Part Two: Invisible Mobs & Monsters
By the centennial year of the 1916 Easter Rising, the spirit of Dublin started to sing again, a song of redemption. The bones of the economy and the investments in finance and tech were paying dividends. The commercial real estate engine started revving again, as these global tech giants kept printing a seemingly endless stream of money. Consequently, through the 2010’s, the Dublin skyline was lush with construction cranes, splashing their nightlights across the dark rapid river. The last jigsaw piece of the old busted Celtic Tiger was now being reconciled, with the Central Bank of Ireland setting its sights to reboot construction on that stalled Anglo Irish project. You’ve enjoyed feeling part of this rebirth, peering across the river from your high rise flat. As the newly assembled construction crew speeds towards completion, you marvel at how the designers for a central bank would call for it to be finished in a glimmering gold. You begin to understand why the phoenix bird longs to burn herself to ashes, exchanging betrayed memories for endless new beginnings.
By the next decade’s pandemic, you watch as the wheels come off the machine again, dozens of buildings finished but now unoccupied. Dublin followed the lead from Silicon Valley’s chosen path to persevere, promising investors and the public continuous wealth throughout the lockdown. Pivoting to catch all the virtual workflow money bubbling up in the ‘work from home’ era. Then over-speculating on the trend and pivoting again with massive layoffs, the fashionable trend to appease shareholders. Only to rehire again quickly to justify those large empty corporate buildings, standing dormant and expectantly, as the companies test a big ‘back to the office’ push. Whether working from home or in office was proven definitively to be more productive, a city propped up on commercial real estate would be clamoring for this return. The tide comes in, the tide goes out, and on and on it goes.
Like a factory assembly line stalling hard and speeding back up, inevitably boxes fell off the conveyor belt, and people got left behind. You rode these shift changes yourself, riding high on an arena stage in a glass tower, then sitting low in a social welfare office squeezed between similarly displaced corporate professionals. You scanned around the room of job seekers, twenty-five people receiving aid in a group presentation, twenty-four of them middle-aged men like you with the same defeated look. They all seemed to be puzzling through the disbelief and betrayal from their respective industries, the ones still towering rich along the prosperous Dublin skyline. Sitting patiently through a compulsory, antiquated presentation about occupational skills, probably from the nineties, their eyes still shine a glint of gratitude for any offer of support. But underneath that, there’s a frustration in feeling invisible and misunderstood in a city failing to keep up with the unemployment trends speeding along like a runaway train. Each diverse and forlorn face whispers it, struggling to remind the city of the boom party it had invited them to, ‘we still matter, please don’t let us fight for your scraps.’
When lockdown eased in the city, the sidewalks resumed the beating pulse of routine commuters. Facemasks started coming off, handshakes were accepted, people lingered outdoors and restaurant pre-bookings waned, leaving more room for spontaneity. None so grateful, strode Adam along the rejuvenated bustle of the Grand Canal Square. He’s never relied heavily on the tech commuters for hand-outs, never seen panhandling with an open cup. In the worst of rainy days, he’s seen rifling through the public square’s bins just after the lunch crowd peaks. In sunnier days, he’s seen receiving kindness from the locals and cafe workers, a store bought sandwich, a cup of ramen, a place to sit on the patio during off-peak hours. Relegated to a dark sidewalk corner table but treated with respect, reminded of his fortune to feel part of the neighborhood. This was how Adam recharged his dignity.
As the big tech towers drew a new affluent group of young professionals with disposable income, Adam also thrived, not only by handouts, but by the humanizing feeling of belonging to a community thriving. And you worry that during the times of lockdown he was more vulnerable than anyone to an abrupt cut-off of those simple reminders. During the restrictions, Adam had disappeared, with only the odd traces of his presence. A tattered sleeping bag twisted up in the wild grass behind that fenced off restricted lot. Small glimpses of his figure cutting a shadow far in the distance. But as life returned to the square, so did his spirited shadow begin to linger a bit longer in the day, resiliently climbing back into the sun.
It’s during one of those high tide days, when things are going your way again and you find yourself at a new job. Skipping busily between your new office and a quick lunch break along the square, when you see Adam again. It was a sunny midday in the summer, and instead of his usual scurried routines, you are surprised to see him sleeping peacefully, the way a child sleeps, curled up on his side on a warm park bench. You take comfort in his vulnerability, knowing that everything in Adam’s world is spinning reliably again. As the world begins to provide, there is time again to dream of tomorrow. And as this calm washes over you, you notice a small construction crew taking their lunch break, snickering and taking pictures of Adam fast asleep. You keep walking, glancing behind to see them huddled around, prodding each other to take selfies, laughing and pointing at his soiled trousers. As Adam awakes from the bullying, you feel compelled to intervene, shouting out, and waving a finger of warning to the young mob, a reminder to show some respect. Afterall, who among us could pretend we were not vulnerable to a life like Adam’s. The startled lads disperse quickly at your nudge, and Adam stands up to shuffle past you, barely perturbed, eyes averted and offering no sign of familiarity.
Weeks went by until you see Adam again, shifting his weight, standing outside the local market. This time you make sure to try harder, to stop and show that you were a friend, an ally. You say his name and offer to buy him something. A little detached, he asks reflexively for a sandwich, a redbull, a pack of smokes, and nothing more. But something unexpected happens when you return. He lifts his head and flashes a tiny crooked smile, just one sparkle of recognition that he knows you, and that he knows you know him. He’ll never say hello again, or reply when you call his name, but every day forward when you see him, you call out and fish for money from your pockets. Without turning, he pauses for you to catch up, accepts your coins, and continues proudly on. You forget why it was ever so important that he knows you, but you’re glad that you now see each other, exchanging warmth and solidarity. In this moment, you had something in common, accepting the hand of a comrade, without shame, and happy to feel part of a tribe. You recall the faces of those twenty-five displaced professionals, and despite the obvious opportunity to blame the world for casting a cold eye, you resist, as you’ve never seen the look of blame in Adam’s face. His armor shone bright and polished with a battle tested sense of dignity.
Despite the slow creeping revival of so many others, the Naoimh Éanna unexpectedly falls over, demanding attention from the local news and social feeds. The attempts to salvage her have been deemed a failure. The various campaigns waning, the ship had been pillaged and scuppered by vandals over the years, and the popular opinion turning their back on her hopeful spirit. Casting stones, and deeming her an eyesore, useless and inconvenient to our important lives and our newly gentrified square. The social mob lynched her with biting disregard, the pressure mounted, calling for her immediate removal by the Irish Ship and Barge Company.
You read about this from a cafe along the docklands, reflecting on the shame people like Adam must have to wrestle back, defying feelings of irrelevance, persevering through solitude, disregarding any inconvenience to others. After witnessing so many ebbs and flows, you realize you don’t have to be homeless, or decommissioned, or disabled, or unemployed, to wrestle with these demons. There are no limits to who can fall vulnerable or disenfranchised. And there are no boundaries for the empathy they all deserve. Suffering is suffering, no matter your station. We do what we can to avoid chaos, to find purpose, and feel accepted. Depravity or despair, which comes first? Revival or perseverance, does one always follow the other? Ask Adam, ask the Naoimh, ask those twenty-five people sitting in a government office. The desire to feel significant, the urge to keep living, beats in each of them.
While the River Liffey begins filling high again, you follow the current back to office work with the masses, reminding yourself repeatedly to never take for granted the fragility of Dublin’s mercurial tides. You make your way over to the sunken basin where that old merchant ship leans, moored to rest along the Grand Canal. You see all the summer kids in wetsuits, climbing the fence, jumping off from The Naoimh’s bow into the water, and kicking around a twisted up, old sleeping bag. You can imagine the way The Naoimh carved through the gloriously rough waters of the Aran Island in her prime. You think of your own glorious high sailing adventures and ponder the many voyages ahead of you still.
You whisper to yourself and on behalf of all those who feel like you, your petition to the towers overhead; you plead with grace and humility. ‘Please, please, don’t scrap us yet.’
Paul Carreo 
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