Wexford in Spanish Harlem

ITOOK the C train up to West 96th Street. My friend Jeff MacCulloch invited me to talk with his writing class of 8th Graders. There was about 16 kids, aged between 12 and 14, two thirds were girls and most of them were African American. arrived at the High School in the nick of time. The security guard pulled over the nearest kid and instructed him to bring me to Mr Mac’s class at the end of the tiled hallway. Mr Mac? I was just about to correct her and say that it was Jeff MacCulloch when it dawned on me that Jeff was Mr Mac.

Jeff had primed his writing class for this event by having them study two of my songs ‘3 Minute World’ and ‘Orange Colored Sun’. He also had them read my short story ‘The Permist’ – but I hadn’t really thought about what Jeff had told me.

The event started with one of the young girls reading out a short biography and then the questions began. A lot of hands shot into the air, Jeff chose one.

‘In 3 Minute World, what did you mean when you said, you were stuck inside that shop suspended by a heartfelt song?’

I was flabbergasted, these Urban New York kids knew the lyrics to such a personal Wexford song? The question came from a cute impish black girl with a massive head of hair pulled back and tightly tied with a blue velvet band. She had sparkling eyes and a mischievous smile.

‘On Saturday evenings when my friends were strolling the Main Street with my girlfriend, I felt trapped in the Record Shop and compounded my teenage misery by listening to brokenhearted love songs.

‘Were you in love with her?’ ‘It felt like love, I was definitely heart sick in her absence.’

She crumbled into a heap, covering her eyes with her fingers.

A teenage boy put his hand up.

‘When you say Anywhere is happening better than this God knows, wassat?’

Again – shocked at the notion that these kids are interested in my teenage years, while tending the shop on the Quay.

‘Let me see, I can’t really remember the words to this song.’ The tall black boy to my left handed me the lyrics. ‘Oh thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘OK, I’m kind of saying, even if I was on a rock out in the middle of a windy ocean, I’d be happy if she was there.’

‘Oh that’s soooooo sweet!!!!’ the little black girl chuckled and all the girls melted into a romantic union of giggling. I was delighted with myself, I was at one with these kids, there was no ageist wall between us, or cultural, I had always been told that urban New Yorkers would never understand lyrics about Wexford, and I always said, why not?

‘In Orange Colored Sun, I thought of a warm sun down by the ocean, is that what you wanted us to think?’ asked the the tall girl with the glasses and headscarf.

I explained that both songs were based on the memory of my first girlfriend whom I realise now was only about 14, while I was barely 16. And that heat was very much the emotion I wanted to convey.

‘I wake up every morning to the heat of your heartbeat, is a strong way of connecting the present to the past, when I was with her in that orange colored sun.’

‘So are you married to her now?’

‘No, but we are very good friends, ironically my wife re-connected us by finding her through Facebook.’

That brought the house down.

“I was flabbergasted, these urban New York kids knew the lyrics to such a personal Wexford song?