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256 pages, Paperback
Published April 25, 2023
It might surprise you, or it might not, to know that there are people still pushing me to stay silent. There are people who want this book kept from your hands. People who say to me in the street, 'Would you not get over it?' People who tell me to shut up about it - they defend men and they defend the Catholic Church.
But this is my story to tell and this is how I remember it.
I changed most of the names in this book - my abuser, relatives, locals and the nuns - because I'm not out to hurt or for revenge. I wrote this book because I was silenced as a child when I was the victim of abuse and I was silenced by society when I left the laundry. I want people to know what happened. This is my history, but it's also the history of this country.
I never knew my father, John L. Sullivan, but there was a photograph of him on the wall in my grandmother's house.
My brother's and I were terrified of Marty from day one. He didn't restrain himself and lost his temper in a second, sometimes for nothing you could place, and he would go for you, even in his boots, and his kicks would hurt for days. He really hated us. Or he hated himself, maybe, for what he couldn't stop doing to us, but either way living with Marty was like living with the devil himself. We suffered every single day.
It's hard to imagine the reasons for people behaving as they did, given how fast Ireland has progressed, and it's hard to imagine how my mother thought things through. I know now she had no choices - women were the property of their husbands. Their bodies belonged to the men they married, their children did too.
So I told on him. I told on Marty. I sat there in that room with a chocolate in my mouth and an open heart and talked about it.
As she went by me, she turned and said, 'Oh Maureen, what have you done?' She knocked on the office door and disappeared through it.
What had I done?
For years I couldn't figure out why our names were changed in the Magdalene laundries. What reason had they? A number would have made more sense to me if they wanted us to be nothing and nobody. But a number is a way to trace us, and it would have been unique. It would have been remembered and displayed somewhere. By changing our names they made sure, not that we struggled on the inside, but that on the outside we had no way to identify or find each other. And how could we stand as a witness to what went on there if there was nothing to say we had been there at all? We didn't exist.
It means a person who seeks forgiveness for their sins. There were no sinners in New Ross. Just victims, victims of the patriarchy, victims of misogyny.
Those men in suits were likely state inspectors. They were sent around to all of the Magdalene laundries in Ireland to check on conditions.