A New Yorker Discovers her late Father’s Irish Passport

Inside the case, I found what I believe was my dad’s very first Irish passport. It was in pristine condition, frozen in time. I had never seen it before. The moment I opened it, I was struck by the photo staring back at me. It revealed a very young, fresh-faced version of my dad, full of hope, ambition, and the quiet determination that would carry him across the Atlantic. It didn’t look like the dad I knew! I sat there imagining this young, twenty-year-old in 1968 getting on a plane for the first time and landing in 1960s New York, taking up abode in Inwood on the island of Manhattan. Wow, what an adventure that must’ve been!

My father built his life in New York, working tirelessly as a member of the local 608 Carpenters’ Union. He was part of a generation of Irish immigrants who shaped the city, laying foundations, raising beams, and quite literally building a future for themselves and their families. He often talked about working on the Twin Towers and couldn’t believe it when they came down on 9/11.

Finding his passport was a bittersweet moment. On one hand, it was a tangible link to the beginning of his journey, a symbol of the courage it took to leave home and start anew. (A journey I undertook myself forty years later, coming to live in Ireland in 2008). On the other hand, the passport was a reminder of how much time had passed, how his life had come full circle, and how he was taken from us too soon by Glioblastoma, a cruel and relentless illness. Yet, in that small document, I saw not just a record of his departure, but a story of identity, resilience, and connection. It reminded me that my father’s memory lives on in what has been recorded in the pages of this little green book.

Now, as I hold this passport in my hands, I feel the weight of his journey and the countless others like his. It is a silent witness to who he was, where he came from and who he became. I am grateful to have found it, to have it, and to have brought it ‘home’.