Life in the Shadows, a Long Way From the Emerald Isle

A lanky woman ducks out of a West Hollywood apartment, scans her surroundings and introduces herself.

“Hi, I’m Teresa,” she whispers.

She wears Coke-bottle sunglasses, a low-cut, crushed velvet mini-dress and Dr. Marten’s. An unruly mane of titian locks tumbles around her face. But all that Hollywood chic belies the fact that she is an outlaw of sorts. Here on the sly.

Teresa moves on to a nearby coffeehouse, where it is noisy, crowded and safe--at least temporarily.

She says her nightmare began three months ago when she gave up her job search in New York and moved to Los Angeles with the hope of finding work as an actress. The roles never materialized, so she works as a waitress, living on her $70-to-$100-a-week paycheck. She looks for jobs through friends and acquaintances. She is unwilling to go beyond those contacts, fearing blackmail or deportation.

“When I first moved out here, I came with $2,000 and moved into a dirty little hovel of a place in Culver City with a girl,” she says, never removing her sunglasses. “I didn’t know a soul. . . . I bought a car, which was a complete waste of money, and it broke down in East L.A. one night on the freeway. . . . We were just sitting there sweating, thinking: ‘We’re going to get deported or thrown into jail.’ ”

Teresa, who asked that her real name not be used, is an illegal immigrant from Ireland, and thousands like her are seeking salvation in the City of Angels. They come here because Ireland offers little hope for economic prosperity. With the highest unemployment rate in the country’s history, many Irish youth are unemployed, draw welfare and live at home with their parents into their late 20s.

Although New York and Boston have long been associated with thriving populations of Irish immigrants--both legal and illegal--the Irish Consulate in San Francisco says that over the last two years, growing numbers of illegal Irish immigrants have been leaving the recession-ridden East for Los Angeles.

Roman Catholic outreach groups estimate that 100,000 Irish live illegally in the United States; the Irish Consulate puts the number at 50,000, with about 8,000 in Southern California, mostly in the Los Angeles area.

The Irish who come illegally are nannies, construction workers, painters, waiters, bartenders. Some start their own businesses. Many pay taxes. They find it easier than other immigrants to assimilate because they are white and speak English, but sometimes they still feel like strangers in a strange land, paralyzed by a fear of deportation.

On a recent Sunday afternoon at a playing field in Orange County, about 30 jersey-clad men are fiercely dogging a soccer ball. For a few hours, it is an insular place where illegal immigrants can be together, share fears and hopes, exchange leads on jobs and places to live, and discuss the perennial wait for green cards and the interminable homesickness.

A round of flour-dusted Irish soda bread is for sale alongside beer and a pot of black tea. Families with small children sit on the foul line; some have radios tuned to an “Irish Hour” program for news of their homeland. Others have Irish newspapers tucked under their arms.

Timothy O’Donovan is a construction worker who lived here illegally for six years until he married an American woman three years ago. And although his marriage brought legality, he says he married for love, not a green card. He comes off the field with a bloody shin, wet with sweat.

“Life is so much better here than back home. There’s more work here and back home so many just live on the dole. . . . It’s tough being here illegally. You’re so nervous, but once you get a job, there’s no looking back,” he says.

On the other hand: “There is no place like the real home.”

The real home is stuff of melancholy. The people who crowd the playing field talk of the closeness of their hometowns, the astonishing beauty of the countryside and the pervasive humor of their brethren. To ease their yearning, they seek out their own, drink in Irish pubs, attend Gaelic football games and go to the benefit dances held for their financially troubled countrymen.

Another team comes out on the field wearing black arm bands. Cries of: “Who died, what’s going on?” ripple through the crowd.

As if on cue, the two teams on the field bow their heads, prayers are mumbled and the word is passed that a player died a day ago. A flyer explains he was an illegal immigrant, here only three months, and that he died in a motorcycle accident. He was 23 and carried no insurance.

A collective shudder travels through the crowd like a wave. A man comes by with a hat. “We’re trying to raise enough money to send the lad back.” A dance will be held to raise more money, with hopes of meeting the $4,000 flight cost.

“My God . . . my God,” says O’Donovan. “That’s real sad, really. An only son. Heartbreaking.”

When the sporting activities are over, people head for a pub where two musicians play Irish rock and folk songs.

Maura, 27, sits at a table in the pub. She is small, wiry and chain-smokes.

“I work at an office, and they are always trying to promote me, but I just tell them that someone else would be better for the job because I can’t take the chance of people finding out that I’m here illegally and blackmailing me.”

Maura overstayed a visitor visa four years ago. “The worst thing is the fear. I was looking out my window at work and I could see the freeway from my window and some squad cars were pulling over, and I’ll think, they’re here for me and I am literally sweating even though I keep telling myself--no, no, no, no--they couldn’t be here for me.”

Then the talk turns to the “Morrison Visa.” The Morrison Act, called the “Irish sweepstakes” by some immigration attorneys, became law last year. Nestled in legislation to increase legal immigration to the United States are provisions for 48,000 entry visas just for Irish immigrants--more than double the amount allotted for any other nationality. A promissory note of a year’s employment is required, so the Irish who already live here have an advantage.

Yes, yes, everyone says, they will apply. But they are skeptical. Many applied before the passage of the Morrison Act and were unsuccessful.

“Yeah, I will apply for it,” Maura yells over the bar’s clamor. She is near tears. “But it is hard to continue like this. The Irish built this country, the roads, the bridges. Why don’t they make it easier? I blame my government also. I went home and applied for a job and I was told I was too qualified. I didn’t care how much I worked for as long as I could stay at home and they wouldn’t give it to me. I could get 30 ($45) a week on the dole, but that does nothing for your self-esteem. But, if I work here 10 years and I pay my taxes, will there be anything at the end of my life?”

The two-man band comes back from a break and takes the stage. Maura yells out a request: “Will ya play ‘It’s a Long Way From Clare to Here’?”

The singer announces: “This is for all of you out there waiting to get your green cards.”

Well it almost breaks my heart when I think of Josephine, I promised I’d be coming with pockets full of green, I dream I hear a piper play, maybe it’s an ocean, I dream I see white horses dance on that other ocean, It’s a long long way from Clare to here . . . . Oh it’s a long, long way, gets further every day, Oh, it’s a long, long way from Clare to here.