Remembering Air India Flight 182

On Sunday, while in West Cork, we traveled to Ahakista in West Cork to visit a memorial to the 1985 Air India Flight 182 bombing and and plane crash.

The Air India flight was en route from Canada to India when a bomb exploded and killed all 329 passengers and crew on board. The memorial is beautiful; it is in a quiet, peaceful landing that looks out over the water.

On the anniversary of the tragedy the sundial points to the place in the sky where the tragedy occurred. Each year on June 23rd there is a memorial event to remember the lives lost; we were less than a month from the anniversary so some of the memorials were still present.

It was a horrible tragedy but we were glad we could visit and pay our respects.


Running to Breakthrough Cancer for…Gerry O.

I am training for the ING 2013 NYC Marathon to help raise money for Breakthrough Cancer Research.  

Dr. Gerald O’Sullivan was many things in life.

The Irish Medical Times called him “the outstanding Irish surgeon of his generation” and “an Irish Giant.”  His medical peers in Ireland elected him President of the Royal College of Surgeons in 2006.  He lived and worked in Chicago, Canada, and even Baghdad during the Iran-Iraq war.  He served as mentor of the College of Surgeons of East, Central and Southern Africa.  He was an Honorary Fellow in the American College of Surgeons, a prestigious award since it is limited to only 100 living surgeons worldwide at any time.  He was loved by those he worked with, as evidenced in a touching YouTube video created after he died.  But perhaps most notably, Gerry founded Cork Cancer Research Centre in the 1990s, a world-class research organization driven to improve treatment and prognoses for the most devastating cancers.

He was a premier medical doctor in Ireland and beyond, but to me, my parents, my brothers and sister, and my cousins here in America, he was just Gerry.  Gerry, my mother’s first cousin, a man who took time out of his hectic schedule to visit us in New Jersey while on work travel to the U.S., his booming voice and lilting brogue filling our entry foyer when he arrived.  Gerry, the crazy-smart cousin who loved American history so much that he could recite every president and vice president going back to George Washington.  Gerry, whose sense of humor tickled you to your core, like when he surprise-crashed a family party in suburban Pennsylvania (where his daughter was living) disguised as a hobo…ambling down the quiet, meticulously manicured street wearing a mask, an old trench coat, a ratty old hat, and carrying a stick with a bag tied around one end of it…he had the entire party in stitches.  Gerry, who could talk and talk and talk over multiple pots of tea about topics as wide-ranging as cricket and hurling to current affairs, especially U.S. politics.

Gerry died on February 12, 2012.  He succumbed to multiple myeloma, a cancer that starts in the plasma cells in bone marrow.  It was a huge loss, both personally for our family but also for the community of medical professionals dedicated to eradicating cancer.  Fortunately, his legacy lives on through his family and Breakthrough Cancer Research, the new fundraising arm of Cork Cancer Research Centre.  Breakthrough Cancer Research collaborates with cancer organizations worldwide, from Sweden, Italy, Denmark, Switzerland, Slovenia, Scotland, as well as here in the U.S., including Harvard Medical School.

Cancer is horrific, cancer is cruel, and cancer is seemingly ubiquitous.  But cancer can be beaten.   As it says on Breakthrough Cancer Research’s websiteThere is hope, and that hope is in research.

You can donate easily and quickly by visiting my marathon fundraising site on  Donating through JustGiving is simple, fast and totally secure. Your details are safe with JustGiving – they’ll never sell your details or send unwanted emails. Once you donate, they’ll send your money directly to Breakthrough Cancer Research. So it’s the most efficient way to donate – saving time and cutting costs for the charity.

Thank you.

The Jeans Whore

As I dig deep to train for the 2013 NYC Marathon, I am reminded of a time when I was known as “the jeans whore.”

I was in high school and had a part-time sales job at Banana Republic, one of many stores at an upscale mall in Short Hills, New Jersey.  My job included greeting customers with a smile at the front door and explaining the difference between a weave and a knit.   I walked into the back stockroom one afternoon to find my manager sorting through boxes of fall merchandise, the pungent scents of packed leather and denim still fresh. My manager smiled as she held out one of the new fall items, a beautiful lambskin bomber jacket priced at $300.  It was gorgeous, yet out of my price range.  But then she explained an upcoming back-to-school sales contest whereby a salesperson would receive three dollars for every pair of denim jeans sold.  “You can do it,” she said. “Buy the jacket with contest money!”

I had my challenges.  In hindsight, I was not the ideal retail sales associate.  First, I felt awkward approaching customers who appeared to be browsing, and instead waited for them to ask me for help.  I preferred to work the cash register, finding comfort behind the repetitive motions of clicking the register pad, bagging the merchandise, and making small talk with someone who was experiencing the high of a new purchase.  But most of all, I was a high school student who worked minimal hours so I had a serious time constraint in which to sell a boatload of denim jeans.

When the contest began about a week later, I jumped in head first.  I offered to take weekend shifts from co-workers, increasing my time with the piles of denim stacked floor to ceiling in the back of the store.  I threw my feelings of awkwardness to the wind and started to approach every customer who showed the slightest whiff of interest in denim. If a customer was buying a blouse, I suggested she complete the outfit and purchase a pair of jeans as well.  If a customer wanted a belt, I offered him the right shade of washed denim to match the brown leather and silver buckle.  If a customer walked by that wall of denim, I was in her face, smiling, giving her my name, telling her I was there to help. I owned that wall of denim.  Before long, my co-workers, all older than me by several years and viewing me like a kid sister, jokingly started calling me “the jeans whore.”

The contest lasted ten days and by the end, I had sold sixty-seven pairs of jeans, making me the contest winner in the entire Northeast region and the third highest seller of denim in the entire company.  I also received a bonus for my performance.  Several weeks later, the jacket hung in my closet, entirely paid for with contest money.

I learned something valuable with all those jeans I sold: with a clear goal and sufficient inspiration and support, you can at least try.  Only then do you have a shot at succeeding.  It is with this attitude that I climb onto the treadmill most mornings before the kids wake up, trying to build my endurance for November 3rd.  Will I make it?  I don’t know.  But I sure am going to try.

And yes, I still own the jacket.

I am running the ING 2013 NYC Marathon on November 3rd in memory of my cousin, Gerry O’Sullivan, and to raise money for Breakthrough Cancer Research.  There is hope, and that hope is in research.  Please visit my JustGiving page here if you would like to learn more.

Chasing Dreams

I learned a valuable lesson recently: the dreams we seek are often not up in the stars, but lurking in the shadows of ordinary life.  I learned this in pursuit of two very different goals: becoming a licensed CPA and writing my first fiction story, a 51-page novella published on

It took me seven years to pass the CPA exam.  Seven long, humbling years.  Starting out, I did not “dream” of becoming a CPA. Rather, an MBA professor had simply advised, “take the CPA exam to tell the world you’re a business expert.”  It sounded easy enough, but as with much of life, the devil was in the details.  To become a CPA, you first need a slew of business curriculum credits…I piled mine up in undergrad and MBA school.  Next, you need related professional experience; I earned my stripes at Deloitte Tax, sweating out 50-60 hour weeks.  But the most painful step – excruciating, in fact – is passing the Uniformed CPA Exam, a 4-part multiple choice behemoth with a less than 50% pass rate.   Studying for the exam requires surrendering your nights and weekends – for months! – to take sample multiple choice tests over and over again.  When I first took the test I failed all four parts.  It was then that I made a promise to myself: I will pass this beast. I will slay it.

Which brings me to my writing.

I have always harbored a dream of writing a story and publishing it.    But over the years, I have found my biggest obstacles were pride, pragmatism, and procrastination. Pride: what if no one reads what I write?  Pragmatism: what is the point of putting in all that time and effort if it is not a success?  Procrastination: yes, dreams are worth pursuing, but tomorrow will be the day I finally take the first step.  Yet when I quit my job last fall, I started hurdling those obstacles with small, mundane steps.  First, I realized after several months as a stay at home mom that I needed an outlet, so I started  Then, as I wrote each blog post and received feedback from friends, neighbors, even strangers, I realized that pride is over-rated; connecting to just one person through something I write is hugely satisfying. Which left procrastination…

As with many dreams realized, a bit of luck was sprinkled my way. Last month, Hugh Howey, author of the NY Times best-selling “Wool” books and a trail-blazing supporter of independent authors, joined KindleWorlds.  KindleWorlds is a publishing market for fan fiction, a virtual literary bazaar where each tent is a different story’s universe.   The pragmatist in me was thrilled; I loved the “Wool” books, and this was an opportunity to write a story that had a much higher likelihood of finding a micro-targeted audience.

So I set about writing my story.

I am not a professional writer, but now that I have written a story I can attest that writers are unfairly saddled with this cliched imaged: sitting with a glass of Cabernet or a fourth cup of coffee while you pound out words, the first draft being perfect and final.  But in truth, writing is akin to studying for the CPA exam. I had to carve out hours on nights and weekends, finding precious time to write after long days with the kids.  Writing a story is about mastering (or attempting to master) story structure, character arcs, dialog, and plot points.  It is about respecting the art of writing, from use of proper pronouns and prepositions to sentence structure and best placement of nouns and verbs.  “Writing is re-writing,” as the saying goes, which gets really mundane and boring as you revisit the same paragraph or chapter multiple times until it’s as perfect as it can be.  Writing is about persistence and discipline, and not giving up. I was struck by how exhausting writing my novella was; on more than one occasion I wanted to throw in the towel.

I finally passed the CPA exam on my second try, and I finally wrote my story and published it.  Having accomplished both, I learned that chasing dreams is less about looking up, and more about digging in.  Dreams do not live in the clouds; they live within us, lying in wait, eager to be discovered.

My book, “Silo Saga: Unhinged,” is available in KindleWorlds from Amazon.   It is a story set within Hugh Howey’s “Wool” universe.  Read Hugh Howey’s blog here, and check out his books on Amazon here.  Amazon e-books are downloadable to Kindles or the Kindle reading app, which is available on most smart phones, computers, and tablet devices.

Gay Marriage: It’s About Us All

If justice is good for one, then shouldn’t it be good for all?

I recently dined with the kids – sans husband who was stuck at work – at a French bistro around the corner from our home.   It was a balmy spring night, the dining patio full of patrons enjoying mussels, escargot, and pan-seared steaks.   As I settled the kids into their chairs and tore up chunks of bread for them to eat, I heard a man’s voice behind me.   “Excuse me,” he said, “I don’t know how you do it with two.  We just have the one and it seems impossible at times.” I smiled at him and his eighteen month old son sitting in a high chair, giggling adorably under a floppy green hat.  “No different from you,” I said.  A few minutes later the man’s partner – another man – returned to the table.  The three of us talked about their impending move to Maplewood, a popular Manhattan suburb, about their fear of isolation from the city, about their excitement of having a big backyard.  The conversation was utterly mundane, yet enjoyable because we were on the same plane, finding so much in common in the space of a few minutes.

Every child is born into a universe of possibility.  He knows only one truth at the outset: the love of his parents.  Yet he is also born into an imperfect culture.  The worst examples of our own imperfections are stunning upon reflection.  Our nation’s forefathers put pen to paper with the three-fifths compromise, which effectively declared a black man equal to three fifths of a white man.  Volumes could be written by people more scholarly than I about who was to blame, why the forefathers proceeded with a compromise to allow slavery, and so on; but the simple truth is this: it was evil, and they proactively permitted it in our Constitution.  It would require a civil war and the thirteenth amendment to eradicate this evil from our historical record, yet the imperfection would persist.  In 1959, Mildred and Richard Loving, a black woman and a white man legally married in Washington D.C., but living in Virginia, were banished from Virginia under threat of jail time for breaking the state’s anti-miscegenation (interracial marriage) laws.  The Lovings sued Virginia; it would take eight years, but in 1967 the Supreme Court decreed – by unanimous decision – that Virginia’s anti-miscegenation laws were unconstitutional.  Yes, we live in an imperfect culture…but if history teaches us anything, it is this: we do not have to sit quietly about it.

The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) was passed in 1996; it is less than one page long yet its impact is devastatingly widespread; it denies the right to marry – and myriad benefits therein under federal law – to gay couples.  Their children suffer as a result. But DOMA is about more than gay families.  DOMA degrades us a society.   It is written with the same evil intention employed by those who would hold that certain men are only worth three-fifths of other men.  It dumps us into the same historical dustpan of those who would hold that a dark-skinned woman married to a white-skinned man is illegal and immoral. DOMA is a stain upon our national character.

Beyond DOMA, as a lifelong New Jerseyan, I think it is shameful that New Jersey does not yet occupy the moral high ground currently owned by Connecticut, New York, Washington, Maine, Vermont, and Iowa, among others, in legalizing gay marriage.  And yet we call ourselves a progressive state?

The two men I shared a drink and conversation with last week were good fathers who clearly loved their son. I safely assume they pay federal and state taxes and are law-abiding citizens.  They accordingly deserve the benefits and rights that my husband and I enjoy.  That they are gay should make no difference. That they are human beings should be all that matters.  Dignity is not relative.

Justice…we can embrace it or we can deny it.  But the real question is this: do we want our kids looking up at what we had the courage to embrace, or down at the justice that we chose to deny?

To learn more about the efforts to legalize gay marriage in NJ, please visit Garden State Equality, NJ’s largest civil rights organization comprised of 125,000 members, about half of whom are from outside the LGBT community.

The Prisms in Our Lives

Wisdom is like the full spectrum of light revealed through a prism; beautiful, spectacular, yet born of the ordinary.

When I was twenty-six years old, I snapped at my father with harsh words.  We were sitting in a crowded Starbucks around the corner from Washington D.C.’s Superior Court, awaiting the first day of the murder trial for a friend who had been killed two years before.  My father had traveled to Washington to attend the first few days of the trial, in part to support me, in part to bear witness to justice for my friend.  My father is like that; steadfast, righteous and honorable, like a rock planted in a riverbed, unmoved by rushing currents and shifting tides.  I do not remember exactly what caused me to snap at him, only that it was a momentary release of hot anger, profound stress escaping like steam from a kettle’s whistle.  As soon as the words flew off my tongue I felt guilt and shame burrow into my gut.   I apologized several times, but after my third or fourth apology, my father folded his NY Times in half, looked across the table, and said, “Brigid, I’m your father.  Don’t worry.  I forgave you before the words left your mouth.”

The impact of his words was immediate and lasting.  Guilt and shame washed away.  In their place, a feeling of profound security settled in.  The notion that my words and actions were incapable of altering his love for me, or his capacity to forgive, was extremely comforting.  It was comforting in the moment, but it also altered my consciousness about the nature of unconditional love and forgiveness.  Now that I have kids of my own, I think of my father’s words often.  I want my kids to feel the same sense of security that my father gifted to me that day in Starbucks.

Which brings me to my daughter.

She is only three years old.  Her mind is like fertile soil teeming with optimism, curiosity, and an ever-constant ache to please Mommy and Papa.  Yesterday she had a tantrum at the park; it was a monumental meltdown after a long day with her grandparents, water sprinklers, and a pickle from the farmer’s market.  It culminated with the tinkly song of Mr. Softee’s ice cream truck parked just beyond the swings.

“Mommy,” she whined as we walked towards the car, “I want ice cream!”

“Absolutely not,” I responded.  “You’ve already had a pickle.  That’s enough treats for one day.”

“But a pickle is not a treat!” she wailed as I strapped her into the car seat.

Later, over dinner, I asked her if she felt better and she said yes, but then ducked her head away, perhaps still angry, perhaps a bit embarrassed.  Perhaps feeling a bit of guilt at having screamed so loudly at me.   So I asked her, “Indira, how big is the sky?”

“So big, Mommy,” she responded, her eyes wide, her chubby arms outstretched to measure the bigness of the sky.

“Well,” I said, “Mommy’s love for you is bigger than the sky.  I never stop loving you.”

She looked at me, her eyes ever-wider.  “Mommy do you love me with every feeling?”

I felt a small lump lodge in my throat.  My eyes watered.  My little girl was my prism.  “Yes, honey.  I love with you every feeling.”

“Even when you’re upset?”

“Yes, even when I’m upset. I love you with every feeling.”  Then she asked me for more grapes.

What a simple truth.  Yes, of course I love my children with every feeling – joy, anger, frustration, hope – yet how easy is it for a child to assume the love stops when our faces darken in disappointment?  Would I have even considered this notion of loving with every feeling had she not asked the question?  Probably not.  I was attempting to transform my daughter’s comprehension of love and she in turn transformed me.

Life is an ever-changing, fantastic journey.  Made even more beautiful, and transformative, by the prisms in our lives.

The Nightcap

“What time are you going?” Her voice was barely a whisper.  The stillness swallowed her words.

“Later.  Let’s talk a bit more.  We still have time.”

She smiled and looked down at her knitting.  The needles went back to life, clicking and sliding the thick yarn into place.  The smell of musty blankets and burnt toast clung to the air.

“What are you making?” he asked.

“It’s a hat.  For John.  I just hope I have enough yarn.  I always seem to run out too soon.”

He rocked as she clicked, a time-perfected synchronicity.

She reached for her glass, took a sip, then noticed the circle of shine surrounded by dust and crumbs from blackened toast.  She hurriedly replaced the glass and swept the crumbs onto the floor, hoping he wouldn’t notice.  She never was one for dust.

The rocking continued.

She told him about the tree in Mr. Magee’s front yard that fell down in the snow storm.  “It was dead long ago, the trunk rotting, the bark peeling into husks that littered the sidewalk.  Now with the tree gone, sunlight dances through the curtains I sewed together before John was born.  Remember?  I used the scraps from the second hand store on Pine Street.  Those were the good days.  We were young and stretched in too many directions.  Too busy, too rushed.”

He nodded, smiling, rocking, his foot tapping on the dusty floorboards.

She told him about the grandkids, how John was now in California, how he called dutifully every Sunday afternoon, at half past two because he knew how much she loved attending the 12:30 mass with Father Bill.

“Doesn’t he know that Father Bill is dead?”

“No, I didn’t bother to tell him.  Don’t want him to worry.”

He smiled, leaned forward in the rocker, elbows on his knees. “Did you invite him back home yet?”

She glanced up, eyes watering and lips pursed.  The clicking stopped.

“Not yet.  I’m not ready. I need more time.”

He nodded, then sank back into the chair.  “Take your time,” he said. “Don’t bother with what your sister says.”

The clicking of the needles resumed, then she looked up, her eyes bright and wide.  “I’ll invite John when the raspberry bushes are in full bloom. We’ll go berry picking, down where the backyard slopes down to the creek.  I’ll take the kids out, we’ll mash the berries and mix with sugar and syrup and make a pie and top it with vanilla ice cream.  Just like we did when John was a boy.”

He nodded, rocking again, the floorboards in rhythm with the sewing needles.  Outside, a sharp wind rattled a loose shutter from its screws.

They sat in silence until the yarn ran out.  Her hands alone again, she looked up at the clock, her eyes red and starting to well with tears.  Exhausted, consumed by another day of isolated grief, she laid down the knitting needles, rose from the rocking chair, and walked quietly up to bed.