate the Prime Minister to state that the killings of Bloody Sunday were “unjustified and unjustifiable,” and yet those same facts can not be used to indict those who claimed that the actions of 1st Parachute Regiment on that day were justifiable. To say that there is no prospect of a conviction bespeaks a lack of competence or a lack of will on the part of the PPS. We believe it is the latter.

By not addressing these perjuries, the British government continues its campaign to airbrush from history its role during the darkest days of Northern Ireland’s past. The PPS decision contradicts the accountability promised by the British government in 2010 when it agreed with the Saville Inquiry’s findings. The decision repudiates Britain’s previous commitments to reconciliation under the Good Friday Agreement and other treaties. Following the adoption of the “Northern Ireland Troubles (Legacy and Reconciliation) Act,” it is yet another example of a two-tier justice system, the sort of justice system that the U.S. has loudly denounced in Russia, China, and the Middle East.

In light of these developments, the Ancient Order of Hibernians urges the United States to demand a review of this decision and to hold the British government accountable for its commitments to justice and the Good Friday Agreement in which the United States played such a pivotal role. The Ancient Order of Hibernians stands firmly with the families still grappling with the loss of their loved ones and calls for a transparent reevaluation of the evidence against the backdrop of acknowledged truth.

It is an iconic image of WW II, a photo taken on June 6, 1944 showing American soldiers exiting a landing craft coming ashore at Omaha beach. A few months later on October 20th, another photo captured the moment General Douglas MacArthur “returned” to the Philippines, wading ashore from a landing craft. Neither of these historic moments would have been possible without one man, as overlooked but essential as the landing craft in these images that bore his name, Andrew Higgins.

Though in later life Higgins would be inseparably identified with New Orleans, he was born in Columbus, Nebraska in 1886. Losing his father when he was but seven years old, Higgins would claim he received his determination and strong will from his mother whose ancestors had come from Ireland after the failed rebellion of 1848. Higgins demonstrated the industry and innovation that were to be his hallmarks at an early age. At the age of nine and with only a sickle he began a grass cutting business. He soon purchased a lawn mower, eventually expanding until he had seventeen mowers and was hiring older boys to do the work while he managed the business. An incurable builder, the young Higgins constructed an iceboat in the basement of his home for use on the nearby lakes. When finished, he realized it was too big to be taken out of the basement doors. With characteristic determination, he borrowed jacks from a nearby construction site and with friends removed a section of the basement’s wall, got the boat out and restored the wall, all while his mother was out shopping. Perhaps not unexpectedly, such creativity, determination and strong will often brought young Higgins into conflict with school authorities resulting in him being expelled before graduating.

Higgins moved to the south where he began working in the lumber industry. His interest in boats was again rekindled when he was confronted with the problem of how to access timber from shallow, obstacle choked bayous. Higgins took a correspondence course in naval architecture and soon designed the first of the flat-bottomed shallow draft boats which would make him famous. The key feature was that the propeller was incorporated in a recessed tunnel that protected the propeller from grounding and fouling.

In the late 1930’s Higgins owned a small shipyard in New Orleans servicing the need of loggers and oil drillers in the Mississippi Delta. The growing threat of war soon drew the interest of the Marines in Higgins’ boats as the Navy Bureau of Ships had consistently failed to produce craft that could effectively deliver Marines, their tanks and artillery on a beach. Marine General Holland “Howlin’ Mad” Smith on seeing trials of Higgins shallow draft “Eureka” boat thought it could be “an answer to the Marine prayer”. The one concern was that as configured the Marines would need to disembark the boat going over the side, slowing their exit when they were most vulnerable. At his own expense, Higgin’s modified the boats by cutting off the bow and replacing it with a ramp. Higgins received a call from the Navy that they and the Marines would be coming to New Orleans to test the ramped boats and Higgins should also prepare to discuss a design for a craft capable of landing tanks. Higgins informed the Navy that instead of a plan he would have a workable craft. “It can’t be done,” the Navy told him; “The Hell it can’t,” replied Higgins, “you just be here in three days”. Higgins had the boat built in 61 hours.  Both would be taken into service, and while the ramped “Eureka” would have the official designation of LCVP (Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel) it would be known universally as the Higgins Boat.

Higgins’ answer to the “Marine prayer” came just in time, as the United States would soon enter WW II. With his tireless energy, often working 16 hour days, Higgins seemingly overnight turned his small 50 man New Orleans boat building business into one of the largest boat builders in the world, building not only several models of landing craft but other boats as well. By September 1943, 12,964 of the American Navy’s 14,072 vessels had been designed by Higgins Industries.  Hitler bitterly called Higgins “The new Noah”.

A fact that should not be overlooked is that to achieve this prodigious output Higgins employed anyone capable of performing the job, irrespective of gender or race, and everyone who performed the same job was given the same pay. Higgins was one of our nation’s first equal opportunity employers. Realizing the impact a worker lost due to sickness could have on productivity, Higgins established a company clinic where works could access health care free of charge.

Unfortunately, wartime gratitude is a fleeting thing. When the war ended, the drive and determination which had enabled Higgins to deliver what his country needed came back to haunt him as the toes he stepped on to get the job done now took their revenge. Maverick innovators like Higgins were out of place in the conformist world of post-war corporate America. Despite an indisputable record of being an advocate for his workers, his firms were crippled by post-war strikes. Higgins died in New Orleans on 1 August 1952.

Andrew Jackson Higgins was like the boat that bore his name: straightforward, tough and reliable. Neither was sophisticated, they just got the job done. He deserves to be remembered much more than he is. As General Eisenhower noted, “Andrew Higgins … is the man who won the war for us. … If Higgins had not designed and built those LCVPs, we never could have landed over an open beach. The whole strategy of the war would have been different.”

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Major General Michael Collins, who as a Colonel was the Command Pilot of Apollo 11, the mission that put a man on the moon, is sadly often overlooked, but it should not be forgotten that the successful return of his crewmates Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin was dependent entirely on his piloting skill in flying the command module and performing a successful docking with the Lunar module.

Michael Collins was a second-generation Irish American born into a military family. Collin’s father was a career soldier, attaining the rank of Major General, earning two distinguished service medals and the Silver Star. The young Michael attended his father’s Alma Mater, the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, graduating in 1952. Graduates of West Point at that time were given the opportunity to transfer to the Air Force (there being no Air Force Academy at that time). The opportunities for exploration that aeronautics offered, combined with concerns that an Army career would always have a cloud of favoritism because of his father’s notoriety, influenced young Michael to choose the Air Force.

Collins became an expert pilot, one of an elite group of test pilots, and was eventually selected for astronaut training. Collins would first enter space as part of the two-man crew of Gemini 10. As part of the mission, Collins performed two spacewalks and docked several times with a target drone, which were vital preliminaries to the upcoming efforts to put a man on the moon. Collins described the experience during one spacewalk as “like a Roman god riding the skies in his chariot.” The less romantic NASA administration gave Collins an additional $24 in “travel money” for the three-day mission.

Collins is of course best remembered as a member of the three-man crew of Apollo 11, the first mission to put a man on the moon. It was Collins who designed the mission’s famous logo of an eagle landing on the moon with the Earth in the background. However, Collins’ expertise as a pilot meant that he was chosen to be the Command Module Pilot and would circle in orbit alone while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon and would walk on its surface.

While the world watched amazed as Armstrong and Aldrin were on the Moon, Collins was alone in a tiny capsule, often out of radio contact with the Earth. “Not since Adam has any human known such solitude,” NASA public affairs officer Douglas Ward remarked, and we should not underestimate the fortitude and psychological strength that General Collins required to perform his mission successfully and return the first men to walk on the Moon to Earth. When later asked, “What were you thinking when your colleagues were out there making cosmic history?” Collins, with humor, replied, “I just kept reminding myself that every single component in this spacecraft was provided by the guy who submitted the cheapest tender.”

After the Apollo 11 mission, Michael Collins was appointed the Director of the National Air and Space Museum. Collins faced the monumental task of securing funding and overseeing the museum’s construction in time to open in time for the U.S. Bicentennial in 1976. The museum eventually received Congressional approval for a budget that necessitated some scale-backs due to financial constraints. Despite these challenges, including a tight deadline and the project’s ambitious scope, Collins’ leadership saw the museum opening ahead of schedule in July 1976. Collins managed the construction, staffing, and development of exhibits, making the museum one of the most visited in the world.

Michael Collins’ achievements, from his crucial role in the Apollo 11 mission to his work with the National Air and Space Museum, embody the contributions of Irish Americans to American history, aligning with the spirit of Irish American Heritage Month. His legacy underscores the significant impact of Irish Americans in pushing boundaries and advancing exploration. Collins’ life reflects the perseverance and innovative spirit celebrated during this month, highlighting the integral role of Irish American heritage in shaping America’s progress.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

The 1920s marked one of American history’s darkest and least discussed chapters.  During this period, the Ku Klux Klan experienced a resurgence, propelled by various factors, including D. W. Griffith’s controversial portrayal of the Klan in “Birth of a Nation” (originally titled “The Klansman”), a complex mix of patriotism and isolationism following World War I, and the adoption of modern marketing techniques.  As a result, the Klan transcended its Southern roots, evolving into a nationwide movement with a staggering membership of six million.  To sustain this growth, the Klan expanded its targets of hatred to remain relevant, including adding anti-Catholicism to its twisted mission.

Among the countless victims and perpetrators of this shameful campaign of bigotry and violence, two names stand out: Fr.  James Coyle and Hugo Black, who would in his life wear the robes of a Klansman and a U.S. Supreme Court Justice.

Fr. James Coyle was was born in Drum, County Roscommon.  He attended Mungret College in Limerick and the Pontifical North American College in Rome and was ordained a priest at age 23 on May 30, 1896.  Fr. Coyle would leave his homeland forever, sailing to Mobile, Alabama, whose mines and industry were fueling explosive growth and attracting many Catholic immigrants, including the Irish. 

After an initial assignment as an instructor and rector at the McGill Institute for Boys, Fr. Coyle was appointed the pastor of St. Paul’s Church in Birmingham, where he became beloved by his congregation and respected by many of the non-Catholic community.  Fr. Coyle quickly became known as a champion for fair treatment for the poor and marginalized of all communities; his personal mantra was “Give, give till it hurts- then and only then is there sacrifice.” 

However, the growing Catholic community of Birmingham coincided with growing prejudice and the resurgence of the Klan.  Fr. Coyle was quick to respond to newspaper attacks on Catholicism with his own letters deriding the misinformation and ignorance of bigots.  Fr. Coyle was often the recipient of anonymous death threats, but that did not dissuade him from publicly defending and espousing his faith.

The Klan’s anti-Catholicism was epitomized by another local clergyman.  Edwin Stephenson.   Stephenson was an ordained Methodist deacon but styled himself as a minister for his occupation of being a “marrying parson” at the Jefferson County Courthouse, which was on the same block as Fr. Coyle’s St. Paul’s.  Stephenson was also a member of Robert E. Lee Klavern No. 1, the first Alabama chapter of the new Ku Klux Klan.  Stephenson described Fr. Coyle as ‘one of humanity’s biggest enemies.’

Stephenson had a daughter, Ruth, who often rebelled against her Father’s rigid rules.  Living merely a block from St. Paul’s, Ruth became fascinated by Catholic traditions despite her Father’s vehement criticisms of the faith.  When she turned 18,  she started secretly attending classes on the Catholic faith and was eventually baptized as a Catholic.  When Edwin Stephenson discovered her conversion, he threatened to kill his daughter.  Ruth fled her Father’s threat to live with a local Catholic couple.  Stephenson went to the Birmingham police chief, a fellow Klansman, to report that Ruth had been “kidnapped by Catholics.”   Still considered underage, the police returned her to her Father, where she was beaten with a leather strap after her mother stuffed a rag in her mouth to muffle her screams.

If Stephenson’s aim was breaking Ruth’s independent nature, it failed.  Ruth had been hiding another secret: she was engaged to a Puerto Rico man named Pedro Gussman.  The couple secretly obtained a marriage license in another town, but finding no priest there, they returned to Birmingham and Fr. Coyle.  After carefully inspecting the license, Fr. Coyle performed the ceremony.  After the Ceremony, Fr. Coyle told Ruth that the first thing she must do is inform her parents.

Three hours after the ceremony,  Fr. Coyle was sitting on the porch of his rectory praying his breviary; Edwin Stephenson calmly walked up to the porch, pulled a gun, and shot Fr. Coyle at point blank range in the head, killing him.  Stephenson then walked calmly to the courthouse and surrendered to police, saying, ‘It’s all right, gentlemen, I know what I’m doing.‘

What followed was one of the greatest travesties of American justice.  Despite the brutality of the murder and the clear evidence of Stephenson’s act, it took weeks for the state to indict him.  In response, the Klan hired and paid for his lawyer – future U.S. Senator and Supreme Court Justice Hugo Black.

Stephenson’s original defense team had pleaded not guilty because of temporary insanity.  Black entered an additional plea of self-defense even though it was clear that Stephenson had no gun.  It soon became apparent that Black’s defense would rest on the Klan’s platform, that Catholics were a threat, and that Stephenson was defending his family.  In doing so, Black transformed a murder case that had drawn national attention into a soapbox for the Klan’s anti-Catholic agenda.

The resulting trial was a farce.  The judge, the jury foreman, several jurors, and the key witness, the police chief, were all Klan members.  Throughout the trial, Black and the defense team portrayed Gussman as African American, even going so far as to draw the blinds to make him appear darker.  When the prosecution described Gussman as being of “proud Castilian descent,” the defense responded, “he has descended a long way.”  Hugo Black attacked  the only two witnesses that came forward for the prosecution, asking them if they were Catholic and then  calling them “brothers in falsehood, as well as in faith,”   

Stephenson was acquitted after the jury deliberated less than a day.  For weeks after, he was toasted as a hero, and he lived as a free man in the Birmingham area for another 35 years before dying in 1956.  The murder of Fr. Coyle, like the persecution of Catholics by the Ku Klux Klan, is little remembered.  Hugo Black would later become a member of the Ku Klux Klan himself, only renouncing his membership when he aspired to a career as a U.S. Senator (but then thanked the Klan for their support when he was elected).  Black would later be appointed to the Supreme Court and is lionized and memorialized for his civil rights, his anti-Catholic bigotry dismissed as “a sign of his times,” and his Klan membership as political pragmatism.  Yet in his biography of his father, Hugo Black Jr. confirmed that his father Justice Black never renounced his bigotry toward the Catholic church. A federal courthouse the bears Black’s name is less than a half a mile from where Fr. Coyle was murdered and a monument was erected to Black in his hometown of Ashland, Alabama in 2022 attended by many government officials.   

We would be right to ask, “Where is the justice for Fr. Coyle?”, “Why do we to uncritically honor Hugo Black?”

In the historically Irish neighborhood of Woodside, Queens, stands a monument to those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their country in the Vietnam War.  On the monument are inscribed the names of 27 young men from the local Zip Code of  11377,  more than any other postal code in the nation to die in that conflict.   However, the Irish community of Woodside has another unique distinction touching on the Vietnam War, the story of two childhood friends from that community who would both enlist in the Marines and earn our nation’s highest award for valor, with sadly one also earning an inscription on that monument. Robert Emmett O’Malley and Thomas Patrick Noonan were born within five months of each other in that special neighborhood in 1943.  A picture of the 1949 Kindergarten class of P.S. 76 shows the two boys as classmates.  The two attended school and church together and were close friends throughout childhood.

After graduating High School, O’Malley enlisted in the Marines, where he and his three brothers would serve their country. On 18 August 1965, while leading his squad, they came under intense fire from a strongly entrenched enemy force pinning his men.  With complete disregard for his own safety, O’Malley raced across an open rice paddy to the trench where the enemy was located.  Jumping into the trench, he attacked the Viet Cong with his rifle and grenades and single-handedly killed eight of the enemy. He then led his squad to the assistance of an adjacent Marine unit which was also taking heavy casualties, where O’Malley personally assisted in evacuating several wounded Marines. Ordered to an evacuation point by an officer, Corporal O’Malley gathered his badly wounded squad and led them under fire to a helicopter. Although he himself was wounded three times, O’Malley continued to cover his squad’s boarding of the helicopters while, from an exposed position, he delivered fire against the enemy until the last of his men were safely on board. Only then did O’Malley permit himself to be removed from the battlefield. O’Malley would become the first living Marine to receive the Medal of Honor for service in the Viet Nam War.

Equally brave but not as fortunate, O’Malley’s childhood friend Thomas Noonan also enlisted in the Marines.  On 5 February 1969, Lance Cpl. Noonan was serving as a fire team leader with Company G, Second Battalion, Ninth Marines, Third Marine Division in Quang Tri Province when they came under heavy fire as they descended a treacherous, muddy hill.

Four Marines were wounded and pinned under continuous enemy fire. Noonan scrambled from his own position behind cover toward the wounded men, diving behind some rocks as he went. Finally “he dashed across the hazardous terrain and commenced dragging the most seriously wounded man away from the fire-swept area.” Although “knocked to the ground by an enemy round,” Noonan resumed dragging the man toward safety. “He was, however, mortally wounded before he could reach his destination.”  Noonan would be awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously for his selfless sacrifice.  After Noonan’s death in Vietnam, O’Malley remained in contact with the Noonan family and visited Noonan’s mother every year on Memorial Day.

On presenting the Medal of Honor to Robert Emmett O’Malley, President Johnson remarked:

 “Every time I have awarded the Medal of Honor, I wonder what it is that makes men of this quality and I wonder what a man can say in the face of such bravery.”

The fact that two men of such quality were classmates from the same Irish American neighborhood in New York, joining the company of numerous other Irish Americans who hold our nation’s highest honor, is a testament to the heritage, culture, and traditions which produces such men and women of quality with remarkable regularity.

During its period of operation from 1892 till 1954, over 12 million immigrants entered through the immigration station at Ellis Island, a name that was to become synonymous with the “Golden Door” and the “American Dream”. It is estimated that today over forty percent of the United States population can trace their ancestry to an immigrant that entered Ellis Island.

On New Year’s Day Morning 1892 on the deck of the steamship Nevada stood three adolescents, Annie Moore and her brothers Phillip and Anthony. They were perhaps staring at another recent immigrant from France, the Statue of Liberty. The children had made the twelve-day voyage from Cork in the claustrophobic conditions of steerage to be reunited with their parents and older siblings who had traveled on ahead to make a new life in America two years earlier. In addition to the natural apprehension of starting a new life in a strange land, the children had no doubt heard that they would be subject to a series of examinations at the immigration station; they would be checked to ensure they were healthy and then interrogated to ensure they were neither a threat or likely to become “a public charge”. A slight malady or a wrong answer could result in them being returned to the Nevada and a trip back to Ireland alone. It therefore must have been with some anxiety that Annie realized that she would be the first to go down the gangplank.

It must have been quite a shock when Annie now found herself caught up in what we would now call a PR event surrounding the opening of the new immigration station. The New York Times was there and described Annie as “a little rosy-cheeked Irish girl… fifteen years of age.” (Actually, Annie was closer to seventeen years of age. The children’s ages were all misstated on the manifest, perhaps an attempt by their parents to save money on their passage.) Instead of an anonymous immigration agent, Annie was officially registered by the former private secretary to the secretary of the treasury. The Times continued “When the little voyager had been registered Col. Weber presented her with a ten-dollar gold piece and made a short address of congratulation and welcome. It was the first United States coin she had ever seen and the largest sum of money she ever possessed. She says she will never part with it.” This moment was later commemorated in the song “Isle of Hope, Isle of Tears” popularized by the Irish tenor Ronan Tynan.

Sadly, there would be no fairy tale ending to the life of Annie Moore, her brief moment of notoriety would be a shining moment in a hard and trying life. The statement that Annie would never part with the ten dollar gold piece was likely an invention of a romantic reporter; the coin probably never lasted the day when Annie was reunited with her family who was eking out an existence on her father’s longshoreman salary. She would spend the rest of her life living in a series of tenements near the Fulton Street Fish Market. She would marry the son of a German immigrant who was employed as a bakery clerk. They would have 11 children, but would bury five of them. Annie herself would die at the early age of 47 in 1924; burned out by a life of poverty and struggle.

Annie Moore was initially buried in an unmarked grave in Calvary Cemetery, Queens until it was rediscovered in 2006. Through the efforts of the Irish American community, the grave was marked by a Celtic Cross of Irish Blue Limestone. Some cynics questioned the elaborateness of the memorial given the grim reality of Annie’s life. However, in honoring Annie Moore we honor all the other anonymous Irish men and women who came to this country and sacrificed their present for future generations’ tomorrow while at the same time building America. It is reported that many of the current descendants of Annie’s surviving children are successful and respected members of the community.

It is right and proper that we remember the many great Irish American men and women who gained well deserved distinction in government, the military, the arts and sciences. However in remembering Annie Moore we remember the countless other anonymous Irish Americans who loaded our ships as Annie’s father did, built our railroads, fought our fires, patrolled our streets and taught in our schools.

Annie Moore is a reminder that the success of Irish America comes from sweat, sacrifice, and tears and not “the luck of the Irish”. It is time we reclaimed the struggle and successes of Irish America from the unmarked grave where it currently lies buried in our school’s curricula. She is also a reminder that the “Golden Door” that she once walked through is now unjustly closed to Irish immigrants as it freely swings open to others; a challenge to complete her memorial by seeking a fair and just immigration policy for today’s Annie Moore’s.

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

When someone wants to quickly set an atmosphere of “Irishness,” whether it is a major motion picture or a local Irish restaurant, they invariably use the same element: music.  Music is an essential element of Celtic life; the harper, piper, and the fiddler hold a place of honor and esteem.  Wherever the Irish have traveled, they have taken their music with them as one of their prize possessions, and the sound of Irish music can be heard in Dublin, Denver, and Durban.  Irish music is a highly personal art form; it is an aural tradition passed on from generation to generation through playing and listening.  It is one of our culture’s most identifiable and enduring elements. Yet, it was nearly lost if not for the tenacity and dedication of one man: Chief Francis O’Neill.

O’Neill was born in the town of Tralibane, West Cork, on August 28, 1848, one of ten children.  He was fortunate enough that his childhood was spared the horrors of the Great Hunger, but he would witness the scars that this tragedy left upon the land and its people and the pattern of massive emigration it set in motion.  The O’Neill’s appeared to have weathered the Great Hunger and subsequently prospered by the standards of rural Ireland of the time, allowing young Francis an opportunity at a good education.  The O’Neill home was constantly filled with music, O’Neill’s maternal grandfather was respected as one of the last of the Gaelic clan chieftains, and he would follow the ancient custom of extending hospitality to itinerant musicians.  O’Neill’s mother naturally absorbed a great collection of the tunes and songs of Munster and, through her singing, passed them on to young O’Neill, creating what he would in later life describe as a “madness” for music.  Francis taught himself the flute and soon became an accomplished player. 

O’Neill’s education and quick mind seemed to destine him to be a teacher or for the priesthood, but the quiet life of a scholar was not appealing to the young man.  At the age of 16, he ran away to sea, circling the world at least twice and surviving a shipwreck in the South Pacific and a subsequent “Robinson Caruso” existence.  O’Neill left the sea and married a young Irish woman he had met on one of his voyages.  He tried ranching in Montana and teaching in Missouri before finally settling in Chicago. 

In the aftermath of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, the city of Chicago earned a reputation for lawlessness and corruption.  O’Neill was sworn in as a policeman in 1873 and was shot a few months later while apprehending a notorious gangster.  The bullet was too close to the spine to be removed, and O’Neill carried it for the rest of his life.  Achieving top marks on every police exam he took, he soon worked his way up through the ranks, eventually obtaining its highest rank as Superintendent, also known as “Chief.”  Renowned for his honesty, he once locked up a powerful alderman and personally redesigned the Chicago Police Badge so that Id numbers were more visible and Officers could be held more accountable.  O’Neill was so respected that even in an age where patronage was rife, he maintained his appointment over two different administrations.

However, music remained O’Neill’s passion.  He soon found in the rich Irish immigrant community of Chicago that he had within a few blocks radius access to musicians from across the breadth of Ireland and traditional tunes which were known only locally back home. However, O’Neill saw in this byproduct of the diaspora not only an opportunity but a crisis:  as the Irish spread across the world, the aural tradition of Irish music was removed from the close confines of Ireland, and its protective incubator was in peril.   O’Neill actively sought out Irish musicians and began collecting tunes.  Following in his grandfather’s footsteps and giving a new connotation to his official title, “Chief,” O’Neill would often sponsor Irish musicians in need of employment for jobs on the Chicago Police Department.  A running joke at the time was, “What do you call an Irish Musician in Chicago?  Officer.  What do you call a great Irish Musician in Chicago?  Sergeant.“

O’Neill had one limitation in his tune collecting; like many Irish Musicians, he learned by ear and had a tremendous ability to retain tunes in his head, but he could not read nor write music.  Fortunately, one of his officers James O’Neill (no relation), was not only a respected fiddler but could read and write music.   O’Neill would act as a human tape recorder going about the city, mentally capturing tunes he heard and then playing them back for James O’Neill to set down on paper.  What was unique in Francis O’Neill’s endeavor was that this was not preserving the music of kings and heroes of a bygone age; this was creating a permanent record of the music of the ordinary people of Ireland, the music of the parlor and the ceili.  When Thomas Edison’s phonograph was displayed at the 1893 World’s Fair, O’Neill was one of his first buyers.  Thanks to Chief O’Neill, we can hear some of the legendary Irish Musicians of the age.

O’Neill eventually published eight books of traditional Irish music; his “The Music of Ireland” is considered a definitive reference.  According to the Music Librarian of Notre Dame, “Without (Francis O’Neill), the music would have died.”  Thanks to Irish American Francis O’Neill, the rich legacy of Irish music was preserved for generations. 

It is a reminder of how fragile our history and culture are and the duty of all of us to “Keep the tradition alive.”

Neil F. Cosgrove

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Baseball is a sport built for superlatives and appellations; with every passing season, another member of the sport seems to be bestowed the title of “the Greatest” or a nickname.  Yet, there is only one “Grand Old Man of Baseball,” and there will never be another like Irish American Connie Mack nor anyone as deserving of the title.

Connie Mack was born Cornelius McGillicuddy in Brookfield, Massachusetts, on December 22, 1862.  His parents were both Irish immigrants, Michael McGillicuddy from Killarney, while Mary  (nee McKillop) McGillicuddy was from the Catholic section of Belfast.  Connie would never legally change his name of McGillicuddy and used it on all formal documents but would use ‘Mack’ as his last name in all other situations. 

Mack’s father was a Civil War Veteran whose health had been destroyed by his service.  The family eked out a survival based on a meager disability pension supplemented when the father could work and could find it.  Mack left school at age 14 to help support his family.  It was remembered that he would always give his mother whatever he earned.  Later in life, Mack would always be self-conscious about his lack of formal education.

One advantage of working in the local factories and mills was a lunch hour where Mack would play baseball, which he would follow up with additional playing in the evening when work and chores were done.  Standing 6′ 2″, Connie Mack was already the tallest boy in town and quickly earned the name of “Slats” for his height and slim build.  In 1879 he was playing for Brookfield’s town team.  Only 17, Mack was much younger than his teammates but was the team’s catcher and de facto captain.

In 1886, Mack began a major league career (though the term’ major leagues’ was not coined yet) as a catcher.  Sports writer Bill James described Mack’s playing career as “a light-hitting catcher with a reputation as a smart player but didn’t do anything particularly well.” That is both uncharitable and inaccurate.  Mack was an expert at “the dark arts” of being a catcher.  Instead of positioning himself in front of the backstop like other catchers, Mack was among the pioneers who positioned himself directly behind the home plate.  According to a contemporary opponent Wilbert Robinson, “Mack never was mean … [but] if you had any soft spot, Connie would find it.  He could do and say things that got more under your skin than the cuss words used by other catchers.” In addition to distracting hitters, Mack also honed skills such as blocking the plate and simulating the sound of a foul tip when the then rules stated that any pitch tipped and caught by the catcher was an out.   Mack was also an expert at “tipping bats” (catcher’s interference) to throw off a hitter’s swing.

Mack’s final three seasons were with the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1894 to 1896, where he served as a player/manager and compiled a 149–134 (.527) record.  In 1896, he retired as a full-time player to begin the career he became famous for as a manager.  After a four-year stint as a manager for the then minor league Milwaukee Brewers, Mack became manager, treasurer, and part-owner of the new American League’s Philadelphia Athletics.  Mack guided the A’s to triumph, leading them to capture nine pennants and reach eight World Series, ultimately securing five victories..

Mack revolutionized the position of baseball manager.  He was praised for his intelligent and innovative management, which earned him the nickname “the Tall Tactician.”  He was among the first managers to strategically reposition his fielders during the game, frequently guiding  outfielders by waving his rolled-up scorecard from the dugout..  He valued intelligence and “baseball smarts,” trading away Shoeless Joe Jackson despite his proven worth as a hitter because of his poor attitude and unintelligent play.  Mack’s strength was finding the best players, teaching them well, and letting them play.  In an age when baseball was known for its flamboyant rowdy individuals, Mack developed the need for what we would now call ‘team culture.’  The Times wrote of Mack, “He was a new type of manager,” The Times observed. “The old-time leaders ruled by force, often thrashing players who disobeyed orders on the field or broke club rules off the field. One of the kindest and most soft-spoken of men, he always insisted that he could get better results by kindness. He never humiliated a player by public criticism. No one ever heard him scold a man in the most trying times of his many pennant fights.”

However, what set Connie Mack apart was that he was known as a consummate gentleman, a trait he attributed to his Irish mother.  Going against the baseball manager stereotype, he rarely drank and didn’t smoke or curse.  Time magazine once said, “Mr. Mack, as his players called him, remained a gentleman.  Rumor had it that the harshest expletive was a mild ‘goodness gracious.‘” Ironically, Connie Mack did have a temper, which is why he adopted the practice of wearing his signature business suits rather than the team uniform, as was the habit of other managers.   This meant that he did not need to go to the locker room with his players after a game to change, and by the time the team cooled emerged, he would have cooled down.

Mack also had a wry sense of humor.  When fellow manager John McGraw described the A’s as a “white elephant that would never make money,” Mack had a picture of an elephant added to the uniform, turning the insult into a badge of pride. The use of the white elephant logo is still used by today’s Oakland A’s continues. 

However, when McGraw was proved at least partially correct, the team struggled financially, resulting in Mack having to sell off players to keep the team viable, earning him an unjust reputation as ‘miserly.’  On the contrary,  Mack supported a large extended family and demonstrated kindness to players who were down on their luck, including paying for one former player’s funeral.  More than once, a fellow Irish American would claim to be a relative; Mack knew they weren’t while at the same time leaving some free tickets for them at the box office.     

Connie Mack  would manage the Athletics for fifty years, compiling a record of 3,582–3,814 (.484) when he retired at 87.When Mack retired as a manager at 87, old age and the changing nature of the game had caught up with him, and it can be argued that he diluted his Baseball accomplishments by hanging on too long.  Still, nothing can diminish his influence on the game of baseball or the qualities as a gentleman instilled in him growing up in an Irish American household.

“Humanity is the keystone that holds nations and men together. When that collapses, the whole structure crumbles. This is as true of baseball teams as any other pursuit in life.“

Connie Mack

Patrick Henry O’Rorke was born in County Cavan, Ireland on March 25, 1837. His family emigrated from Ireland when Patrick was but a year old, eventually settling in the “Little Dublin” neighborhood of Rochester, N.Y.  An excellent student, he earned one of two scholarships to the newly formed University of Rochester.  However, his father’s sudden death required young Patrick to take a job as a marble cutter to support his family.

Patrick’s talents were too considerable to go unrecognized for long.  He came to the attention of Congressman John Williams, who recommended him for the U.S. Military Academy at West Point.  He was appointed to the Academy on January 20, 1857 and became the first Irish Immigrant to be enrolled in the Corps of Cadets.    Despite the humbleness of his origins, foreign birth, Catholic religion and being a bit older than his fellow cadets, O’Rorke was well liked and respected by his classmates who knew him as “Paddy.”  An upperclassman later recalled O’Rorke as “popular with all . . . I was impressed by his manly bearing – his kindness and unassuming manner.”

While O’Rorke was a member of the class of 1862, the outbreak of the war in 1861 and the shortage of trained officers resulted in his class’ studies being accelerated so that they would graduate with the class of 1861.  Despite having to cram the final years’ worth of studies into six weeks, O’Rorke, the first Irish immigrant to graduate West Point, finished first in his class.  As an aside, his better-known classmate George Armstrong Custer finished last.  O’Rorke was appointed to the prestigious Corps of Engineers.

O’Rorke was at the First Battle of Bull Run where the new lieutenant had his horse shot out from under him.  He then was assigned as an engineer to help prepare the defenses of Washington D.C. from what was feared would be an imminent Confederate assault.  Later, he served with such conspicuous distinction during the siege of Fort Pulaski on Cockspur Island near Savannah, Georgia that O’Rorke was given the high honor of being one of the officers to receive the Confederate surrender of the fort.

O’Rorke returned to Rochester to be married to Clara Bishop and appointed Colonel of the newly formed 140^th NY Regiment.  The 140^th New York was composed primarily of German and Irish recruits, half of the regiment’s soldiers were born in another country.  Despite being only 25 and commanding a regiment of hardscrabble Erie Canal boatman and farmers, O’Rorke soon had them molded into an efficient military unit.  O’Rorke’s adjutant Ira Clark wrote that “every man knew that in his Colonel, so long as he did his duty, he had a kind friend.”

O’Rorke and the 140^th NY saw action at the Battle of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville.  On July 2^nd, 1863 the 140^th arrived by forced march at Gettysburg on the battle’s second day.  As part of the 3rd Brigade, the 140^th was immediately ordered to an area known as “the Wheatfield” to avert a potential disaster caused by a blunder made by Union General Dan Sickles.  As the 3^rd Brigade moved off with the 140 the last regiment in line, General Gouverneur K. Warren rode up to O’Rorke.  Warren had discovered that a steep hill called “Little Roundtop” which dominated the Union position had been left undefended. Warren knew O’Rorke from West Point, he had been his Mathematics instructor.  He ordered O’Rorke to reinforce Little Round Top; “Never mind (your Brigade Orders), Paddy. Bring them up on the double-quick and don’t stop for aligning. I’ll take the responsibility.”

This put O’Rorke in a dilemma.  O’Rorke had no obligation to follow Warren’s orders countermanding his Brigade Commander.  If things went badly in the Wheatfield, O’Rorke could be held responsible and face Court Martial and ruin.  Warren’s well-meaning assurance to “take the responsibility” would matter little if Warren should be killed in a battle that had already claimed so many lives.

O’Rorke did not hesitate.  Warren’s aide and fellow New Yorker George Washington Roebling, who would later build the Brooklyn Bridge, guided O’Rorke and his men as they scrambled up the steep hill; already exhausted from the forced march and oppressive July heat.  Reaching the top, O’Rorke saw the line of 16th Michigan beginning to crumble.

Without pause, O’Rorke drew his sword from his scabbard, and yelled: “down this way, boys!” The lead elements of the 140^th plunged over the side and “went in with a cheer,” following their Colonel to be met with a devastating volley from the advancing Confederates.  O’Rorke grabbed the regimental flag and turned to urge his men forward when a bullet ripped through his neck. Patrick O’Rorke was dead before he hit the ground.  He was 26 years old.

Harry Pfantz, the Chief Historian of the National Park Service, wrote that “O’Rorke’s five hundred men tipped the scales heavily in the defenders’ favor.” The Union would hold Little Round Top and defeat the Confederates. In his history of the American Civil War, the Comte de Paris would describe O’Rorke’s actions as one of the most striking and dramatic episodes of the battle.  Col. Joshua Chamberlain and the 20^th Maine would earn just immortality for their actions on Little Round Top later in the day.  However, the actions of Chamberlain and the 20^th Maine would not have been possible without O’Rorke, and the 140^th NY; their deeds should be equally remembered and honored.   

Postscript:  O’Rorke’s young widow Clara Bishop would take her vows as a nun of the Society of the Sacred Heart and have a distinguished career as an educator and foundress of several schools.

Neil Cosgrove, Irish American Heritage Month Chair

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth #EmbraceYourIrishHeritageAOH

When we think of explorers, it is common to think of phrases such as “plumbing new depths” or “scaling new heights,” but how many individuals can both expressions be used to literally and accurately describe their achievements?  Such an individual is Irish American  Dr. Kathyrn Dwyer Sullivan.

Kathyrn Sullivan was born in Paterson, New Jersey, to Donald Paul Sullivan and his wife Barbara (née Kelly).  Sullivan’s grandfather had immigrated from Lauragh on the Beara Peninsula in County Kerry.  She chose her middle name Dwyer to honor her maternal grandmother, who she lost as a young child.   The family moved to the San Fernando Valley in California, where her father worked in the aerospace industry for a firm that was to become a major NASA contractor.  If that itself did not foreshadow Kathyrn’s future as an Astronaut, she was a first-grade classmate with Sally Ride, the first American woman in space.  One could see her future in the stars.    Sullivan has stated that she was always asking as a child, “how does it work?” and recalled how she once asked for a mechanical toy not because of what it was but to figure out how it could move as it did.

Sullivan went to the University of California, Santa Cruz (UCSC), initially as a language major planning on a career in foreign service.  The university required that humanities students take three science classes.  Sullivan chose courses in marine biology, topology, and oceanography, which struck a chord with her innate curiosity.  Sullivan would earn her bachelor’s degree in Earth Sciences from UCSC and her Ph.D. in Geology from Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

When Sullivan visited her family for Christmas in 1976, her brother Grant, an aerospace engineer and corporate jet pilot, told her that NASA was recruiting for a new group of astronauts; he had applied and encouraged Kathryn to do so.  While her brother was unsuccessful, Kathryn was accepted (along with previous school classmate Sally Ride) into the first American astronaut group to contain women; being an astronaut would be Sullivan’s first job after leaving school.

Dr. Sullivan would be a crew member on three Space Shuttle missions: STS-41-G in 1984, STS-31 in 1990, and STS-45 in 1992.  It was her first flight that she is best remembered, for as a member of mission STS-41-G Sullivan would become the first American woman to walk in space.  She would spend over three hours outside the shuttle performing various tasks, including testing the Manned Maneuvering Unit (MMU), which allowed astronauts to fly freely in space.  However, Dr. Sullivan has said she takes the most pride in a later mission, the STS-31 mission in 1990, where she and fellow astronaut Bruce McCandless deployed the Hubble Space Telescope.

Dr. Sullivan retired from NASA after logging over 532 hours in space, including more than 22 hours on three spacewalks.  After leaving NASA, Sullivan served as the Assistant Secretary of Commerce for Environmental Observation and Prediction and later as the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) Administrator from 2014 to 2017.  

Dr. Sullivan was not finished making history and breaking barriers.  Dr. Kathryn Sullivan made history on June 7, 2020, by becoming the first person ever to visit both space and the deepest point in the ocean.  She made a dive into the Challenger Deep, the deepest point on Earth, located in the Mariana Trench in the Pacific Ocean.  At a depth of 35,853 feet, Sullivan spent several hours exploring the ocean floor and collecting samples. Amidst all these activities, Dr. Sullivan has not lost touch with her Irish connection.  Sullivan became involved with the Ireland-U.S. Council for Commerce and Industry, which works to strengthen economic

ties between the two countries.  Dr. Sullivan also served as the chair of the board of trustees for the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, where she helped establish a partnership with the Marine Institute of Ireland.

Dr. Kathry Dwyer Sullivan is yet another example of a ground-breaking Irish American whose example should inspire future generations.

March is Irish American Heritage Month.

Philip Fitzpatrick was born in Aughavas, Co. Leitrim in 1892.  Like so many of his generation, he emigrated to the United States and settled in New York City. He joined the NYPD in 1926 and was assigned to Mounted Squad 1 in Manhattan.  He would serve with distinction for over 21 years as one of ‘New York’s Finest’ and would prove more than worthy of the title.

However, in addition to protecting the streets of New York, Patrolman Fitzpatrick had another talent that few realized until many years after his death; he was a talented poet.  Fitzpatrick came from a family having a long musical tradition going back through the generations.  His best-known poem was a tribute to the County of his birth, “Lovely Leitrim,”; the story of an immigrant dreaming of returning to his homeland and seeing once again the sights he once knew and now cherishes in his heart.   In another moving poem he wrote about his experience as a father saying goodbye to his son Charles as he leaves to join the Marines in WW II.

Fitzpatrick also wrote a poem to honor his fellow police officers, whom he described as “Soldiers of Peace.”  In the poem, he describes the fear well known to all police families that when he “kisses his wife and children goodbye, there’s a chance he will see them no more.”   Sadly, for Officer Phillip Fitzpatrick, the line was prophetic.

On Tuesday, May 20, 1947, Patrolman Fitzpatrick was off duty and having lunch with his friend Patrolman George H. Dammeyer at a tavern located at 1703 Third Avenue and East 96th Street on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. While they were dining, two career criminals armed with pistols entered the tavern after having just robbed another location nearby, where they pistol-whipped their victims. The criminals proceeded to demand money and valuables from everyone in the tavern, pointing their pistols at both the customers and staff.

Despite the great risk to their own safety, Patrolman Fitzpatrick and Patrolman Dammeyer bravely attempted to apprehend the criminals. During the altercation, Fitzpatrick was shot twice in the stomach and suffered grievous wounds while struggling with one of the perpetrators. However, Patrolman Dammeyer managed to shoot and kill both of the criminals.

Phillip Fitzpatrick succumbed to his wounds and passed away on May 26, 1947, leaving behind his wife Mary and five sons. In recognition of his bravery and sacrifice, Patrolman Fitzpatrick was given an Inspector’s funeral and was posthumously awarded the NYPD Medal of Honor.  His son Charles, whose leaving for the Marines he had memorialized, was now himself a police officer and was given his father’s Shield, No. 15348.  Phillip Fitzpatrick had never made it back to his home County of Leitrim except in his dreams and poetry.  He was remembered as a proud Irishman and a devout Catholic who was a member of the Holy Name Society and a committed member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians.

It would not be until twenty years after his death that Phillip Fitzpatrick’s poem “Lovely Leitrim” gained notoriety by singer Larry Cunningham.  Despite admiring the song, Cunningham released it as a ‘B-Side’ because he knew that RTÉ (Ireland’s dominant radio station) would never play it.  While Cunningham was correct, the hand of radio producers was forced when the song was frequently requested.  “Lovely Leitrim” would go on to be a number-one record, displacing the Beatles’ “Day Tripper,” selling over a million copies.  The song has become an unofficial anthem for County Leitrim.

Sadly, many do not know that behind the ballad “Lovely Leitrim” stands a heroic son of Leitrim who is memorialized on the walls of NYPD headquarters at One Police Plaza. 

To his County and the People of New York, he was ‘faithful unto death”, the motto of the NYPD.

William Shakespeare observed, “The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”  It speaks to the ironic tendency for society to notarize, even glorify, the darkest aspects of humanity while ignoring the noble.  Nowhere is this clearer than in the case of Irish American John Mackay, the “Bonanza King.”

John Mackay (pronounced Mackee) was born on November 28, 1831, on the outskirts of Dublin in the appalling poverty that was the hallmark of pre-famine Ireland.  In 1840, when Mackay was nine years old, the family emigrated to New York City, settling in the notorious Five Points section of the city.  At first, it seemed that the family was prospering, they were able to scrape together enough that young John was able to attend school at a time when only half of the Irish children living in New York received any formal education.  However, disaster struck in 1842 when Mackay’s father died suddenly, forcing young John to quit school to support his mother and sister.  Mackay often would remark in later life that his greatest regret was not having completed a formal education.

MacKay started working as a newsboy, at the time a grueling and unsparing job.  Newsboys had to buy their papers in advance and could not return any that were unsold, which could quickly erase a day’s work.  Fighting for readers was often literal.  It would have been particularly hard for MacKay who throughout his life fought a terrible stammer, but the boy developed a habit of letting his hard work speak for him.  Mackay eventually secured a position as an apprentice ship’s carpenter; a testament to his determination as the New York shipbuilding industry of mid-19^th century rarely employed the Irish.

The event that would change Mackay’s life occurred in 1848 with the discovery of gold in California.  Despite the risks and hardships, prospecting for gold offered the chance to go from working for mere subsistence to improving one’s life.  Like thousands of other young men of the time, Mackay left New York with nothing but a strong will supported by a strong back.

In the goldfields of California, Mackay developed a legendary reputation for hard work; a fellow miner would later reminisce, “Mackay worked like the devil and made me work the same way.”  Nevertheless, after eight years in California Mackay had little to show for his efforts.   Word filtered through the camps of a new strike in the Utah territories (present-day Nevada) of the vast silver and gold deposit that would be known as “The Comstock Lode.”  With fellow Irishman and future partner Jack O’Brien, Mackay walked over one hundred miles and climbed over twenty-three hundred feet crossing the Sierra Nevada mountains to arrive in the mining camp without a nickel to his name to start again.

MacKay started as a common miner at $4 per day.  For several years he crammed two days of backbreaking labor into a single day, working one full shift to earn the money he needed to survive and then a second shift in exchange for “feet,” a share in the mine’s ownership.  Through his grueling toil and expertise in mining gained from hands-on experience and hours of study, Mackay gradually amassed some capital and acquired stakes in better and better mines.  In 1865, MacKay acquired a majority share of an obscure mine called the Kentuck, which had been written off as unproductive. Mackay believed otherwise.  Mackay invested his savings acquired through a life of grueling labor and every penny he could borrow in the Kentuck.  After a year of mining the Kentuck with little to show, Mackay was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, but on New Year’s Day, 1866, he hit a ten-foot-wide vein of gold and silver 250 feet below the surface.  Over the next two years, the “unproductive Kentuck” would yield Mackay $1.6 million worth of gold and silver in the day’s currency, approximately $375 million in today’s dollars.

Despite having acquired more wealth than an impoverished newsboy from the Five Points could dream of, Mackay still had a love of work and mining.  In 1873, Mackay and his three fellow Irish American partners hit “the Big Bonanza” – a strike that still holds the record as the most concentrated ore body in history.  In the silver and goldfields of Nevada, Mackay had gone from earning $4 a day to $450,000 per month, making Mackay and his partners the richest men in the world.  Mackay was nicknamed “the Bonanza King,” a title the modest McKay shunned.

However, the accumulation of wealth was not an end in itself for Mackay.  His miners were the best paid in the world, and he was renowned for always dealing fairly with them.   When a depression created a surplus of labor, a consortium of mine owners attempted to exploit the situation by conspiring to reduce the miner’s wages to $3.50 an hour; McKay would have none of it.  He stated, “I always received $4.00 when I worked in the mines and when I cannot pay that I will go out of business.” He would continue to drive himself to this mines in a simple one-horse wagon rather than an elegant coach, and in winter was never in too much of a hurry to stop to allow local children to hitch on their sleds so that he could give them a ride up a hill.  In the slang of the Comstock miners when something was of exceptional quality it was referred to as “the John Mackay.”

 Always a believer in free enterprise, in later life MacKay took on “the most hated man in America” Jay Gould, who had a monopoly on transatlantic telegraph communications for his Western Union company.  Mackay broke his monopoly by forming the Commercial Cable Company and laying his own pair of rival transatlantic telegraph cables at tremendous cost.  In the process, MacKay incentivized and aided in his employees’ purchase of company stock, one of the first business leaders to do so.  When he built the office of his new cable company in New York City at the intersection of Murray Street and Broadway across from City Hall, he had his desk positioned so he could see his childhood home in the Five Points; no doubt thinking how far he had come.

Mackay’s philanthropy and generosity were legendary, but in keeping with his character done quietly and without pretense.  Mackay gave generously to the Catholic Church and endowed the Catholic orphan asylum in Virginia City, Nevada.  When former President Grant was nearly penniless due to losing his investments in a Wall Street scandal, Mackay quietly helped him in the same way as he quietly helped so many old miners of his acquaintance.  Mackay endowed the school of mines at the University of Nevada

When Mackay died in 1902, The Salt Lake City Tribune said of this one-time impoverished Irish immigrant that “of all the millionaires of this country, no one was more thoroughly American than Mr. Mackay, and no one among them derived his fortune more legitimately.”

It is a grave injustice that the memory of John MacKay is forgotten, especially when his example is so badly needed today.  Unlike the “robber barons” of his age, Rockefeller, Carnegie, Stanford, and Huntington, MacKay did not have to endow organizations and universities whose mission would be to atone after his death for the sins he had committed in life in a ruthless climb to fortune.  When people asked Mackay for advice on how to succeed in business, Mackay always replied, “Son, never lose your good name.”  Irish American John MacKay never did, and surely that is worth remembering.

Hercules Mulligan, an Irish immigrant, became an unsung hero of the American Revolution.  Though the musical ‘Hamilton’, whose chief goal is to entertain,  has introduced his name to a broader audience, Mulligan’s real contributions as a spy and hero of American independence are far more compelling than the play suggests.   

Mulligan was born in Coleraine, Co Derry, in 1740 and emigrated with his family to North America at the age of 6, settling in New York City.  He attended King’s College (now Columbia University).  Mulligan opened an upscale tailor shop.  While he had several tailors on staff, the charismatic Hercules made it a point to serve and fit every customer personally.  The level of service soon made Mulligan’s shop a favorite of New York’s elite,  particularly British officers who would have Mulligan tailor their uniforms.   

While comfortably placed in Colonial British social circles, it did not reflect Mulligan’s beliefs as an ardent proponent of American independence.   Mulligan was a founding member of the New York Sons of Liberty, a clandestine group established to defend the colonists’ freedoms from increasingly restrictive British regulation.  He was a New York Committee of Correspondence member, which attempted to unify and coordinate opposition to British rule throughout the colonies.

 It was about this time that Hercules’ brother Hugh, who ran a shipping firm,  introduced him to Alexander Hamilton, a young man who had recently arrived from the West Indies.  Hercules took the young Alexander in as a border and soon developed a close friendship; Mulligan arranged for Hamilton to attend his alma matta Kings College/Columbia.  Conversations at the Mulligan table persuaded Alexander Hamilton to make the rebel cause his own.

When Washington’s army evacuated the city of New York, Mulligan was initially detained, though released, and found himself an American patriot in one of the strongest areas of loyalty to the Crown in the colonies.  Mulligan returned to continue his business at his tailor shop until he received word that on the recommendation of Alexander Hamilton, now an officer on Washington’s staff, Washington was asking him to take on the dangerous role of spy.  Mulligan accepted at once.

Mulligan proved extremely successful as a spy.  In his shop’s relaxed, unoffensive atmosphere, British officers frequently let their guard down with the charming Irishman and reveal more than they should.  When multiple officers came into his shop saying they needed delivery on the same date, Mulligan would communicate that troop movements were imminent.  His brother Hugh, whose shipping company was now delivering supplies for the British, was also a valuable source of information.   Mulligan would send these messages across enemy lines using his slave Cato as a courier, playing on the fact that as an enslaved person, the British would ignore him,

On two separate occasions, information supplied by Mulligan is credited in saving Washington’s life.  In one incident, a British soldier came rushing into Mulligan’s shop after hours to buy a new watch cloak.  When Mulligan asked why the late hour and rush, the officer couldn’t contain himself, he told him excitedly that he was part of a mission to kidnap Washington.  Mulligan quickly sent word to Washington, and the kidnapping plan was thwarted.  The second incident occurred in 1781 when his brother’s import-export firm received a large rush order that revealed plans to capture Washington in Connecticut while traveling to Rhode Island to meet with the French.  Again, Mulligan’s intelligence warned Washington to change his route.

Mulligan’s activities were not without risk.  He had already been interrogated twice on suspicion of spying but had been able to charm his way out of it.  However, he was directly betrayed by Benedict Arnold.  However, Arnold’s lack of hard evidence and the likely general disdain amongst the British Officers for the word of a traitor allowed Mulligan to escape prison, but his usefulness as a spy was over.

However, Mulligan’s greatest threat was from his fellow New York Patriots, who thought he was a British collaborator and, ironically, a spy for the British.  The fear of reprisals against himself and his family could not have been far from Mulligan’s mind as the British evacuated and Washington’s troops marched into the city.   However, Washington did not forget Mulligan or his service; as soon as he accepted the British surrender of the city, Washington made a very public visit to Mulligan to have breakfast at his home, sending a clear message that Mulligan was a patriot.

Washington continued to repay Mulligan, placing several orders with him, allowing Mulligan to promote himself as “the official tailor to General Washington” and later “President Washington.”  Mulligan became one of the 19 founding members of the New York Manumission Society, an early American organization that promoted the abolition of slavery.

 The real Hercules Mulligan deserved to be better known.  Sadly, while the play “Hamilton” has made his name known, the man and his deed remain hidden.  In perhaps an ultimate indignity, in response to the notoriety the play had given Mulligan, a story on an internet website showed a painting purporting to be Mulligan.  This image of “Hercules Mulligan” has spread across the internet as other articles, even historical sites, have mindlessly parroted.  The only problem:  it is a painting of Charles  Carroll, the signer of the Declaration of Independence.

Kathleen Rita McNulty was born in the village of Creeslough on February 12, 1921, the third of six children of Anne Nelis and James McNulty.  Her father was Commandant of the Doe Battalion of the Irish Volunteers. On the night of her birth, he was arrested and imprisoned in Derry Gaol for two years for his republican activities. On his release, the family emigrated to the United States and settled in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where James worked as a stonemason and went on to establish a successful construction business, frequently working with Irish American John B Kelly, the father of the future Oscar-Winning actress Grace,

Coming from the Gaeltacht, Kathleen did not start speaking English until she began to attend school.  Her mother encouraged her “to prove that Irish immigrants could be as good, if not better, than anybody.” She proved a bright student and won a scholarship to Chestnut Hill College.

 Kathleen loved mathematics and took every math course available, including spherical trigonometry, differential calculus, projective geometry, partial differential equations, and statistics.  McNulty graduated as one of the school’s few female math majors in 1942.

Graduating at the height of WW II, she soon saw an ad in the Philadelphia Inquirer seeking women with math backgrounds.  The U.S. Army was seeking women to perform the grueling and precise calculations to compile firing tables for long-range guns, calculations that needed to be accurate out to ten decimal places.  Kathleen was hired with the official job title of “Computer.”

Within a few months, McNulty was transferred to work with the “differential analyser[sic]” at the Moore School of Engineering at the University of Pennsylvania.  The “analyser” was the most sophisticated calculator of the time.  Using the “analyser,” a single trajectory that had previously taken 50 hours to compute by hand could now be performed in less than one hour. Kathleen excelled at the detailed, meticulous work and was soon promoted to supervising calculations. She and other staff members worked six days a week, with the only holidays being Christmas and the Fourth of July.

In 1945, Kathleen and five other women were selected to work at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland to develop the programs to run the top-secret 30-ton machine called the Electronic Numerical Integrator and Computer (ENIAC), the world’s first programmable, electronic, general-purpose digital computer..  ENIAC could perform the calculations that took the “analyser” an hour in less than ten seconds but would require developing a brand-new engineering discipline: Software Engineering.  McNulty is credited with creating “the subroutine,” a block of reusable computer code that can be used again and again rather than being rewritten over and over, to work past some of the limitations of ENIACs early logic circuits.  McNulty would later recall that in making ENIAC a success as the first digital computer, she made herself “the human computer” obsolete.

With the end of WW II, the vital role that Kathleen McNulty and her fellow women “computers” was soon unceremoniously and unjustly forgotten.  When the decision was made to reveal ENIAC as the first digital computer to the world, the role of Kathleen and the other women played in making ENIAC successful was relegated to the shadows.  They were told to act as hostesses to the government officials and reporters covering the event and to “stand by the computer and look good.”

Kathleen McNulty married ENIAC’s designer Mauchly and went on to have five children with him (in addition to raising two from his previous marriage).  While she continued to contribute to the field of computer science, programming several of her husband’s later computers, it was always behind the scenes and without proper recognition.  After Mauchly’s death, she latet married Severo Antonelli.   

Kathleen McNulty died on April 20, 2006.  She had come along way from the little Irish girl who had come to America not speaking English, and in the process, shaped the digital world we now live in. She deserves to be better remembered, and this is why we have and need Irish American Heritage Month.

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Dr. John B. Murphy, known throughout his life as “J.B.,” was a renowned American surgeon and medical pioneer who made significant contributions to the field of medicine during his lifetime. He was born in a log cabin in Appleton, Wisconsin, on December 21, 1857. Murphy was the son of impoverished Irish immigrants Michael Murphy and Ann (née Grimes) Murphy, who had emigrated from Ireland during the Great Hunger. Murphy grew up in a large family with six siblings. His parents strongly emphasized education and encouraged their children to pursue academic and professional success.

Murphy often quoted his mother: “If you are educated, there is no man’s achievements which you cannot equal or excel, provided you have industry, integrity, and are temperate.” Murphy’s parents also instilled in their son a strong Catholic faith which he carried throughout his life.

Murphy was introduced to the idea of a medical career while working as an assistant to the local druggist, sweeping out the store, running errands, and filling prescriptions for the local physician, Dr. H. W. Reilly. One day, Dr. Reilly needed JB’s help to resuscitate a man bleeding from an extensive injury to his leg. The young Murphy, fascinated and unperturbed by the sight of the horrific injury, decided to become a doctor. JB saved money to become the doctor’s trainee and assistant. He slept in the office, kept it clean, accompanied the doctor on calls, and studied in his spare time, while paying the doctor a $200 honorarium.

After a year, Dr. Reilly told Murphy he had nothing more to teach him and that he should attend medical school. At the age of twenty, Murphy was admitted to Chicago’s Rush Medical College. Murphy graduated in 1879 and, unusually for the time, pursued an 18-month internship at Cook County Hospital in Chicago, placing first in their placement examination. Upon graduation and briefly practicing medicine, Murphy began a tour of Europe, where he studied under some of the prominent surgeons of the time.

Murphy returned to Chicago and the United States. Unafraid of controversy, he drew the ire of the established medical establishment when he pushed for the early removal of the appendix in cases of appendicitis (the accepted practice at the time was to wait until the appendix ruptured), developing a new and less invasive process to perform the operation. He gained national attention as one of the doctors to attend to the injured from Chicago’s Haymarket riots and later for being the attending physician to former President Theodore Roosevelt after an unsuccessful assassination attempt.

Dr. J.B. Murphy was a medical pioneer. Among his innovations:

• Murphy’s Sign: A diagnostic technique utilized to identify gallbladder disease.
• The Murphy Button: A device designed to close openings in the intestine following surgery, this innovation significantly reduced recovery times and marked a breakthrough improvement over the traditional suture method.
• The Murphy-Davis Splint: Developed by Dr. J.B. Murphy and Dr. Frank Davis, this device was used to immobilize the hip following surgery, representing a significant improvement over existing devices and was widely adopted by surgeons.
• The Murphy Technique: Dr. Murphy performed the first successful removal of the gall bladder using an innovative surgical technique that remains in use today.
• The Murphy Drip: Used for hydration and replenishment of electrolytes.
• The First Use of Rubber Gloves in Surgery: Murphy recognized the importance of sterile technique and began wearing rubber gloves to reduce the risk of infection during surgery.
• The First Use of an X-Ray Machine in Surgery: In 1896, Dr. Murphy became the first surgeon to use an X-ray machine during surgery, quickly locating a bullet in a patient’s abdomen, enabling him to perform surgery without damaging any vital organs.
• Murphy became the first surgeon to successfully resect a major artery in a human being.

.Murphy was recognized not only as an innovative surgeon but also as a great teacher who was quick to pass on his techniques to his colleagues. He founded several medical publications that are still printed today. J.B. Murphy ran teaching clinics four days a week at Mercy Hospital in Chicago. At these clinics, he demonstrated to 150 visitors daily the various approaches to multiple surgical problems

Yet, his brilliance as a doctor never eclipsed the Catholic values that Murphy’s parents had instilled in him as a child. Murphy established several hospitals and clinics throughout his career. He believed that all people, regardless of their economic status and ability to pay, should have access to quality medical care. He worked tirelessly to establish new institutions that provided affordable care to Chicago’s poor and underserved populations. In 1892, with the help of the Alexian Brothers religious order, Murphy established the Alexian Brothers Hospital, which soon established a reputation as a modern and well-equipped medical facility that would provide high-quality care to patients from all walks of life. Murphy was a strong advocate for the importance of accessible healthcare and worked tirelessly to ensure that the hospital remained true to its mission of serving the community’s needs.

After accomplishments that could fill several lifetimes, Murphy fell ill in 1916. A doctor till the end, two days before his death, J.B. Murphy told the attending physician, “I think the autopsy will show plaques in my aorta.” After his death, Murphy’s final diagnosis was proved correct.

John Lawrence Sullivan, born to Irish immigrants on October 15, 1858, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, grew into an embodiment of the American Dream for many Irish Americans. His parents, survivors of the Great Hunger in Ireland, instilled in him a profound sense of identity and resilience. Though he was an excellent student and his parents aspired for him to attend Boston College and become a priest, destiny had a different plan for Sullivan. Lured by the raw appeal of professional sports, Sullivan found his true calling in boxing, a sport then shadowed by legal ambiguities and often relegated to “exhibitions” or clandestine bouts.

Sullivan’s rise from local fame to national celebrity was meteoric. In one fight, his opponent failed to show, and to quell the restless crowd, Sullivan issued a challenge that became his trademark, “I can lick any man in the house.” This became not just Sullivan’s trademark but a symbol of Irish-American defiance and determination. Through a series of exhibition matches and high-profile bouts, including a legendary encounter with Paddy Ryan in Mississippi, Sullivan’s fists wrote chapters of boxing history. His victory over Ryan, witnessed by figures as diverse as Oscar Wilde and Jessie and Frank James, cemented his status as a champion of the people.

Sullivan’s reign as the Heavyweight Champion brought boxing to the forefront of American sports, making him the nation’s first sports superstar. Leveraging his “I can lick any man in the house” boast, he made a whirlwind of 200 stops across the United States, showcasing his unparalleled strength and skill, endearing him further to an adoring public. Boxing historian Nate Fleisher has observed, “For the first time in their lives, Americans living in the sticks — nearly four hundred thousand American farmers, miners, lumberjacks, artisans, and clerks — laid down their hard-earned cash to see a real boxer in action. They loved it, and the effect of their gratification on the growth and spread of boxing is beyond calculation today.”

Yet, Sullivan was more than a mere athlete; he was a cultural icon, reflecting the grit and determination of the Irish American community still struggling to overcome prejudice and find their place in American society. Such was his fame that to be able to say, “Shake the hand of the man who shook the hand of John L. Sullivan,” brought its own notoriety.

Sullivan never forgot where he came from. In a story that further enhanced his renown in the Irish community, it was said that he refused to stand for the traditional toast to Queen Victoria while attending a dinner in his honor in Victoria, British Columbia. Sullivan stated he “hadn’t been brought up to seeing Irishmen drinking to the health of English monarchs,” he informed the shocked dinner guests.

However, time and age give athletes no special consideration. Add to this that in a phenomenon we see repeated among many modern athletes, Sullivan liked to party, and it became increasingly difficult for him to get in shape. The fight against “Gentleman Jim” Corbett in 1892 highlighted the end of an era and showcased how far boxing had developed under Corbett. No longer were fights held secretly in the dark backroom of a saloon; this fight was held under the glare of the new electric light and the eyes of over 10,000 spectators and reported worldwide. The aging champion and brute strength brawler Sullivan met his match in the younger, more agile, more scientific Corbett. While clearly past his prime and suffering a broken nose in an early round that constrained his breathing, Sullivan would preserve until the last of the 21 scheduled rounds where we was knocked out.

However, even in defeat, Sullivan added to his legacy for the graciousness he accepted, “Gentlemen, all I have to say is that I came into the ring once too often, and if I had to get licked, I’m glad it was by an American.” Sullivan’s grace in defeat, acknowledging Corbett’s victory as a passing of the torch to a fellow American, exemplified his character.

John L. Sullivan’s legacy is not merely confined to his boxing achievements; it is interwoven with the narrative of Irish-American struggle, perseverance, and success. His life story, from the streets of Roxbury to the heights of boxing fame, resonates with the spirit of a community that literally and metaphorically fought to carve out a place in America. Sullivan’s journey embodies the complexities of the American Dream, reminding us that heroes are not defined by their victories alone but by their ability to inspire, persevere, and stand with dignity and pride regardless of the outcome.

At the young age of 32, Thomas Foley was already an 11-year decorated veteran firefighter of the FDNY and a legend. He was a larger than life individual who embraced life to the fullest and seemed to excel at everything he tried from powerlifting to skydiving. Having learned to ride horses on visits to his grandfather’s farm, he even excelled as a competitor on the rodeo circuit. With boyish good looks, Thomas Foley was featured twice by People Magazine and appeared in the FDNY’s “2003 Calendar of Heroes.”

However, being a firefighter was Thomas Foley’s first passion; it was all he wanted to do since visiting the firehouse of a family friend as a boy “running around and getting filthy dirty.” Years later, young Tommy Foley’s dream was fulfilled; a fellow firefighter remembered Thomas Foley as “Coming out of a fire, filthy, coughing, covered in black soot and when he’d see you he’d have that big smile on his face.” On August 30, 1999, Thomas Foley gained national notoriety when he rappelled down a seventeen-story building to perform a daring rescue when a collapsed scaffold left two workmen hanging on for their lives. He was truly one of the Bravest of the Bravest.

Responding to the attack on 9/11 as a member of the elite Bronx Rescue Company 3, Thomas Foley rushed to the World Trade Center; he and his entire Company would be among the 343 FDNY firefighters killed on that day when the towers collapsed.

Dan Foley, Thomas Foley’s younger brother, had followed in his brother’s footsteps to join the FDNY. He was off duty on 9/11, but rushed to the site when it was reported that his brother Tommy was missing. When it became apparent that Tommy was gone, Dan Foley promised his parents he would not leave the site until he found his brother. Amazingly amidst the tons of rubble and debris, Dan Foley found his brother ten days later and carried the body of his body from ground zero; Dan kept his word, he brought his brother home.

What Dan Foley and hundreds of other first responders engage in the recovery efforts at ground zero did not realize was that they too would become casualties of 9/11. After a distinguished 21-year career with the FDNY as a member of his fallen brothers Rescue Company 3, Dan Foley passed away from 9/11 related cancer on February 22, 2020, leaving behind a wife and five children. He was forty-six. It is not surprising that days before the diagnosis of his illness, on what would be his last day as a firefighter, Dan Foley was credited with saving four young children from a burning apartment.

At one awards ceremony where Thomas Foley was being honored, he responded to a question regarding the source of his drive and accomplishments by smiling and saying, “When anyone asks me, I just tell them ‘I’m Irish.’” Our heritage seems to generate remarkable men and women with astonishing regularity. The story of the Foley Brothers is a story that our Irish heritage has so often produced; the story of the Foleys now joins the story of the Sullivan and Niland brothers. Because of Irish Americans like Thomas and Dan Foley, we too should never hesitate to say “I’m Irish” and never let being Irish be trivialized.

THIS IRISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MONTH PROFILE IS PRESENTED BY THE ANCIENT ORDER OF HIBERNIANS (AOH.COM)

#IrishAmericanHeritageMonth

Neil F. Cosgrove  ©

Margaret Tobin Brown, famously known as the “Unsinkable Molly Brown,” is often celebrated in popular culture for her flamboyant personality and heroic actions on the Titanic.  However, this portrayal barely scratches the surface of her remarkable life and achievements.  While she is invariably portrayed as an outspoken, humorous, flamboyant woman of America’s West, these depictions, though rooted in truth, do a disservice to the complexity and depth of her character and contributions.

Born in 1867 in Hannibal, Missouri, to Irish immigrants John and Johanna Tobin, Margaret Tobin Brown was raised in a small Irish American community that deeply valued freedom, equality, and education.  Unusually for the time, Margaret attended school until the age of 13, receiving what would be considered a high school education by today’s standards.

Upon leaving school, Margaret directly experienced the hardships faced by the working class, enduring long hours, meager pay, and job insecurity in a factory.  These challenges were all too familiar to her community and her father.  Like many young people of her era, she was drawn westward in search of better opportunities.  Yet, the values instilled in her by the Irish Catholic community of her childhood fueled a lifelong zeal for personal development and active engagement in societal issues.

Margaret traveled to Leadville, Colorado, where she met and married James Joseph (J.J.) Brown.  J.J.’s journey mirrored Margaret’s born of Irish immigrants and through self-study, he was recognized for his “special genius for practical and economic geology” and built a reputation for locating profitable mines.  Utilizing his geological knowledge and innovating new mining methods, J.J. discovered vast quantities of high-grade copper and gold, marking one of the most significant gold strikes ever recorded.

As multimillionaires, J.J. and Margaret bought a new, stately home in the rapidly developing city of Denver.  However, their newfound wealth and Irish Catholic heritage did not smooth their entry into Denver’s social circles.  The self-appointed gatekeeper of Denver society, Louise Hill, and her “Sacred Thirty-Six” never accepted Margaret, prompting her to label Hill as “the snobbiest woman in Denver.”

If Margaret Brown was stung by these elitists, it didn’t show for long.  She founded the Denver Woman’s Club, which, instead of playing bridge like the “Sacred Thirty-Six,” advocated for education, suffrage, and human rights.  In 1911, she raised funds to build the Cathedral of Immaculate Conception, St. Joseph’s Hospital, and several Catholic and public elementary schools.  She also worked with Judge Ben Lindsey to establish the first juvenile court in America, a model that was adopted nationwide.  Additionally, she became fluent in French, German, Italian, and Russian.

Sadly, J.J. did not share Margaret’s growing interests, and the couple drifted apart after 23 years of marriage.  They signed a separation agreement, though they never divorced, and remained very close throughout their lives.  

Margaret embarked on a tour of Egypt, Rome, and Paris.  While on tour, she received news that her grandson had become seriously ill.  She immediately booked passage on the first available ship, the Titanic.

The story of the tragedy of the Titanic need not be repeated here.  Upon the collision with the iceberg, Margaret immediately began organizing and assisting her fellow passengers into the lifeboats until a crewman took hold of her and, with the words “you are going too,” was dropped four feet into the lowering lifeboat #6.

Despite Lifeboat #6’s capacity of 65, it departed from the Titanic with only 24 people aboard, including 21 women, two men, and a boy.  Despite threatening the coxswain to “throw him overboard” if he did not turn around and pick up more survivors, her threat went unheeded as he feared the boat would capsize as those in the water tried to get in.  Margaret and the rest rowed tirelessly for hours until rescued by the ship Carpathia.  Exhausted yet undeterred, Margaret utilized her multilingual skills to comfort non-English speaking survivors and helped organize the distribution of essential supplies to those in need.  Margaret spearheaded a fundraising campaign among the first-class passengers, amassing $10,000 to aid the less fortunate survivors before arriving in New York.

Margaret became an international celebrity.  She was dubbed “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” by the press, though she had never used the name ‘Molly’ in her life.  In character with her life, Margaret used her fame not for herself but for others.  She was an advocate for striking miners fighting for better pay.  She worked to secure the vote for women and even ran for the Senate, where several papers favored her chances, but she quit her campaign with the outbreak of WW I to focus on aiding the people of devastated France, earning the French Legion of Honor for her activities.

Margaret Brown died at the age of 65 in 1932 after experiencing enough to fill several lifetimes.   It is very sad that this remarkable Irish American woman who lived a true rags-to-riches story but never forgot where she came from nor turned her back on those less fortunate is remembered chiefly on the basis of Hollywood caricatures.  This is why we have Irish American Heritage Month, to learn the rest of the story.

Irish American Heritage Month is a time to show your pride in being an Irish American and a Hibernian. Here you will find resources to allow you and your division to honor and celebrate the contributions that Irish Americans have made throughout the history of our nation. We must remember that Heritage is not a gift you receive, it is a gift you give and we have a duty to pass our heritage and the pride in being Irish American to the next generation.

Resources to Support Your Irish American Heritage Month efforts

Sample Irish American Heritage Month Resolution

WHEREAS, {Your Locale} is home to a vibrant and thriving Irish American community, whose members have made significant contributions to the cultural, social, and economic life of our state; and

Below is a sample Irish American Heritage Month Resolution. It is recommended to tweak it to match your areas, in particular, cite one or two examples of famous Irish Americans in your community (For example a resolution for New Jersey may highlight John Phillip Holland, an Irish immigrant who invented the modern Submarine, a Georgia Resolution may highlight Fr. Peter Whelan who ministered to the prisoners of Andersonville, etc.)

WHEREAS, the month of March has been recognized as Irish American Heritage Month since 1991, providing an opportunity to celebrate the achievements and contributions of Irish Americans; and

WHEREAS, {Your Locale} has a rich history of Irish American immigration, with many Irish Americans settling in the state during the 19th and 20th centuries, and continuing to make their mark in various fields such as agriculture, mining, education, and politics; and

WHEREAS, the Irish American community in {Your Locale} has preserved and shared its unique cultural heritage through various activities and events, including music, dance, language, and food;

NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED, that we, the {the Body making the resolution}, proclaim March as Irish American Heritage Month in {Your Locale}, and encourage all citizens to honor and recognize the significant contributions of Irish Americans to our state and nation;

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that we recognize the importance of preserving and promoting the cultural heritage of the Irish American community in {Your Locale}, and encourage individuals and organizations to participate in activities and events that celebrate and highlight the contributions of this important community;

BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED, that we express our appreciation and gratitude to the Irish American community in {Your Locale} for their many contributions to our state, and encourage all {what you call your state residents, i.e. “New Yorkers”, “Pennsylvanians” etc.} to join us in celebrating Irish American Heritage Month.

Irish American Heritage Month 2023 Facebook Graphic

You can download the graphic at the top of this page that can be used on your State, County, and Division Facebook page during the month of March to recognize Irish American Heritage Month. Temporarily changing your graphic is easy

• Download the graphic to your computer using the button below
• Go to your Facebook page, click on edit cover photo
• Upload the Irish American Heritage Month 2023 graphic that you downloaded.