How a gravestone of a child who died in 1869 helps give me a sense of place
I keep an active interest in affairs in Ireland and recently read about the annual yearly meeting of Quakers in Ireland.
I have attended a Quaker meeting for the last 3 years here in Hertfordshire so I am more interested in Irish Quakers than previously.
In corresponding with an Irish Friend ( Friend is the appropriate term, Quaker is a nickname) concerning the meeting I found myself sharing something of a story about my relationship with the ‘Religious Society of Friends’ to give it its proper title.
In Portadown, the town in which I grew up I was aware of the meeting house. The frosted stain glass windows illuminated by light were as a glass darkling in that I could see that something went on inside though could not see what.
I formed the impression that to be a Quaker you had to lead an exemplary life and be a business or professional person. I lived on a Housing Executive (Council) estate so Quakers seemed remote to me. I often wandered through the doors of the many churches of the town but I never did cross the Meeting House doors.
Quakers were also peacemakers and as a young teen I was not into peace building, I had taken a side in the Northern Irish conflict and thought I knew my enemy.
Towards my later teens, a sequence of events occurred that helped me to see that Christ’s message was one of peace and not war. I moved towards peace, it is the better way though I continue to struggle to make peace.
14 years ago I discovered the contemplative path and joined a Catholic group that practiced it. Over the years I became more practiced in silence and contemplation and desired more of it, it was then I crossed the Meeting House doors.
Those Meeting House doors were of course in England. This got me thinking about how I saw myself in Portadown and the obstacles that were created. You see although my home town is small, 25,000 inhabitants, it like most places had a hierarchy. So somehow you didn’t have as much status if you lived where I lived or your parents were not professionals or business people.
Not so long ago I was speaking with an old teacher and I dropped back into my birth tongue. I mentioned the name Hamilton though he asked me to repeat it. I realised I pronounced it as Hamiton so I repeated it as he would say it. So within sections of the townsfolk, we spoke differently and differently as so often is the case meant either more or less status. I never did think much about class in Northern Ireland so focussed was I on the religious and political differences though now I can see it.
In this corner of England, I am usually judged by my tongue as Irish at whatever classification that places me. Amongst the differing people who populate this part of the world, I am just another. Perception no doubt still plays a role though as an outsider I am less aware of what it may be.
There is a Quaker burial ground in St Albans dating back to the 17th century. There is only one gravestone in it which is inscribed ‘Charlotte E Hobson, Bessbrook, Ireland’, as in the headline photo.
Charlotte’s parents were travelling in the ministry which meant although from Bessbrook, County Armagh (my home county) they moved about meetings in England. Charlotte died while they were at St Albans and she was buried in the graveyard.
Somehow that Quaker story helps connects me here in St Albans with Friends in County Armagh back home.
I had hoped to visit Portadown Quakers though somehow when I had the opportunity I didn’t cross the threshold. I then heard that is closed within that year and it seemed the opportunity had gone. Then, as so often happens in life, an usual opportunity came, a friend worked in the estate agent’s who was selling the property. I asked him would it be possible to see inside. He was happy to accommodate so last November on a visit home I saw inside.
I asked would he mind if I took 5 minutes of silence, he joined me. After 46 years I crossed the Meeting House doors albeit that they were closed.
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