Twelfth of July celebrations sum up all North’s problems

MY GRANDFATHER was in the Orange Order. My mother’s father, that is, since she was the Protestant half of my parents’ marriage.

Born in 1891, it’s no surprise that a man of my grandfather’s vintage and of church-going, working-class Protestant stock would join a local ‘lodge’ as a young man.

Full of fun and compassion, and a church bell-ringer all his life, Johnnie Dean saw his membership of the order as an extension of his love of church. From my childhood right up until he died in 1976,

I never heard my grandfather utter one sectarian word. Devoid of bitterness, he was the most accepting of men; his only child had married a Catholic, after all, and both he and my church-going grandmother adored my father.

The only time Johnnie ever involved himself in the Orange Order was when he donned his sash and his hat every July and fell into line for the annual parade. Gregarious and warm of disposition, there are photos in the family archive of him smiling and waving to this one and that as he paraded through Coleraine, our home town.

As a child, I certainly viewed ‘The Twelfth’ as a bit of a day out. First thing in the morning we’d head to my grandparents’ house, two minutes’ walk from the town’s main street, and we’d stand at the door, right on the pavement, to get the best view of the bands and the parade as it passed by.

The drums, the music, and waiting to spot the grandfather I adored all contributed to the convivial atmosphere.

As a young child I loved it. And I never wondered for a second back then why my cousins – all Catholic – were never anywhere in evidence on the day.

As I headed into my teenage years, however, the penny dropped and I began to see that this ‘day out’ was very much a one-way street. That it wasn’t just nice music and colourful banners and trying to spot people you knew. Rather it was triumphalist and divisive and, well, just wrong.

And that – old-guard apart – there were a lot of what my father (in any context) would have called “yahoos” among the ranks, striding through the streets and decked in the sashes their fathers and grandfathers wore.

The Twelfth of July ‘celebrations’ are an anachronism. All about division and supremacy and the rubbing of noses in it, they have no place in a modern, multi-cultural society. It’s a day that, for me, showcases all that is still wrong with Northern Ireland.

Nor is it just a day. For the Twelfth starts way, way before that specific calendar date in July, with its band practices happening all over towns across the North. Watching ‘Derry Girls’ this week I have to say I laughed out loud when Mary Quinn, hearing the bands outside, asked what on earth they needed to practise for since they’d been at it since 1795.

In reality, however, the Twelfth is far from funny for a great many people. Acting as a trigger for all kinds of violence over the years, including the horrific deaths of the three little Quinn brothers when their home in Ballymoney was firebombed in 1998, it is also a time that leaves many visitors to Northern Ireland somewhat bewildered. English friends of mine – even the most patriotic of them – have been completely baffled by the red, white and blue-painted pavements, while those from the Republic in their D or WW-registered cars have found themselves somewhat intimidated on occasion and certainly uneasy about being there.

This year, like many things, the Twelfth will be different. Allegedly. I’m certainly not holding my breath.