My Entry as a Contestant
In the 1973 Rose of Tralee Contest
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JANE RUNDLE
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By JANE RUNDLE
It was the spring of 1973 and the Celtic connections were many on this Catholic women's college campus.
Over 100 years ago, the Ursulines had founded the College of New Rochelle in New York State to help educate immigrant women, who might not otherwise receive an education. In that era, most of the immigrant women were Irish.
Mairead Maguire, one of the co-founders of the Women's Irish Peace Movement, was our college commencement speaker. I also noticed that on the college bulletin board there was an invitation to enter the International Rose of Tralee competition.
Growing up in a very "be proud of your Irish ancestry" household, I was familiar with the Rose of Tralee song, whose lyrics nearly canonized a young woman named Mary; however, this Rose competition was news to me. In order to enter, one must be of Irish heritage and have "beauty, intelligence and truth in her eyes."
My friends had also seen this invitation and kept after me to enter the competition. After all, I had Irish background, green eyes, auburn hair, and Irish wit. The Rose of Tralee competition's focus seemed to be on intellect and social consciousness.
There was no bathing suit contest, which would have been contrary to my ethics. So, in the interests of pursuing an adventure and to procrastinate further with my final senior papers, I decided that, yes, I would enter.
I recollected stories, which my parents had shared, about the discrimination they had encountered in Ontario. My dad, born in 1905 in Streetsville, told me that he was forced to run through a lineup, where the other boys would throw snowballs at him just because he was an Irish Catholic.
If he was Catholic, then he and his family must be helping to hide the guns under the altar. Wrong! The irony is that his surname was Rundle, a British name; however, he always identified himself as being Irish, whether because of his love for his mother, who died when he was only 12 or for his Irish grandmothers, Bridget and Elizabeth.
He often spoke of Elizabeth O'Neill, who had emigrated on a "leaky boat" with her parents from County Wicklow in 1843.His Grandma told him that she and her family, very sick, cold and frightened, prayed the Rosary unceasingly.
Either Elizabeth or Bridget would dedicate their entire Sunday to walking to Mass. During the cold Ontario winters, they would stop to warm up and have a cup of tea en route to Mass.
My mother, Loretto, whose maiden name was Haffey, had had her family name "anglicized" when her ancestors landed in Montreal.
Her aunt, Brigitt Haffey Carney, a family oral historian, had told her that if the customs officers did not understand your name, then they would shorten it and write the name in a way, which made sense to them.
Auntie Brigitt felt that the Haffeys had been the Haugheys. In the years 1925 to 1930, my mother had difficulty finding placement as a teacher. She told me that when she would arrive at some schools there would be signs, "Irish need not apply."
Although these stories were interesting, I needed facts about my Irish ancestry for the application. I interviewed my parents. For a lass with a British name, like Rundle, I had a lot of Irish blood in me, not to mention the Guinness. My mother's Irish doctor told her to drink Guinness to increase her iron during her pregnancy with me, her sixth child.
My father's paternal grandmother, Elizabeth O'Neill (Wicklow) immigrated to Montreal in 1841, a few years before the major Irish Immigration, 1845-1850. My ecumenical spirit and stubbornness must have come a bit from her since she married Henry Rundle, an Anglican from Cornwall, England in 1858. I can only imagine how her parents felt!
Some of her family changed their surname to O'Neil, with one l, so as to appear Protestant and to be more employable. Henry converted to Catholicism but he was still buried in the Protestant cemetery in Ontario. My Dad's maternal side was Irish as well but I cannot recollect from where in Ireland.
My mother's maternal grandparents were Katherine Fury and Patrick McNeff, both from County Wexford. My mother's paternal grandmother was Catherine Sullivan, born either in Ireland, on the boat or in Boston (according to my aunt!) My mother's paternal grandfather was from Patrick Huffy (Haughty) from Glencolumbkille, County Donegal, where "they ate the potatoes, skin and all."
A favourite story was that during the time that Mass was not allowed in public, the parish priest came to the Haffey household to say Mass. He also asked God to bless the Haffey household with many vocations. Two generations later, there were three vocations, two of them my mother's siblings.
I recorded the history of my Irish heritage, wrote essays and mailed the envelope holding my entry to The Rose of Tralee Competition. Well, didn't I receive a letter, stating that I was one of the candidates selected for an interview in New York City!
My friends, who had cajoled me into entering this contest, then proceeded to share clothing so that I would look stunning. It was almost a community entry to this contest. On a Sunday afternoon, I took the train into New York City.
I walked a fair distance uptown from Grand Central Station. The interview was, I believe, in the Irish Consulate, or an Irish businessman's office. A trio of young adults, with Irish accents, interviewed me. I made the cut! I would be contacted for the next interview.
It was again a special Sunday for my interview of a lifetime. Again, my college roommates dressed me and off I went on the train to New York City.
This interview was more intense. Three adults, I think one of whom was part of the Irish Consulate staff, interviewed me. It was a long interview and not as casual as my first. I recollect their asking me what I was going to do when I got out of college.
I was a fiber arts/design major in college. I told them that I hoped to go to Ireland to continue my studies in textile design and to work as a weaver.
In a stern voice, one of the interviewers asked me, "Are you aware that there are Irish weavers, who are unemployed?" I quickly responded, "Oh, well, that's OK. I'll pick studs.... I mean spuds."
I thought...Oh my God, I really blew it! There goes my trip to Ireland. After a few seconds of silence, which seemed like an eternity, all three persons burst out laughing. Although they laughed, I was convinced that I had kissed good bye to my being a Rose of Tralee.
Well, thank God for the Irish sense of humour and wit! This committee had selected me.... imagine, me, to be one of the five finalists for the Rose of Tralee competition!
Now this was getting serious. There was to be one final "judgement day." As a finalist, I was invited to a dinner/dance at the Tavern on the Green in Central Park. In addition to having "beauty, intelligence and truth in my eyes," I would be judged on dancing, social graces and who knows what else.
This time around, instead of enlisting my friends' ideas for what to wear, I went to the top. Our college chaplain, Fr. Sean Cooney was from Ireland, he, of all persons, would know what I should wear to such an occasion.
I asked Fr. Sean if he would advise me. He laughed and agreed to give his advice. A new job description for a college chaplain was evolving! I brought two gowns over to his residence.
One was a stunning, sultry, 1940s black crepe gown with a subtle bussle and sequined straps. The other gown was a puffy sleeved flowered gown, a bridesmaid's dress. Fr. Sean chose the girlish flowered gown for the special evening. I thanked him and off I went.
The all important Tavern on the Green evening arrived. My friends helped me with my hair and makeup.
My boyfriend, Sheldon, a Yiddish son of Erin, picked me up. Fr. Sean Cooney and other college staff, Colette Conroy and Laudalina Taaffe, came to be moral support for me.
My entry had grown from a dorm room adventure to a wider college audience adventure. I arrived at the Tavern on the Green, looking knock out gorgeous in my black 1940s gown!
One of the judges, while dancing with me, said, "I have my favourite, and I have my Rose of Tralee." I politely responded: "I want to be the Rose of Tralee!"
Later in the evening, four other finalists lined up next to me. My name was not announced. I didn't get all gaga like they do on the TV shows, although I acted my way through hugging the winner and not crying until I left the restaurant.
To his credit, that judge, who said that he had his favourite came up to me and strongly encouraged me to enter again in 1974. He should have known better. We, Irish, do not easily forget. I was a woman scorned, rejected.
I can still see that Rose of Tralee winner. In my humble opinion, she was not outstandingly pretty but her dress? It was a pale lavender chiffon with big puffy sleeves - just like that flowered gown, which Fr. Sean had suggested I wear.
So with my stunning black gown, I guess that I looked more like I was just arriving home at 4 AM rather than looking like I was arising at 4 AM to milk the cows - which the flowered, girlish gown would have portrayed.
I did not go on to the International Competition in Tralee, Ireland, where I would have attended horse races, balls, and many other wonderful social events.
In 1980, my husband, John, and I visited Ireland, with which I fell in love. In Dublin, I discovered that all Irish persons were not saints as my mother had taught me. A policeman advised us to get out of an area before we were robbed.
Irish people…Thieves? When we drove through Donegal, all I can say is that I felt that I was "finally home." Again, I missed my visit to Tralee as John had injured his back. We had to rest in Limerick. I promised myself to someday return to Ireland and visit Tralee and southern counties, from which most of my ancestors had come.
This year marks the Golden Anniversary Celebration of the Rose of Tralee International Competition.
I must be honest and tell you that I Googled the Rose's website. I could not resist checking to see if the 1973 New York Rose had won in Tralee. Sorry. Perhaps I should have re-entered in 1974 as the Rose, representing New York, won.
I still have that 1940s gown, although it no longer fits. I am saving it to wear when I win the Giller Prize for my Irish-Canadian-American novel.
I would love to visit Tralee this year and partake in the 50th anniversary celebrations. And if I go to Ireland, I will not study weaving. My stroke makes it too challenging to weave although I weave yarns, words, as in, writing stories and poetry. I will pick neither spuds nor studs!
Instead, I shall dream of picking the International Rose of Tralee. I shall pick the Rose, attired in the most glamorous of black gowns!
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