{"id":18695,"date":"2025-01-30T18:24:26","date_gmt":"2025-01-31T00:24:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/?p=18695"},"modified":"2025-02-12T12:02:18","modified_gmt":"2025-02-12T18:02:18","slug":"a-fenian-girl-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/30\/a-fenian-girl-2\/","title":{"rendered":"A Fenian Girl"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"has-large-font-size\"><strong>A Fenian Girl<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<ul class=\"wp-block-social-links is-content-justification-right is-layout-flex wp-container-core-social-links-is-layout-765c4724 wp-block-social-links-is-layout-flex\"><li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-facebook  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=61556140010887\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12 2C6.5 2 2 6.5 2 12c0 5 3.7 9.1 8.4 9.9v-7H7.9V12h2.5V9.8c0-2.5 1.5-3.9 3.8-3.9 1.1 0 2.2.2 2.2.2v2.5h-1.3c-1.2 0-1.6.8-1.6 1.6V12h2.8l-.4 2.9h-2.3v7C18.3 21.1 22 17 22 12c0-5.5-4.5-10-10-10z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Facebook<\/span><\/a><\/li>\n\n<li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-instagram  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/boudin_mcneese\/\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12,4.622c2.403,0,2.688,0.009,3.637,0.052c0.877,0.04,1.354,0.187,1.671,0.31c0.42,0.163,0.72,0.358,1.035,0.673 c0.315,0.315,0.51,0.615,0.673,1.035c0.123,0.317,0.27,0.794,0.31,1.671c0.043,0.949,0.052,1.234,0.052,3.637 s-0.009,2.688-0.052,3.637c-0.04,0.877-0.187,1.354-0.31,1.671c-0.163,0.42-0.358,0.72-0.673,1.035 c-0.315,0.315-0.615,0.51-1.035,0.673c-0.317,0.123-0.794,0.27-1.671,0.31c-0.949,0.043-1.233,0.052-3.637,0.052 s-2.688-0.009-3.637-0.052c-0.877-0.04-1.354-0.187-1.671-0.31c-0.42-0.163-0.72-0.358-1.035-0.673 c-0.315-0.315-0.51-0.615-0.673-1.035c-0.123-0.317-0.27-0.794-0.31-1.671C4.631,14.688,4.622,14.403,4.622,12 s0.009-2.688,0.052-3.637c0.04-0.877,0.187-1.354,0.31-1.671c0.163-0.42,0.358-0.72,0.673-1.035 c0.315-0.315,0.615-0.51,1.035-0.673c0.317-0.123,0.794-0.27,1.671-0.31C9.312,4.631,9.597,4.622,12,4.622 M12,3 C9.556,3,9.249,3.01,8.289,3.054C7.331,3.098,6.677,3.25,6.105,3.472C5.513,3.702,5.011,4.01,4.511,4.511 c-0.5,0.5-0.808,1.002-1.038,1.594C3.25,6.677,3.098,7.331,3.054,8.289C3.01,9.249,3,9.556,3,12c0,2.444,0.01,2.751,0.054,3.711 c0.044,0.958,0.196,1.612,0.418,2.185c0.23,0.592,0.538,1.094,1.038,1.594c0.5,0.5,1.002,0.808,1.594,1.038 c0.572,0.222,1.227,0.375,2.185,0.418C9.249,20.99,9.556,21,12,21s2.751-0.01,3.711-0.054c0.958-0.044,1.612-0.196,2.185-0.418 c0.592-0.23,1.094-0.538,1.594-1.038c0.5-0.5,0.808-1.002,1.038-1.594c0.222-0.572,0.375-1.227,0.418-2.185 C20.99,14.751,21,14.444,21,12s-0.01-2.751-0.054-3.711c-0.044-0.958-0.196-1.612-0.418-2.185c-0.23-0.592-0.538-1.094-1.038-1.594 c-0.5-0.5-1.002-0.808-1.594-1.038c-0.572-0.222-1.227-0.375-2.185-0.418C14.751,3.01,14.444,3,12,3L12,3z M12,7.378 c-2.552,0-4.622,2.069-4.622,4.622S9.448,16.622,12,16.622s4.622-2.069,4.622-4.622S14.552,7.378,12,7.378z M12,15 c-1.657,0-3-1.343-3-3s1.343-3,3-3s3,1.343,3,3S13.657,15,12,15z M16.804,6.116c-0.596,0-1.08,0.484-1.08,1.08 s0.484,1.08,1.08,1.08c0.596,0,1.08-0.484,1.08-1.08S17.401,6.116,16.804,6.116z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Instagram<\/span><\/a><\/li><\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>Mary Ann McGuigan<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><br>It sounds like she\u2019s reciting the rosary, her way to get through this. It\u2019s dark outside, way past our bedtime, and Mama is repeating names and dates once told to her, conjuring faces long gone. \u201cWe lived on MacDougal Street in the Village. Grandpa worked for the city. For many years. He never lost his job during the Depression. We even had a car.\u201d We\u2019ve heard the stories many times before, always in the dark, when we\u2019re too frightened to stay alone in our own beds, recited like incantations, like proof that her life wasn\u2019t always without hope. <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I lie close to her, burrowing under the ratty blanket with Kevin and Irene, their skinny legs entwined in mine, our eyes and hair a medley of Celtic genes: Irene, eight years old, with hair the color of sable matching huge black eyes already haunted; me, two years younger, with freckles on pale skin; three-year-old Kevin, blond and wordless, with a troubled face. Mama is just beginning to go gray, and her bottle-red hair, like her skin, has no luster.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThe Depression was a terrible time in our country,\u201d she croons, weaving a past unlike the present, strengthening the flimsy threads connecting us to people we don\u2019t have to be ashamed of. \u201cSo many men were out of work. Grandpa made me give up my job, leave it for someone who needed it more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cSomeone trying to support a family,\u201d Irene intones, able by now to recite the stories herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">In the next room, connected by a wide doorway, Kathleen, Sean, and Danny\u2014all in their teens\u2014are seated at a three-legged card table braced against the wall, where it has blackened the fading wallpaper. Sean, my oldest brother, keeps the table still with one knee as he deals the hand. The flickering light from the Magnavox\u2019s tiny black-and-white picture makes their faces jump in the darkness. It\u2019s nearly ten-thirty, and I can tell from the way Kathleen giggle that Milton Berle is dressed in drag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Mama\u2019s words have turned into song, her voice like malted milk, filling and sweet. I rest my head against her stomach, and I can hear the song forming there. She sings about waiting for the man she loves and how he\u2019ll come along some day, big and strong. We\u2019re waiting for her man tonight. He\u2019s big and strong, but I don\u2019t know why she loves him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Daddy\u2019s key scrapes the lock. The others must have heard it too, because everyone gets quiet. I can\u2019t feel the movement of Mama\u2019s breathing anymore. Someone turns off the light above the card table, and the players rise almost as one, tiptoe into the bedroom, with barely a sound. Scurrying across the linoleum floor, they climb onto the bunk beds, tucking themselves close to the wall. Someone giggles, and I\u2019m sure it\u2019s Danny. \u201cShut up,\u201d Sean hisses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cShut up, yourself,\u201d Danny says. \u201cI ain\u2019t afraid of him.\u201d And he may be right to feel that way, because sometimes Daddy comes home practically sober, with stories to tell about his crazy drinking buddies. But when he\u2019s drunk he\u2019s like a stranger, smells like the inside of a smoky tavern, doesn\u2019t seem to understand who we are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Kathleen\u2019s head appears above the railing of the top bunk, her thick hair, wild, escaping its barrettes. She peers down at me, as if from a rickety lifeboat, and presses her finger against her lips, a needless warning to stay quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cMaybe he\u2019ll go right to sleep,\u201d Mama whispers. She strokes Kevin\u2019s sweaty hair, but the gesture doesn\u2019t soothe, because I can feel him trembling. I want him to stop. I want to put my hand over his mouth, because he may cry out, signal where we are. Nora, the oldest, was always able to keep Kevin from crying, but she got married last year, after she turned sixteen, so she\u2019s not here anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">The door slams shut, and Daddy\u2019s broad, callused palm slides along the living room wallpaper. Then stillness. He doesn\u2019t turn on the light; it\u2019s useless to him. Since the accident, his eyesight has worsened. He\u2019s all but blind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I strain to hear the direction of his footsteps, bite the edge of Mama\u2019s nightgown, tasting the perfume and soap now part of the cotton. Irene takes Mama\u2019s Virgin Mary\u2014the statue Sean won at the parish fair\u2014from the bedside table and holds it to her chest. At last the first guttural mumbles break, at once a fright and a relief because he isn\u2019t within reach yet. The springs of the couch creak and I lift my head above the rampart of my mother\u2019s hip to watch him slowly remove his shoes. A nasal voice beckons from the television screen, \u201cCall for Philip Morris,\u201d but he waves it away, as if annoyed, then sits quiet, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I pray he\u2019ll go to bed, retreat to the tiny bedroom off the parlor, but the mumbling resumes, turns into slurred shouts. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d he calls, but Mama doesn\u2019t answer. \u201cGet out here,\u201d he commands and I close my eyes. \u201cGet out here,\u201d he repeats, shouting it differently this time, like a drunken actor testing his inflection, and when I open my eyes again I see that he\u2019s on his feet. \u201cI\u2019ll tear this place apart. I\u2019m warning you.\u201d He begins to make good on his threat, smashing the card table to the floor. The TV lights up the hearts and diamonds scattering through the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I feel Mama\u2019s body stiffen. Maybe some resolve has formed. Daddy shuffles toward the wide doorway. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d His silhouette blinks on and off in the TV light. I smell his drunkenness, hear Irene\u2019s frightened cry catching in her throat. I reach for Mama\u2019s arm, but I\u2019m too late to stop her. She\u2019s out of bed now, on her feet. His arms flail in the air, a comedian running in place before the flickering light of a movie projector. He can\u2019t connect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI\u2019m right here, Jim. Right in front of you,\u201d Mama taunts. The challenge is foolish, dangerous.&nbsp;&nbsp;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Kevin cries out loud, and Irene holds him closer, their sobs indistinguishable. But I watch Daddy\u2019s hands as he reaches for Mama\u2019s voice. They\u2019re huge, unpredictable, within reach now, and as his broad palm smashes her face, her head jerks back. She regains her balance and lets out a sound, a moan that comes out like a warning. Mama becomes a warrior then, like the Fenians in Daddy\u2019s songs. \u201cNo more,\u201d she whispers, a horse growl, as if she\u2019s changing the rules. \u201cThat\u2019s enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Kathleen calls to her\u2014\u201cMama, don\u2019t\u201d\u2014because she knows what comes next. I know it too, but I don\u2019t want her to stop. I want her to take a stand this time, like our people fighting the British. It\u2019s the right thing to do, the only thing. I stand up, my footing wobbly on the bed, feet tangled in the hem of my hand-me-down nightgown. To my father, I\u2019m a shadow. He can\u2019t see me getting out of bed, moving toward them, can\u2019t see my whitened knuckles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He strikes again, and this time Mama falls. A discarded baby doll squeaks beneath her as she hits the floor. He gasps, then leans over her, reaching down, his hands probing for her shoulder, her hip. \u201cMary. God dammit,\u201d he says, as if bewildered by how she got there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">With both hands, I grab his arm, but he pays no attention. Sean\u2019s voice is the loudest, shouting my name, because I\u2019m trying to pull Daddy away from Mama. I hear Irene screaming and Kathleen calling to me as Sean climbs down from the bunk. Daddy straightens up, and I know I should run. But Sean stands near him, chest to chest. \u201cLeave them alone,\u201d he says, though all he has is a boy\u2019s voice, not a warrior\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Daddy raises his hand, as if about to strike him. \u201cStop it,\u201d I shout, and he lowers his hand, covers his face with it, begins to moan. He seems dazed, and I feel my heart pounding in my chest, the sharp urgency low in my groin, the fear I might wet myself. Mama struggles to her feet, her mouth slightly open, as if unable to find words to describe what\u2019s become of us. She grasps Daddy\u2019s forearm, which steadies them both, and he puts his arm across her shoulders, leans toward her. \u201cMary?\u201d he says, as if she can explain all this to him, these children standing there before him like toy soldiers, fists ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">She puts her arm around his waist, a comfort that confuses me. They\u2019re like soldiers left dazed on a bloody battlefield, unsure whose side they\u2019re on. But I see that it\u2019s safe to breathe, that we\u2019re all safe for now. And I know whose side I\u2019m on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong><a href=\"http:\/\/www.maryannmcguigan.com\/\">Mary Ann McGuigan\u2019s<\/a><\/strong> creative nonfiction has appeared in <em>Brevity<\/em>, <em>Citron Review<\/em>, <em>The Rumpus<\/em>, and elsewhere. <em>The Sun<\/em>, <em>The Massachusetts Review<\/em>, <em>North American Review<\/em>, and many other journals have published her fiction. Her collection pieces includes stories named for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net; her new story collection, <em>That Very Place<\/em>, reaches bookstores in September 2025. The Junior Library Guild and the New York Public Library rank Mary Ann\u2019s novels as best books for teens; <em>Where You Belong<\/em> was a finalist for the National Book Award.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>__________<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"438\" height=\"211\" src=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-15484\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg 438w, https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1-300x145.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 438px) 100vw, 438px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-large-font-size\">\ud83e\udca0 <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/28\/the-beach-at-trouville\/\">Back<\/a> <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2025\/01\/17\/sex-education-at-the-rr\/\">Next<\/a> \ud83e\udca1<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">To learn more about submitting your work to <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/boudin-submissions\/\">Boudin<\/a><\/em> or applying to McNeese State University&#8217;s Creative Writing <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/mfa-application-submissions\/\">MFA program<\/a>, please visit Submissions for details.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>A Fenian Girl Mary Ann McGuigan __________ It sounds like she\u2019s reciting the rosary, her way to get through this. It\u2019s dark outside, way past our bedtime, and Mama is repeating names and dates once told to her, conjuring faces long gone. \u201cWe lived on MacDougal Street in the Village. Grandpa worked for the city.&hellip;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":42,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[222],"tags":[75,173],"class_list":["post-18695","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-winter-extravaganza","tag-boudin","tag-cnf-2"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18695","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/42"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18695"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18695\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18696,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18695\/revisions\/18696"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18695"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18695"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18695"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}