Crossing Highbridge: A Memoir of Irish America

Frank McCourt must've penned a primer for those who write autobiographies profiling their rise out of quintessential Irish childhood to become successful teachers, pub owners or actors in the Big Apple. If not, we'll develop a one, having slogged through a few Irish experience autobiographies in the past few years. CROSSING HIGHBRIDGE, a soulful reflection penned by Maureen Waters, fits the bill. The first of her family not born in Ireland, Ms. Waters left a secure Irish Catholic Bronx neighborhood to become professor of English at Queens' College. In HIGHBRIDGE Waters revisits her old neighborhood and youth in an attempt to exorcise a few demons and make sense of tragic loss. Speaking of school, name a primordial recollection that separates Catholic childhood experiences from those of the less fortunate. Stumped? Parochial school--does anything compare? I recall nuns swooping like hawks about the classroom slapping the ten-thumbed hands of boys while praising the girls, all who had mastered the fine motor skill control requisite to master the Palmer method of penmanship And priests, remember their surprise visits? They dashed about classrooms rooting out the heathens who failed to memorize today's catechism. Waters pens a charming reunion visit to that school we loved, where Sister Immaculata, or Sister Alvera, or Sister Whoever, ruled the roost with an iron claw, er, fist. Waters infuses a recognizable dose of Irish Catholic guilt. To wit: "You want to be a teacher? Are you daft Maureen? The proper thing, young lady, is to save yourself, marry a decent man and have a dozen children!" Or the refrain heard by many a young Irish lad, "Pat, the family hasn't ordained a priest in two generations. Your mother and I want you to consider the seminary." Familial guilt threads its way through CROSSING HIGHBRIDGE. No growing-up-Irish spiel should lack a smattering of old-country angst, and it doesn't hurt to parade a skeleton or two out of the family closet in the offing. Forced by her father to work the family farm at an age when she should've been in school, Water's Mayo-born mother exuded the lifelong melancholy of lost opportunity; melancholy she wore on her shirtsleeve. According to Waters, an aunt told her that her maternal grandfather beat the six daughters, including Maureen's mother, Agnes. Also prone to unleashing impressive levels of violence, maternal grandpa Ruane was once hush-hushed off to a mental institution. Further, Water's father, Daniel, witnessed his share of perverse Black and Tan justice and senseless political murder while caught in the flame of Ireland's republican fire of the 1920s. Waters also lost an uncle in a failed attack on a Sligo military garrison during the Free State revolution. There's more--but perhaps these are skeletons better left in the closet. Which leads us to the subject of humor rampant in Irish tragicomedy. CROSSING HIGHBRIDGE is bound with all the Irish charm and storytelling one would expect-

I was able to identify with nearly everything Miss Waters wrote about her Irish Catholic upbringing in Highbridge, because I too came from the same place, and I knew her sister Agnes many, many years ago. However, if I had not had the privilege of knowing Maureen and her literary family, I would still have been able to appreciate the writer's gift of style where she combined gracefully, history, philosophy, religion along with the socioeconomic conditions of the 1940's and 1950's growing up in Highbridge.

I could relate to nearly everything that Miss Waters wrote about in Crossing Highbridge, because I came from that Irish Catholic enclave, I knew the Waters family long ago, and I went to Sacred Heart with Maureen's sister, Agnes.Maureen Waters is a gifted writer who combines history, philosophy, religion, and the socio-econimic conditions in a working class environment in the 1940's and 1950's, with utter grace, and at the same time, the reader can experience some strong emotions of saddness and joy.

This profoundly moving memoir of growing up Irish/Catholic/female in the midcentury Bronx began with the author's need to understand the loss of her son to accidental death by drugs and alcohol. As she puts it, "the drive to piece together cause and effect was a belief that I had far more power than I actually did for good or ill." She sifts the past out of psychological necessity, desperate, guilty, and finds ordinary treasure: in human characters - her father, an immigrant from Sligo, her mother from Mayo, a feisty and lovable little sister, Agnes, and, above all, in her beautiful and enigmatic lost child of the flaming red hair, Brian Patrick - and also in their brave and lonely human places (Highbridge on Hudson, Long Island). She looks back for clues to her loss from the perspective of a divorced single mother trying to juggle children and hold her own in academe (she's now a professor of English). Memory sifted through the prism of such luminous prose and honest emotion offers a gentle and moving consolation to this reader. The story of the author's Catholic journey, from insider - the parish was Sacred Heart - to outsider is told with devastating brevity. I'll never forget the final image of women's exclusion. It rings so true. The abyss is present in Waters' world, but to me this is a book of hope

This beautiful memoir of growing up Irish-Catholic-female in the Bronx at midcentury began with the author's tragic loss of one of her sons to an accidental death from drugs and alcohol. In order to survive herself, she must understand: "The drive to piece together cause and effect was a belief that I had far more power than I actually did for good or ill." The bereaved mother, who is also a professor of English, sifts her past for answers. She uncovers the treasure of human characters (her father, Daniel Waters, an immigrant from Sligo, her mother from Mayo; her rebel little sister, Agnes) in their brave and lonely human settlement (Highbridge on the Hudson). She looks back on the cost of parenting alone as a divorced young mother and trying to hold her own in academe. The consolation that memory - and Waters' luminous prose - makes for her and for this reader is profoundly moving. The story of her Catholic journey, in particular, the movement from insider - the parish was Sacred Heart - to outsider, is especially strong: she tells it with a devastating brevity and one final image that I'll never forget. It rings so true. This is a courageous book about loss in which you come to see that what remains is, after all, a matter of life understood and hope.