The old mid twenties Italian ethnic decor slowly faded by way of story teller's art. Mahogany wood work, engraved beveled glass mirrors, lamp covers with their knitted tassels, starkly posed sepia photo portraits of once youthful elders twirled into fog from which emerged conjured stone streets with dispersing curiosity seekers who had been drawn by the commotion. The mere handful of vocal agitators were mostly agitated out. Through the artful spin of an Irish story teller this rabble of the mostly curious was revisited.

Some uprising. A few boisterous young men who sought the attention of a foreign government of occupation and the support of the local fearful citizens by locking themselves up in a public building is all it was. This was not the fall of the Russian Tsar. Christmas window decorations at Macy's draw bigger than this. It was a failure at the onset, poorly communicated and disorganized by near spontaneity. With only locals curious onlookers, they had about the impact of any campus student demonstration. But the spectators had other things in their lives and were now mostly wandering off.

Thus the crowd was already thinned with folks heading home, when the stragglers were suddenly overcome from behind and murdered by gunfire. British surgical forensics confirmed that virtually all the wounds were by Royal troopers rifles fired from a distance into people's backs and agreed with the eye witnesses that there was no confrontation but a willful massacre. This was a teach'em a lesson.

The Easter Rebellion was a study in amateurish idealism to just demonstrate that you really want freedom. Is that what George Washington did? Symbolic demonstrations? Well as we know," he continued, "the English don't build pyramids. They build jails. Kill'em or jail'em. Intimidate. Rule by terror.

Above all else, divide. Play on factions, Indian Mughals, Sikhs, Jats, Hindus, Marathas.. uh.. New Zealand Maori, Hongi, Waikatos, Taranaki.. uh .. play Arabs and Jews for an easy hand on the Suez Canal. Stoke the Greek and Cypriot fires. Who the hell else? There are so many. Divide. Divide and conquer. So, Catholics, Protestants warring against each other, that works. Both were mulling about there in the curious rabble. Irish are Irish, shoot them all. Rebels, onlookers, all fair game. Intimidation. Terrorism.

It comes down to where lines are drawn. Where does civility end? At what distance does a living breathing entity lose empathy and become prey? Is it just a short span of water? Language? An accent?"

"Marcus muttered, "We are biologically driven to heterogeneity but socially driven to homogeneity." Thonk "Owww! What the hell..."

"You said homo," Mina made bug eyes. She was just looking for an excuse to thonk him. Homogeneity would have to do.

 "Gimmee that thing." But she kept it out of reach as John went on.

" Dogs can be dear family or served roasted. Time, place, culture, and context matter.Do we embrace variety or massacre it?"

With this, John paused, to an unchallenged silence, then continued. "So you have a so called rebellion crushed with rapid follow up executions on one hand - pass me that sugar - thanks - offset by huge pressure to produce soldiers for World War I. Promises were made to that end. By the way, did you know that James Conolly was from around here? Lived down near the tracks. Spoke fluent Italian."

"Italian?" was a group surprise even shared by Shannon. "Yeah. Think about it, an Irish American labor organizer who organized the silk workers - all Italians," he chuckled. "With Italians, organizing worked. Cultural trait, maybe. That's what made Conolly think that his Irish cousins could be helped if they were shown how to act collectively."

"He could teach them," Marcus blurted, "to talk with their hands." Thonk. "Damn!"

Smiling, John persisted, "That delusion got him a British execution. British don't like bargaining, collective or otherwise. Maybe not Italians either. Mmmm. Try this. This is good. Where was I?"

"Doggie dinners - context matters," Mina prompted to a blank stare, then, "Promises made?"

"Oh! Yeah, yeah. One more bite, mmm. OK. Promises. Promises of peace and freedom were dangled as potential reward for a cooperative war effort. But, as you might have expected, by 1923, with Michael Collins dead, the Great War's military pressure off, there were, again, pogroms against the northern Irish. Same formula as always, if you disarm first, they will then - and only then - do some concession thing in return. Yeah, when hell freezes over. How many times can one people fall for the same trick?"

"You have a piece cannoli on your left upper lip," Shannon whispered flipping it off.

"Oh. Anyway, the Irish have been consistently unable to be ruthless enough to secure their own freedom, nor develop organizations of sufficient size that would allow acquisition and transmission of power."

Mina interrupted, "But John, the IRA isn't exactly a group of boy scouts."

"They were not then an effective large organization, Mina. At one point, at their most notorious, they had, maybe, 100 guns total, all stolen, catch as catch can. The hardest job they had was figuring ways to get the few guns they did possess to the actions that they planned, and then securing the right caliber ammunition. The best they could do was highly selective reprisals. Tit for tat. What was I talking about? Excuse me, Mina, that's off the track. OK?"

"Sorry."

Marcus mused, "I'm not so big on tats, but tits.."

Mina shoved him right off his chair, "Watch it, buster!"

A chastened doctor with mock shamefacedness skulked back into his seat, "Sorry, I like your tats too.." He was on the floor again.

"I'm warning you!"

"Yes my beloved."

"Would you care for a seat belt?" the waiter offered, "Duct tape, perhaps?"

Marcus considered the offer as John went on. "Can you imagine the state of mind, when, in 1919, the twenty six southern counties succeeded in leaving the commonwealth. That left Catholics, where the McGuinnesses lived, outnumbered two to one - which wouldn't have mattered if there had been a thirty three percent minority representation, or a Bill of Rights. Something. Almost anything. Some form of minority consideration. Or.. or.. even an historic sense of public fairness. But, democracy?

Don't confuse that with what we have here. Anything the majority approved was OK and enforceable. Majority was and is not counted in bodies but rather in votes, more like earned credits. Only persons of certain categories get to vote. Once eligible, that one voter could have many votes, a vote representing work, one for educational status, some for property, children, whatever. Entire districts are disenfranchised. Thousands have no votes. Some democracy.

That singular demand for one man one vote is at the heart of all the warfare. It is spit upon and screamed at by Ulster drummers in the streets, as antidemocratic. Ulster Loyalists were and still are armed to the teeth in more militias with three letter names than you can find in a Chinese phone book. Nearly every Ulster Orangeman was armed, and nearly no Catholics were. The police, their spies, and relentless warrantless house searches saw to that. Advocating one man one vote went beyond undemocratic to antidemocratic and quickly became treasonous. Mere discussion of home rule got people jailed. Jailed and tortured were synonymous.

Hey. You gonna sit there and not offer any more pastries? What's your deal?" John teased the waiter who sprang to the tart tray and was back attentive as soon as all the gathered had their pickings from the mini pastry tray. "What are these again?" Shannon asked, to Mina's whispered, "Sfoglitelle."

The telling continued. "Ten percent of entire counties were in jails. The so called H-blocks, were filled with prisoners with no charges, no trials, no hearings. This lack of process was premised on emergency, never ending continuous emergency, and a need for law and order. Extralegal jailing to promote law. Got that? Laws of facilitated incarceration without process were scratched into being as fast as dandruff from a scrubby head. The press was, and still is, highly censured under an entire array of laws - dictums. Law and order did not, does not, consider equality, access, nor justice.

Irish have always been mindful of their huge missing populace, displaced, especially to America. Even back in George Washington's day, the Irish delighted in the very concept of America."

At this point, John went off on an historic curiosity near and dear to him. The listeners, except for the waiter, were all well aware having attended the yearly celebration in historic costume many times. But John was too enthusiastic to pop his bubble with heard thats. It was about Saint Patrick's day being the very first American called celebration of Americans for Americans. It was called by Washington himself, in the middle of battle. That year, not even Christmas was celebrated and yet Saint Patrick's Day was. John sprinkled in a wealth of curious detail. He knew what was required to retell an old tale, new spice.

It was indeed curious. Similar people tossing off foreign rule and inequality in one place and yet not in the other. To what degree did the newness of place allow old habits, customs, respects, reservations, and fears to be shed. Was it place? Distance? Was it just that a hero had emerged in the one place and not the other? A hero for the times? One with the will to do real damage, to draw lines that must not be crossed? A willingness to destroy leaving no prize worth winning?

Marcus slumped back, licking at a miniature cannoli. There were little flecks of chocolate in the creme. Curious how we draw pleasure from variety yet war for purity. Whose dumb ass idea is that anyway? Are children born with this narcissistic self destruct? Whose echo do they hear? Is it nature? Or does the ill tempered babbling nurture of a gone mad society suckle a poet and rear a killer? Macaluso had half tuned out John's history, feeling grateful to have been born here, free of that sort of gravity. He had no idea that the impulsive hatred of repression crushed into a young Irish poet's mind would bring mayhem into the lives of nearly everyone in this room. Instead Marcus thought, "When do they turn, the young ones?"