Tyranny then and now: Henry VIII and a warning for today

 I was about 350 pages through Philippa Gregory’s 500-page Boleyn Traitor when it finally hit me. The author isn’t simply fantasizing about the Tudors and Henry VIII in particular.  She is also writing about the slimy piece of garbage currently occupying the Oval Office. Perhaps that’s why I found Gregory’s King Henry particularly revolting.

Before I continue, I want to acknowledge that I don’t know a ton about England’s Tudor period. Most of what I do know comes from a couple of Elizabethan and Jacobean Shakespeare college classes I took a lifetime ago. Any history I learned then was framed within the context of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. Sure, since I first learned to read I’ve devoured tons of historical fiction and fantasy that centered on that and other periods of English history. I’ve visited historical sites, walked in the footsteps of kings and queens, and oohed and aahed over museum displays. I probably know more about the Tudor and other periods of British history than most Americans. But let’s face it. That’s not saying much. 

My interest in Tudor times picked up a little these last few months. After seeing the musical Six in January, my interest was piqued. I wanted to know more about Henry’s doomed wives and the times in which they lived. So, I read Antonia Frasier’s, The Six Wives of Henry VIII. It took me far longer than I expected to get through that, an indictment of where I’m spending my free time -- mainly on social media. I think social media will be the downfall of our society, and yet here’s me, sacrificing my focusing ability because I want – nay – need to slake my quick fix thirst. Those dopamine hits are addictive. More on that another time perhaps. I’m working on curing myself by writing more, reading more, and staying longer at the gym. Just to be upfront: Not cleaning the house more. 

Now back to the topic.  

Lady Jane Rochford, Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and lady-in-waiting, is the narrator of Boleyn Traitor. Her story intertwines with that of Henry’s wives two (Anne Boleyn), three (Jane Seymour), four (Anne of Cleves), and five (Katheryn Howard), starting shortly after the birth of the future Queen Elizabeth, and ending right after number five’s – Katheryn Howard’s – beheading and just before her own. Lady Jane is portrayed as an educated, erudite spy who interacts regularly with the main players of the day, primarily Thomas Cromwell, but who always looks out for the queen du jour’s best interests as well as her own. This portrayal of Lady Jane does not track historically, but nobody says it needs to. It’s historical fiction, not non-fiction. Playing fast with the facts goes with the genre. 

And I do appreciate how Gregory plays. When I first suspected that the author was going all Trump on Henry, I did some quick searches to verify my suspicions. Yup. See her interview in The Herald, 10/9/2025. I can’t post actual quotes from it because there’s a paywall and I neglected to copy and paste when I was first granted free access. (I know. I should have paid.) She calls Henry VIII “Trumpian,” I believe.  

In this interview, “I think he’s a psychopath,” she talks about questioning the stories we’ve been told are fact about Henry VIII: BBC Radio 4, 10/28/25. (Sorry, I don’t know how to post the link.)

Additionally, on Literary Hub, 10/29/2025, she explains how her purpose in writing the book in the first place reflects what’s going on in the world today, echoing the words of Pastor Martin Neimoller, who wrote:  

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me

 

Gregory writes:

All of us must decide what attack on our institutions, our traditions, our liberties is our breaking point: the point where we say “no.” History tells us that we must find the courage to defend each other and our societies before the danger is immediate and personal. By the time the tyrant comes for us—it is too late. We must not be like Jane Boleyn, recognizing the dangers too late to say “no,” or we will be silenced as she was, and the tyrant will write our history, too.

Pretty sobering stuff. 

 

Throughout Boleyn Traitor, Henry is described as a guy who always gets his way. What more proof do you need other than that he creates alternative facts and establishes an entire new religion to prove that he was never married to the woman he was actually married to? First wife Catherine of Aragon, to whom he was married 24 years, was a few years his senior. He manipulated his court and the rule of law to get out of that marriage because, just like Drumpf, he likes them young and again just like the orange one, he likes variety.   Anne Boleyn was age 26-32 when she married Henry, 41.  Jane Seymour was about 17 years younger than him. Anne of Cleves was 24 and he was 48. Katheryn Howard was just 15 and Henry was 49. 

As he ages, it’s obvious Henry is doing poorly, but none of his sycophants acknowledge this. For how this reflects with us in the US today, read anything. Two rational, evidence-based starting points: Scott MacFarlane, Heather Cox Richardson. 

Tudor England has an additional layer, because talking negatively about the king can get you killed. In the US, we’re not there quite yet. But as in the US among Trump’s followers (google Mike Johnson for starters), the kiss butt parasites of Tudor England pretend everything is fine. Just fine: “It’s illegal to speak ill of the king: You can’t say anything but praise. It’s against the law to say that he is old or unwell. It is illegal to say he might die. . . Nobody matters more than the king. . . We all put him first” (p 314). 

Just like contemporary DC, the court thrives on lies, all in the name of protecting the king. As in our present day when the prez goes social media silent, some even wonder if the king is dead and/ or someone else is ruling: “People start to whisper that the huge trays of food are a deception, and he is not in there at all. I wonder if there is another greater deception: if he has died in there and the Seymours are concealing his death until they have made alliances” (p. 316). 

And then there’s this, echoing Trump’s social media post exhorting destruction of an entire civilization: “Nobody knows what he’s thinking. . . He does nothing but sleep and eat, except for when he raves like a madman” (p. 319).

Here Drumpf, arguably, raves like a madman in an early April 2026 social media post that put the entire world on edge:  

A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again. I don’t want that to happen, but it probably will. However, now that we have Complete and Total Regime Change, where different, smarter, and less radicalized minds prevail, maybe something revolutionarily wonderful can happen, WHO KNOWS?

I could write more about Gregory’s interpretations of societal norms in the day and Henry VIII’s proclivities in particular, but I’m not writing all this to bang out a thesis. I’m simply writing to get some things out of my system and to share some thoughts. I set some goals this year regarding reading and writing, primarily because I wanted to distract myself from the incessantly dreadful news cycle. Finding meaning in what I’ve been reading, and sharing ideas is helping me sort things out a bit and find focus.

In her afterword, Gregory discusses how historical views shift and talks about Henry VIII in particular: “Henry VIII has evolved from the first, Elizabethan view of him as the founder of a nation, and from a post-war view of him as a jolly eccentric. Now, there is a growing understanding of him as a dangerous man; an abuser of women, a false friend, and a tyrant" (p. 483).

There will come a day when history writes about us and how we responded to Drumpf and company. I wonder what lessons future generations will glean from our actions and inactions. I don’t expect them to be kind but I hope my family will see that at least I tried. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reverend (sweet baby) James Healy and the Irish thirst for knowledge (a bit of a tangent)

 On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

A few days ago, I wrote about the first sentence in the paragraph above: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/04/reverend-healys-mother-eliza-clarke.html

A few days after that, I wrote more on the relationship between Eliza Clark and the man who enslaved her: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/04/a-horrific-power-imbalance-does-not.html

 

Now I want to get started on this: “James and his siblings were sent North to be educated.”

Ten words that seem to say so much but leave out everything.

Here’s more. Sweet baby James was born light-skinned and was able to pass for white. This was earth-shakingly life-altering because it meant – once he separated from any hint of his black family, that he had the same rights to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness accorded to every other white man of the time. 

Here’s some context. His mother, Eliza Clark, was of African and European descent. What percentage of each? History doesn’t say, and for the times, the fact she was a slave overrode any chance she had of ever having any rights anyhow.  In other words, percentages don’t matter here. 

The fact that James’s father was likely one hundred percent white, being an Irish immigrant, had no bearing whatsoever on the rights and futures of James and his siblings. At the time, Georgia law (see www.georgiaarchives.org) said anyone born of a slave was a slave and was considered personal chattel of the owner: 

All Negroes, Indians, Mulatoes or Mestizos (except those already free) who now, are or shall hereafter be in this province and their issue or offspring born or to be born are hereby declared to be and remain for ever after absolute slave(sic).

That Georgia Archive site presents primary sources and puts the sometimes hard-to-read handwriting into legible, modern typeface. The site outlines rights and responsibilities of slave owners and gives more insight into what Healy’s cotton plantation may have looked like. For example, because he had more than ten slaves, Healy was legally required to employ a white man “capable of bearing arms.” 

The term ‘white man’ is a little redundant here because the definition of a person is “white person,” so we can just drop the color ‘white’ from the description ‘white man’ because the word ‘man’ implies that, of course, we are speaking of a white person, a person. 

No sources make mention of Eliza’s living conditions. We don’t know if she and the children lived in the same house as Michael Healy, for example, or if they lived in slave cabins. We don’t know if she and the children wore clean clothes or ate properly. We don’t know how she and the children were treated. Perhaps she had slaves? Perhaps she and the children worked the farm as slaves? Perhaps she alone was treated as a slave?  We don’t know if she was allowed to mother her children. We don’t know if someone else raised them instead.

We do know that Healy’s plantation was in a remote area. There’s a possibility that he treated Eliza and her children as persons. Also, there’s a possibility he didn’t. We do know that legally he was required to employ at least one other white man, someone capable of bearing arms. That’s huge. 

If Eliza and her children were treated in a manner fitting for the white wife and offspring of a Georgia planter, we have no record and it seems a bit unrealistic. That would seem to require some complicity and untoward loyalty on the part of the overseer, the one bearing arms, along with any other persons who worked on the property. It seems a little fantastic to think that Eliza and her children were treated well. It doesn’t seem fantastic to assume that life in that household was fraught, to say the least, with discord. 

Slaves were not allowed to learn to read and write, so it’s likely Eliza never learned to read and write. There is no evidence that she ever wrote to any of her children and no evidence that they wrote to her once they learned to read and write. (More on that later.)

Sadly, there is no historical evidence whatsoever that Eliza had any sort of relationship with her children. None.

The children of slaves, being legally slaves as well, also weren’t allowed to learn to read and write. James was seven when he was removed from the only home he knew – whatever that looked like, and sent north.

Historians say Healy sent James and eventually most of the other children north because he wanted the children to be educated. But there’s no evidence that this is the reason. We can, however, assume that he wanted something for them or from them,  because otherwise why bother sending them away?

I have to wonder if some of the reason for historians deciding that educational goals initiated Healy’s decision to send his kids north has to do with contemporary historians’ own thought processes and backgrounds. A lot of the information I’m presenting here is gleaned from Irish American sites that can go a little over the top when it comes to celebrating Irish educational achievements.  

It’s a truth universally acknowledged by anyone of Irish descent (especially anyone who went to a largely Irish college and is proud of it) that we love to heroicize and romanticize our past and do not see that heroicizing and romanticizing as anything other than the presenting of hard facts. Perhaps that’s what these historians have done with Healy’s father? 

The trope of the Irish immigrant sacrificing everything to populate the world with finely educated descendants has been explored and fantasized about in everything from novels to scholarly texts. It makes sense that it would filter to some extent into the story of James Healy. 

For more info on this trope, a little history, and a look at how pervasive the theme of the Irish quest for knowledge truly is, perhaps google hedge schools, Trinity, Angela’s Ashes, any great Irish historical figure like Daniel O’Connell, Padraig Pearse, your own Irish ancestors if you’re lucky enough to have some. Talk to a neighbor. Read a couple of Irish American obituaries. (It’s no accident that many of these obits devote as much space to the deceased’s educational pursuits as anything else.) 

Sorry for the tangent. I know I’ve gotten off track. It became inevitable as soon as I started writing about Irish immigrants and education.  

I personally think James Healy’s father was a stinker and will write more later about that in case I haven’t explained myself enough. Did he truly send James north to educate him? Who knows. But, as for the tangent. . . I’m like that moth that always gets drawn to the flame here. 

I’m a devotee of that immigrants-sacrificing-everything-for-education trope because my grandparents and great-grandparents lived it. Or so I’ve been told. And when there’s an opportunity to give grace and gratitude to the stories -- and perhaps histories -- of all my Irish forebears who survived centuries of brutality, the horrors of famine, and yet somehow instilled in their descendants a deep love and respect for learning, I will take that opportunity.  

More later. 

 

 

A horrific power imbalance does not a love story make: More on survivor Eliza Clark, indefatigable mother to many

 On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

A few days ago, I wrote about the first sentence in the paragraph above: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/04/reverend-healys-mother-eliza-clarke.html

Today I want to talk a bit more about Reverend Healy’s parents, Eliza Clark and the creep that enslaved her.  

Here’s what we know about Reverend James Healy’s father. Michael Healy was born in 1796 in the western part of Ireland, possibly Roscommon or Galway. He may have fought for the British in the War of 1812 and may have deserted the British Army.  He may have lived in Canada before moving to Georgia around age 19, where some sources say he had relatives. 

In 1818, he acquired vast acreage across the river from Macon, Georgia via a lottery. This land was ceded by the local native population. ‘Ceded’ here likely means that the natives were violently removed from their lands, which were stolen from them. 

Back in the 1820s, this land was remote, wild, and fertile. Healy made money fast.  Records show he  owned 49-60 slaves at a time when the average slaveowner in the area owned five.  

So to sum up so far,  like many other southern white men of the time, Healy accepted and benefitted from stolen property and he made big bucks off the literal sweat, blood, and deaths of others. Descriptions of Healy and other men of the time, rarely bring up the fact that these people were, in today's terms,  predators. Historians seem to  gloss over this horror instead, by referring to him and those like him as successful and wealthy. 

Eliza Clark was a biracial slave of African and European descent, who, with her mother and some siblings,  was bought by Healy for $3,700 in 1829.  Like most biracial slaves of the time, Eliza was likely the product of what today we’d call rape. Because her mother was not only a slave but black too, her mother had no chance in hell of ever having bodily autonomy. If her enslaver or another white man wanted to rape her, he could. 

Considering that Eliza was biracial, some white guy likely did rape her mother, who couldn’t fight back. She could get abused even more or even killed for putting up a fight. History books rarely explain this. They write ‘biracial’ and leave it up to us to decide whether or not we want to acknowledge the horror behind that word. 

Slave owners raped female slaves. This was common and acceptable. Under Georgia law, slaves were commodities like cows and sheep. It was normal for female slaves to be used as breeders and for their progeny to be sold for profit. 

Healy bought Eliza because he liked the way she looked. We don't know more than that. We don't know if her bought her for company or for breeding or for both. 

Because he bought her mother and her siblings too - - supposedly, according to some historians, to keep her happy (but there's no evidence to suggest this) some sources say he was generous and in love. These sources, in the few instances where I can find the authors’ names, are all white and middle-aged or older men. Based on the same evidence that they use to declare the guy was head-over-heels in love, I posit this: Healy was a narcissistic, sadistic megalomaniacal predator who got high on controlling and ruining the lives of others.

Healy bought Eliza when she was sixteen. He was thirty-four.  Those facts alone speak volumes. He had all the power, wealth, rights.  She had no power or wealth. She had no rights. Plus, she had no lived experience. She was a slave and knew nothing outside of her life as a slave. 

He on the other hand was a grown man who had grown up on one continent, fought in a war, then traveled to another continent and two countries before settling down. He had knowledge of the world outside of the patch of property that was Eliza’s home. 

Plus, let's take into account what we know now about human development: Today we know that female frontal lobes aren’t fully developed until our mid-20s. Eliza was, for all intents and purposes, a child. Healy was a man, in all ways, shapes, forms. I think I’m pretty justified in describing him as I did.

By today’s standards, all of this is horrifying. In the 1820s, this was not. If Eliza had been white, certainly her youth would have raised some concerns. Though the age of consent in Georgia was 12, most white women married around age 21. Because Eliza was black and a slave, she had no rights. So, the age of consent wouldn’t have applied to her at all. She could have given birth at age 10 and legally, that was just fine. White men in Georgia had all the power. They could do anything they wanted to black men and women. It's possible Eliza maybe had already had babies by the time she was sold to Healy. We don’t know. It’s not unlikely. 

Healy may have had some feelings for Eliza, but in the grand scheme of things, who cares? Seriously how does that even matter? I’m not giving an ounce of grace to any predator. But I’ll give every bit of sympathy I can conjure up to this young woman who history barely acknowledges. 

Eliza had ten live births from first-born James’s in 1830 to her death in 1850. We know this because live births were recorded and those documents still exist. We don’t know how many times she was pregnant, though. Miscarriages and stillbirths weren’t generally recorded. It’s not out of this world to suggest she may have been pregnant 15 or more times. It’s likely she spent the entirety of the rest of her life, from age 16 to her death, either pregnant or recovering from pregnancy. 

The average white woman at that time gave birth to six children over the course of their lifetime, four less than Eliza.  During this time period,  pregnancy and birth problems were major causes of death for women. Some historians point to the amount of children Eliza had and say – wink, wink – there’s proof that Healy loved her. I think any people who interpret those facts in that manner need to have their heads examined. No loving partner in their right mind would ever subject their loved one to two decades of near- death experiences. I’m not buying into the whole context-of-the-times thing and I don’t have facts to back me up. I have a sense of humanity though and a clear understanding of the difference between right and wrong, which I think puts me ahead of the game when it comes to anyone who characterizes his interactions as loving. 

There is one document where Healy mentions Eliza. In a letter, he described her as his “trusty woman.” Some historians jump on that as proof that he had deep feelings for her and didn't see her as a slave, a breeder, but rather as his wife and, for the times, partner. I'm not buying that either.  Those exact words were commonly used to describe servants back in the day.

There’s no other evidence that Healy harbored any tender feelings for Eliza. Eliza died in 1850, at just 36/37 years old. Even for that period, this was on the young side. There was a cholera outbreak in the area at the time,  so this could have been the cause of her death. Her youngest child was a year old so it’s possible she was pregnant again and died in childbirth. Or perhaps her body had been so weakened by the constant pregnancies that she never properly recovered from the birth of that last child. 

Healy died a few months after Eliza. He was 56. This was a younger than average death too. Still, I'm not shedding any tears here. He got to live a much fuller life than Eliza. He got to choose how he wanted to live. Eliza led a much smaller life, one she had no control over. The fact that she was able to carry on and survive as long as she did is, I think, heroic.  I'd rather remember her, Eliza Clark,  a relentless, courageous mother to many.  

I have more to share about her kids and will do that soon.  I'll also share a list of my sources too. More later. 

On potholes, perfection-related paralysis, and waking up. Some other thoughts too.

 A few days ago, my college posted this on social media: 

On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

I was, in today's vernacular, ‘triggered’ by the first sentence of this post. I wrote an explanation of why I thought this was so here: https://alwaysatthestartingline.blogspot.com/2026/04/reverend-healys-mother-eliza-clarke.html

I don’t think it’s my finest writing, I use a ton of sentence fragments and don’t think I connected A to B to C as well as I could have. I thought about deleting that post but then remembered a few things. First, I’m not perfect. Second, I want to be perfect but I am not though I keep trying. Third, this blog is a keep trying thing. Fourth, there are a lot of positives about trying to be perfect. Fifth,  there is, for me, at least one huge negative. 

That negative is that I get paralyzed when I try for perfection. Paralyzed for me means I start thinking too much and in that process talk myself out of doing whatever it was I thought I desperately wanted to do. More on that another time, perhaps. (That's not me talking myself out of writing about paralysis, by the way. That's me making a note to myself publicly -- which helps me take accountability, so that I will seriously consider writing about paralysis at a later date. Right now my brain is going in another direction, away from writing about paralysis,  and I want to follow that direction. Yes, I know that's a little convoluted. Welcome to my world.)

When I say, in the link above, that I went down a historical rabbit hole, I mean that for a few days I mostly sat on the couch in my living room – an exceedingly comfy couch, for hours and hours, almost always with at least one cat in my lap. 

Cats stupefy me.  Reading on my laptop stupefies me.  

One day last week, I was exceptionally zoned out. Over the course of several hours, I left the couch for two cups of coffee – Keurig stuff, which just doesn’t give my heart the jolt that I likely needed, a small container of non-fat yogurt, a couple of cups of tea – Barry’s, which to me smells like my childhood, even though I was raised on Red Rose.

When I stay mostly seated, especially in flannel pajamas, a fleece bathrobe, with cats nearby, my heart rate drops and my eyes start blurring. Seriously, at a couple of points I checked my heart rate and was fascinated to find that it hovered in my usual sleep range. Even with multiple cups of caffeine chugging through my veins, I kept nodding off. 

The fact I was able to wake myself up and force my fingers in enough sustained movement to put together those disjointed paragraphs on Reverend Healy’s mother was, in my opinion as I look back now, a tour de force.  

This last year has been tough. Dealing with health challenges has been bad enough. Then there’s the fact that I struggle every minute of every day with the depressing, horrific fact that the people of this nation elected a rapist to the highest office in the land. And every day, this guy commits more rapes, on our Constitution, our immigrants, our poor, our environment, our Allies, our globe. I have not been able to come to terms with this. The day I DO accept any of this? That’s the day I spiritually die. It’s not going to happen.  Thinking about all this angers, frightens, and exhausts me. 

It’s not lost on me at all that the anger, which I touched upon in that linked post that focused on events back in the mid-1800s,  is absolutely connected to the current state of our world. For me, past, present, future is all connected. I don’t understand how for others it’s not. How did we, as a a nation, get to this awful place? 

I’m in a different place now, physically I mean, that I was when I wrote that Reverend Healy post. I’m on the East coast for a little bit. Yesterday my trip started too early, at an hour when back in college I’d be thinking it might be time for bed. I was already on the second plane of the day when daybreak hit. Yikes. That's early. 

Because I dozed on the plane, upon landing after the final flight I was in a fuzzy twilight state, but also was going through the motions of a fully functioning human: unbuckling from my seat, stomping my feet to get the blood flowing, but also sort of  sleepwalking into the terminal. I felt a lot like I did when I wrote that post the other day. I was of this earth but just barely. 

I hit the restroom, which brought me back a little more onto the firmament. The stalls hadn’t been cleaned in hours. That startle to my system helped me wake up a bit.  I splashed a ton of cold water on my face, in the process soaking the cuffs of my sweatshirt, which stunned my wrists into alertness, at least.  In my carry-on bag, hiding under my laptop and the historical novel on Ann Boleyn I’ve been trying to plow through the last three weeks – I keep nodding off within a couple of paragraphs, I found my brush and ran that through my hair, tugging harder than I normally do because I thought maybe the stressed hair follicles would get more blood flowing through my skull and force me into movement.

I stopped in one of those overpriced airport stores selling magnets, readers, coasters, coffee milk, and T-shirts printed with scenes from Newport, and winced as I handed over an exorbitant four bucks for a bottle of Diet Pepsi. Coffee doesn’t seem to do a great job of keeping me awake these days. I was thinking that a couple of gulps of my old college constant might be just what my bonked-out system needed. 

By the time I got to the luggage carousel, the crowds were gone. Mine was one of only two suitcases still awaiting pickup. That’s stark reality in your face right there that I was truly in some sort of hypnotic state. Normally, I’m that aggressive traveler impatiently marching back and forth, annoyed times ten, determined to get out fast and furious from the tangled mess of clueless travelers and crying kids that is my typical experience with luggage retrieval. 

Two hours, 80 highway miles of potholes, 16 ounces of fizzy caffeine, and thousands of pissed off drivers later, I am staring at my ocean. 

I exited the car and walked across the sand, which yesterday crackled under the soles of my beaten-up sneakers because the ground was spotted with the broken remains of slipper shells and crab carcasses. As I stood on the wettest part of the beach, inches from the encroaching surf, the ocean rumbled in that comforting way that reminded me that you can still count on some things in this world to be true, like tides, sunsets, clumps of seaweed after storms,  potholes. 

Thick banks of gray blocked the sun, which turned the ocean a jewel-like jade green and brought out a sparkle in the white caps that set my soul soaring. I realized that, for the first time in weeks, my head was clear.

Today my intention was to write more on that initial post about Reverend Healy. I want to write the truth about a few weighty things, like that his mother  had no control over what happened to her kids. Like that it's quite possible she was impregnated to death. But I need a break. The sun is shining and the chickadees are singing.  The neighborhood squirrels are chittering away and jumping around, partying it up big time because I just threw them some pieces of my apple. I'm having so much fun watching them. The crocuses are blooming and the daffodils are bursting and ready to explode. The hydrangeas are waking up. So am I. More will come but not today.  

Reverend Healy's mother: Eliza Clark matters

 I want to start by saying that I hate the word ‘triggered.’   

I’m not sure why. Could be because it’s been: overused, used incorrectly, used to mock and minimize. Could be because it’s not exactly active. You don’t trigger. You GET triggered. Something acts upon you; triggers you. You’re not in control. The trigger is. 

Sure, the word works in some contexts, like in a school/work environment where you might need to be extra careful about word choice: “The student was triggered by. . . “ 

But in general, I’m more a fan of straight-forward terms like ticked, pissed off, totally stressed out about. Those words aren’t as polite and are certainly less suitable for work, but they get right to the point. (Plus, I’m retired so I don’t need to watch my language as much anymore.) When you say those words, you’re not couching meaning in politeness. You’re not hiding behind courtesy. For the listener, there’s no second-guessing, rationalizing, pretending.  

(This 1/22/26 article in Psychology Today does a much better job and goes into more depth on the subject: “Why It’s Time to Stop Using the Word 'Trigger'”).

 

A few days ago, my college posted this on social media: 

On April 6, 1830, Rev. James Healy was born in Georgia to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman. James and his siblings were sent North to be educated. James attended Holy Cross, and was in the first graduating class of 1849, of which he was valedictorian. He was ordained a priest in 1854, and named bishop of Portland, Maine in 1875, making him the first African American to become a Roman Catholic bishop.

 

A benign, bland, run-of-the-mill paragraph, right?  Something you might find next to an asterisk at the bottom of a calendar page, right?  But I read that and got pissed. Had to sit with that feeling for a few days. Get to the heart of things. What was bugging me so much?   

To help me sort things out, I read. Spent many hours going down history rabbit holes. Started with the name Reverend James Healy and found Eliza Clark, someone who, like most women, deserves a heck of a lot more space in the history books than the mostly white male authors (some sites say more than 75 percent) have traditionally allotted women in general. And like everything else, women of color always get even less. Don’t believe me? Look up gaps in wages by gender and skin color. Research maternal health studies, hospital mortality rates.  

It was this phrase that nagged the heck out of me in that social media post: “born. . . to an Irish immigrant and a biracial enslaved woman.”

Smacked me right in the face, that phrase. Dragged me way back to my years in the corporate world, and before that to college, and before that to high school and grammar school and female teachers – mainly nuns, showing nothing but deference to the men in charge who made all the money, held all the power, and pulled all the strings. All the way back to those important developmental decades when good little girls were schooled in the ways of the world. We were conditioned to stay quiet, avoid drawing attention, and listen in awe while high and mighty males exerted all the control and their word was law.

Word choice matters. Words reveal everything about who we are and what we value. And those words in that phrase? They spoke volumes about who – to historians of the past and to the folks writing these posts today -- mattered most in Reverend Healy’s life, and who got forgotten. 

“Irish immigrant.” That’s how his father was described. Holy Cross prides itself on its Irish immigrant foundations. Sure, in Georgia 1830 Irish immigrants were not exactly at the top of the social ladder. (More on that another time, perhaps.) But those words used in the context of today? They reveal volumes about the college’s legacy, history, pride. At HC, Irish immigrants = tradition, courage, smarts. 

“Biracial enslaved woman.” Healy’s mother was of African descent and likely European descent too. If we're going to give his father some specificity, shouldn't we accord his mother some as well? And if we're not, then why even bother with any detail? She was only a woman, after all. And an enslaved woman to boot. 

And about that word, 'enslaved.' I recoiled, yeah I did -- no exaggeration, when I read that word. It's the passivity of the word that got to me. No one asks to be enslaved, and yet this word stood alone.  Because I'm learning that the more I know the less I know, I did some research.  

This 12/13/23 NPR.org piece explores that word choice in more detail. Fascinating stuff: "'Slave or 'enslaved'? and why it matters."

Back to how that word is used in the initial social media post. I had to ask: "Enslaved by whom?"  

“Aah,” I initially thought. “Perhaps the Irish immigrant was her rescuer? Her knight in shining armor?”  Easy to imply, given the wording of that post, right?

In truth I knew better, but I've always been a bit of a Pollyanna.

Turns out Healy's father is the one who enslaved Healy's mother. But you wouldn't know that unless you researched, because in the above post that fact isn't important enough to get mentioned. Or maybe the truth is too awful to write, even now 200 years later. 

Though the fact that she was enslaved is. You'd almost think, like I initially did, that  he was some sort of white savior. But the truth is absolutely the opposite. He was as predatory as any other enslaver of the time. He liked her looks so he bought her.  He was more than twice her age; old enough to be her father. She was only 16 when he impregnated her. And there’s a lot more horrible stuff too. But let's sanitize all that and wish Reverend Healy a happy birthday. . . 

I'd rather ignore Healy, or at most give him a polite nod, and instead shower attention on his mother, Eliza Clark. 

April 6, 1830 was her first birth day, but not her last. She had nine more live births over the next twenty years. Though she had no choice as far as sharing her DNA, she's helped populate a nation. 

Her body and her soul are inextricably linked to the history of my college, to other institutions as well, and to thriving families all over New England and throughout the United States. It's because of her that so many others have had and will continue to have opportunities to live more fully and freely than she could likely have ever imagined. She deserved better. In my opinion she deserves more than what life on this earth gave her, and what history has given her so far. 

More later.