Left Behind?

Things you still can’t say after 40 years: “Up against the wall, motherfuckers!”

I found this out when television folk came seeking wisdom on the origins of the Northern civil rights movement and then balked at my insistence on quoting the most popular slogan of the time.
“Up against the wall motherfuckers,” was the last item in the 10-point programme of the Black Panther Party, enunciated in rich, dark R’n’B tones in a propaganda film projected against Free Derry Wall in the small hours of a riotous night in 1968.
The erupting cheer signalled a deep-felt connection with black self-defenders under murderous assault by cops in America.
That year’s Civil Rights Association (CRA) conference fragmented into fractiousness at a proposal to send solidarity to the Panthers. The split replicated differences on strategy towards Stormont. Where we stood on global matters reflected the stance we took locally and vice versa.
To insist now on the relevance of global events is to venture onto ground little disturbed by the stomp of the standard-issue chroniclers who assume that Northern Ireland can be understood entirely and cannot be understood other than in terms of Orange versus Green. The hope of the Left had been we could paint destiny any colour we chose. We failed. But in the throes of the effort we had glimpse of a vividness that dappled and sparkled the future with joy. My dear friend Johnnie White, commander of the pre-split IRA in Derry, managed a smile in the last conversation we ever had: “Back then, McCann, that was the best.” And so it was.
Then, briefly, Northern Ireland fitted naturally enough into a thrilling narrative unfolding across the world. If fervour dimmed as the weary conflict which conservatives on all sides felt comfortable with resurged like a wave of sludge over the vision of freedom, well, so did conventional modes of thought reassert themselves elsewhere. In this, again, the North wasn’t as distinct to itself as it’s commonly made to seem.
It’s the American connection that remains most relevant. I recall bringing back to New York the golden key to the city which Bernadette Devlin had received from mayor John Lindsay and, on my first night in town, presenting it to Panther leader Robert Bay at a ceremony in Harlem which attracted media attention. By next morning, all of the engagements arranged for me to speak at had been cancelled. One crusader for civil rights in the North explained from Boston that I had encouraged “nigger murderers.”
The argument of the Left was that our natural allies in the US were, surely, those fighting against the oppression they suffered themselves. The argument of CRA moderates, soon for transmogrification into Republicans, was that we mustn’t alienate any powerful element which might be persuaded to back our struggle at home.
The same consideration today leads some who proclaim themselves passionate opponents of imperialist war to sing dumb and pose grinning when a photo-op arises alongside the unrepentant architects of war. We need the White House to press the British to put pressure on the Unionists to make concessions to our side, runs the same weary logic as deployed in the ’60s.
Conventional history has it that, in the end, the socialist adventurism of the ’60s had been little more than a flurry of political naivety. But that’s not the only way of perceiving the period. The ideas of internationalism and revolt from below which animated the movement of 40 years ago are, I dare say, more relevant in the globalised present than they were in the heady days of gas and barricades on Rossville Street.
Ann Devlin’s play, The Long March, ends with a lament: “I still remember that time when we thought we were beginning a new journey... What we didn’t see was that it had begun a long time before with someone else’s journey; we were simply getting through the steps in our own time.”
Well, yes. Except that we haven’t run out of road just yet, and there are new turnings unexpectedly up ahead, bright vistas awaiting, if we keep on keeping on.

There never was a gig like Jimmy Faulkner’s, and there’ll never be the like of it again.
Smiley Bolger and myself had the signal privilege of sharing emcee duty. Not that we had to do much but dander on, say who was next, and retire amid whoops of expectant approbation.
A rare piece of film of Jimmy with Hotfoot, Declan MacNelis, Jimmy Gibson, Pat Collins, brought sighs of sad remembrance, as sweet a version of ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ as ever there’s been, the picture on screen an aching reminder of how beautiful he’d been.
We properly paid tribute to the faithful departed, Declan, Ronnie Drew, Phil Lynott, Rory Gallagher, Professor Peter O’Brian, Tony Geraghty.
Jimmy was one of those people loved by everybody he came into contact with. Even when he was running with a bad crowd, as we all have, nobody who knew him had a bad word to say of him.
My only regret was that Robbie Brennan couldn’t be there.
The gig was put together by Terry O’Neill.
Outside in the laneway afterwards, performers and family – Jimmy’s partner Pauline, daughter Christine and son Jimell – stood around in hubbubs, marvelling at the magic we’d been immersed in, recalling mad nights of music and mayhem and agreeing that there’d never be a night like this again, never be the like of Jimmy Faulkner again.