Patrick McDonnell was an epic personality. One of those people whom everybody loved to tell stories about. Or, actually, recount the stories he told.
Like the one he told about parties among the English upper class (Princess Anne sometimes came) in the 60s that lasted weeks with people alternating between weed and acid and the only way to get the party out of his house was to offer to take everyone to Stonehenge for a grand LSD adventure. Or how he was charged with conspiracy by the English government for sending tabs of LSD to the Icelandic army. The thing about charging someone with conspiracy is that you don't have to prove anything except that they thought something, he would say. Or was it the U.S. nuclear submarine officers he sent the acid to? The stories always changed, but remained riveting whichever detail he decided to include that day.
Or how he was raped by priests in the Catholic church in Ireland as a young boy, and how years later he went to the Pope with the allegations. Or how he staged protests in front of the Uruguayan telecommunications company when their policies meant he was ostensibly locked into a never ending rural internet contract.
He had great ideas about social change. Give everyone psychedelics. Or protest. If you are going to use violence, make sure you go for the supermarkets first, because they are usually owned by someone powerful in the community. Never be afraid to use your voice and speak directly to power.
I loved the story he told about trying to get residency in Uruguay 15 years ago. He had this criminal record, spent time in jail for mostly political crimes. So, he had to go in front of a tribunal of senators to hear his case. Lucky him, at this point in history the senators were mostly former leftist guerillas including then-senator, later president Jose Mujica, who himself was imprisoned for many years because of his political action. This group sympathized with his political point of view and came to find out that McDonnell had actually donated money to their leftist group a few decades back. They granted him residency and Mujica came to give him a hug, thank him, and invite him for a beer after the hearing.
Patrick would tell us that the two things he wanted to see in his lifetime were legal gay marriage and legalized marijuana. He was very happy to see both happen, sooner in Uruguay than in his native Ireland. One day he and his partner Chris were at a routine government meeting, as his story goes, and some Uruguayan bureaucrat handed them a paper saying they were now legally married via co-habitation laws. In that moment, they both began to cry. After a lifetime of laws that allowed him to be hurt, beaten up, and discriminated against because of his sexuality, it was a relief for him to be in a place that allowed him to live and let live.
I remember his story about getting permanently kicked out of South Africa. He was there after a jolly jaunt around the world in his 20s. He was working at a bakery trying to make enough money to get back to England. One day, meeting with a friend of his father's, he was waiting for the 'white's only' elevator to come and it was taking forever. The 'mixed' elevator was already standing there, open, so he went in. He was apprehended by South African police 'dressed like little boy scouts' as McDonnell would always say, who asked him what he was thinking taking the wrong elevator. He said he is mixed race, he is Norse and Hebridean. They said you have a bad attitude (Patrick always delivered this line in a South African accent) and they beat him bloody. He was given a one way ticket back to England with a ban from ever returning. Good, he thought, that's what I wanted anyway. After apartheid, he did get a letter of apology and welcome back from the South African government. Maybe the arc does bend toward justice?
Patrick was in the Tet offensive as a British military contractor, and just as the firing started he ran toward the U.S. military bunker knocking to be let in. They said screw off, ostensibly, but McDonnell was smart. Right as the bombing started he ran to his quarters and got whiskey and cigarettes. He yelled back to the U.S. Army men I have whiskey and cigarettes! They let him in and he was safe to live another day. He told us to always have hard alcohol and cigarettes on hand in case of emergency.
I loved Patrick's sense of humor. One of his most laugh out loud stories was about a farm manager who was ribbing him and his fellow workers for not working fast enough pounding in heavy iron stakes. The boss grabbed the stakes and started stomping toward the next place to pound one in. Trouble was, they were working on a steep cliffside in Ireland and of course trying to work too fast he lost his footing and started sliding toward the cliff. He dropped all the stakes that went flying off the edge and barely made it from flying off the cliff himself. He promptly got up and walked off while Patrick and his friends were doubled over in laughter.
After some work in the U.S. in the late 60s he was offered either U.S. Citizenship or a brand new red Ford Mustang by his employer. He chose the Mustang. For the life of me I cannot remember where that Mustang ended up he would always say.
Patrick told stories like I imagine they are told in the old Irish oral tradition way. They are not just stories, they have a lesson, the share a culture, each one tells you a little about humanity.
My favorite memories of him, though, were our moments of kindness together as friends and neighbors. As we were running around with our two little girls, without a moment of peace, he would say You two really are fabulous parents. When it seems no one sees the work you're doing as a parent, Patrick would not only notice, he would say it out loud. His great great great (something) grandmother was Isabel Fitzgerald, and he had an oil portrait of her in his house in Uruguay. We instantly felt a familial connection with him and Christopher. He used to say we are from the same ancient clan of Fitzgeralds.
When we first met we came over for lunch and at the end of it he said We are so excited to have someone worth talking to around here! He and Chris would invite us over for lunches every couple of weeks and every time we would have champagne. Celebrating life together. Celebrating simple friendship and being alive. And we would eat Chris' home cooked food, prepared with love just to share with us, and it felt like family.
When you choose to live in a new place, you have to find ways to cope without the social networks you are born into. So you find others, and if you're lucky, they can turn into a new network on which you can rely. We knew we could rely on Patrick and Chris, and they could rely on us. That simple fact can give you so much peace. If I need help, I know they'll be there.
He was suffering a lot toward the end and I am glad that is over for him. He always wondered out loud how in the hell he lasted as long as he did after all the drugs he did in his lifetime. Well I am glad he lasted long enough to overlap a few of his years with myself and my family. We are better off for having known him, and the world is lucky to have had him for the time that it did.
I will miss his big stories and guidance and love. I know I won't stop telling stories of the great Patrick McDonnell, and in that way he will continue to be.
Like the one he told about parties among the English upper class (Princess Anne sometimes came) in the 60s that lasted weeks with people alternating between weed and acid and the only way to get the party out of his house was to offer to take everyone to Stonehenge for a grand LSD adventure. Or how he was charged with conspiracy by the English government for sending tabs of LSD to the Icelandic army. The thing about charging someone with conspiracy is that you don't have to prove anything except that they thought something, he would say. Or was it the U.S. nuclear submarine officers he sent the acid to? The stories always changed, but remained riveting whichever detail he decided to include that day.
Or how he was raped by priests in the Catholic church in Ireland as a young boy, and how years later he went to the Pope with the allegations. Or how he staged protests in front of the Uruguayan telecommunications company when their policies meant he was ostensibly locked into a never ending rural internet contract.
He had great ideas about social change. Give everyone psychedelics. Or protest. If you are going to use violence, make sure you go for the supermarkets first, because they are usually owned by someone powerful in the community. Never be afraid to use your voice and speak directly to power.
I loved the story he told about trying to get residency in Uruguay 15 years ago. He had this criminal record, spent time in jail for mostly political crimes. So, he had to go in front of a tribunal of senators to hear his case. Lucky him, at this point in history the senators were mostly former leftist guerillas including then-senator, later president Jose Mujica, who himself was imprisoned for many years because of his political action. This group sympathized with his political point of view and came to find out that McDonnell had actually donated money to their leftist group a few decades back. They granted him residency and Mujica came to give him a hug, thank him, and invite him for a beer after the hearing.
Patrick would tell us that the two things he wanted to see in his lifetime were legal gay marriage and legalized marijuana. He was very happy to see both happen, sooner in Uruguay than in his native Ireland. One day he and his partner Chris were at a routine government meeting, as his story goes, and some Uruguayan bureaucrat handed them a paper saying they were now legally married via co-habitation laws. In that moment, they both began to cry. After a lifetime of laws that allowed him to be hurt, beaten up, and discriminated against because of his sexuality, it was a relief for him to be in a place that allowed him to live and let live.
I remember his story about getting permanently kicked out of South Africa. He was there after a jolly jaunt around the world in his 20s. He was working at a bakery trying to make enough money to get back to England. One day, meeting with a friend of his father's, he was waiting for the 'white's only' elevator to come and it was taking forever. The 'mixed' elevator was already standing there, open, so he went in. He was apprehended by South African police 'dressed like little boy scouts' as McDonnell would always say, who asked him what he was thinking taking the wrong elevator. He said he is mixed race, he is Norse and Hebridean. They said you have a bad attitude (Patrick always delivered this line in a South African accent) and they beat him bloody. He was given a one way ticket back to England with a ban from ever returning. Good, he thought, that's what I wanted anyway. After apartheid, he did get a letter of apology and welcome back from the South African government. Maybe the arc does bend toward justice?
Patrick was in the Tet offensive as a British military contractor, and just as the firing started he ran toward the U.S. military bunker knocking to be let in. They said screw off, ostensibly, but McDonnell was smart. Right as the bombing started he ran to his quarters and got whiskey and cigarettes. He yelled back to the U.S. Army men I have whiskey and cigarettes! They let him in and he was safe to live another day. He told us to always have hard alcohol and cigarettes on hand in case of emergency.
I loved Patrick's sense of humor. One of his most laugh out loud stories was about a farm manager who was ribbing him and his fellow workers for not working fast enough pounding in heavy iron stakes. The boss grabbed the stakes and started stomping toward the next place to pound one in. Trouble was, they were working on a steep cliffside in Ireland and of course trying to work too fast he lost his footing and started sliding toward the cliff. He dropped all the stakes that went flying off the edge and barely made it from flying off the cliff himself. He promptly got up and walked off while Patrick and his friends were doubled over in laughter.
After some work in the U.S. in the late 60s he was offered either U.S. Citizenship or a brand new red Ford Mustang by his employer. He chose the Mustang. For the life of me I cannot remember where that Mustang ended up he would always say.
Patrick told stories like I imagine they are told in the old Irish oral tradition way. They are not just stories, they have a lesson, the share a culture, each one tells you a little about humanity.
My favorite memories of him, though, were our moments of kindness together as friends and neighbors. As we were running around with our two little girls, without a moment of peace, he would say You two really are fabulous parents. When it seems no one sees the work you're doing as a parent, Patrick would not only notice, he would say it out loud. His great great great (something) grandmother was Isabel Fitzgerald, and he had an oil portrait of her in his house in Uruguay. We instantly felt a familial connection with him and Christopher. He used to say we are from the same ancient clan of Fitzgeralds.
When we first met we came over for lunch and at the end of it he said We are so excited to have someone worth talking to around here! He and Chris would invite us over for lunches every couple of weeks and every time we would have champagne. Celebrating life together. Celebrating simple friendship and being alive. And we would eat Chris' home cooked food, prepared with love just to share with us, and it felt like family.
When you choose to live in a new place, you have to find ways to cope without the social networks you are born into. So you find others, and if you're lucky, they can turn into a new network on which you can rely. We knew we could rely on Patrick and Chris, and they could rely on us. That simple fact can give you so much peace. If I need help, I know they'll be there.
He was suffering a lot toward the end and I am glad that is over for him. He always wondered out loud how in the hell he lasted as long as he did after all the drugs he did in his lifetime. Well I am glad he lasted long enough to overlap a few of his years with myself and my family. We are better off for having known him, and the world is lucky to have had him for the time that it did.
I will miss his big stories and guidance and love. I know I won't stop telling stories of the great Patrick McDonnell, and in that way he will continue to be.
