I stumbled upon McMahon’s beautiful memoir in the "new nonfiction" section of Waterstones book store one evening after work. It was a drizzly, grey evening and I was beginning to feel rather flu-ish with a sort of hot prickling in my skull, an ache in my joints, and a general feeling of malaise. Of course, the best cure for the flu is a new book: a portal to a different time and place where ghosts are excavated, the presence of people who lived and died long ago is made palpable, and one can forget one’s immediate bodily hurts.
I went home and read the memoir in one sitting, feeling nostalgic for a country I barely know, a people I am distantly descended from and a faith I grew up on the opposite side of the aisle to — so to speak.
At just 20 years old, armed with two suitcases, $500, her family’s well wishes and a whole load of guilt and trauma, McMahon left Ireland for New York City. It was 1993, and she was part of a wave of pre-Celtic Tiger Irish emigrants continuing the tradition of escaping sectarian violence, mass unemployment, and the unique form of cabin fever that develops when one grows up in a large family in a small Catholic neighbourhood.
The novelty of waiting tables and partying initially thrills McMahon, but she soon slips into alcoholism and despair like so many before her. Then she finds herself returning to the sanctuary of the Roman Catholic Church; specifically Old St Patrick’s on Mott St where she encounters a saviour of sorts in the form of a man who convinces her to attend an AA meeting.
In Ordinary Time is a quiet, thoughtful book that weaves together the history of Ireland — especially the less appealing episodes — with McMahon’s own life story. It is at times turbulent and peaceful, confrontational and accepting, lyrical yet jarring. In reflecting upon her life, McMahon draws upon wider societal traumas such as the harms perpetuated by the Catholic Church in Ireland, the Great Famine, and the Magdalene Laundries.
I have a theory: the best memoirs are those which seamlessly integrate historical context and literary references into the author’s autobiographical recollections. A good memoir is like a patchwork quilt; a plethora of shapes and colours effortlessly melding into one another so that when the reader steps back, the whole glorious pattern appears. The stitching, so to speak, should not be visible.
As much as I appreciated the frequent historical and literary references to Carl Jung, St Brigid, Virginia Woolf and the poet Anne Carson, I was somewhat disoriented by the sudden shifts in narrative and tone. Exquisitely written autobiographical passages are abruptly halted and the reader is dragged back into the past. Granted, these passages provide context for McMahon’s own story, but I often found myself wishing I could have stayed with her recollections for just a while longer.
I was particularly touched by McMahon’s essay on her younger brother "Ben" and his struggles with paranoid schizophrenia. McMahon muses on the difficulties inherent in writing about deeply personal and painful experiences that involve loved ones.
"In a book about Ireland’s long history of secrets and silences," she concludes, "it did not feel right to omit this episode."
I can speak to the acute frustration that comes with balancing a desire to excavate the ugly reality of the past with the need to protect loved ones whose lives have intersected with one’s own. I’ve written about my own brother’s struggle with paranoid schizophrenia and eventual death by suicide, and I’ve hurt loved ones in the process. What should I reveal? What should I keep to myself? What should I alter or anonymise? I don’t know if I will ever know the answers to these questions.
In telling Ben’s story, McMahon recalls the grief Anne Carson felt after the vanishing and eventual death of her brother Michael alongside the elegy the Roman poet Catullus wrote for his brother, who also died on foreign soil. I found a bitter comfort in knowing that much ink has been spilled over the centuries by sisters mourning the loss of their brothers, be it to war, addiction, or disease.
The memoir is also a musing on those stories left unsaid, especially the lives of women too poor and insignificant to have had their stories recorded, like young Irish emigrant Grace Farrell, who froze to death in an alcove of the church on Avenue B on the coldest night of 2011. The mutability of time and memory is a recurring thread, as is the warping effect alcohol has on one’s recollections and relationships.
"I learned of Carl Jung’s belief that being cut off from your ancestral past is a wounding," writes McMahon.
"I knew so little of my own family history, never mind my country’s history, never mind the women’s history within it." As McMahon notes, this silence arises not necessarily because it lacks importance, but because it is so raw and painful.
In Ordinary Time is a rich tapestry of McMahon’s own life story interwoven with the traditions and history of Ireland, early Christian, and Catholic history. McMahon’s unflinching account of her own struggles and joys gives voice to not only her own story but that of the many Irish women who have been ignored, silenced, and left behind. It is a book I will return to and savour with each re-read.
- Jean Balchin, a former English student at the University of Otago, is studying at Oxford University after being awarded a Rhodes Scholarship.
