The audience chuckled at Donald’s self-deprecating humor. Robert came back to the stage and sat beside Aiden. “He tells that joke every year,” he said in a low voice.

“I would like to start us off with Dr. Aiden Byrnes, our own senior lecturer from the English Department. His paper, ‘Roll the Old Chariot Home: The Parallel History of African American and Irish Homecomings’ will surely set the tone for this evening’s education. Please help me welcome Dr. Aiden Byrnes to the podium.”

Aiden stood as the audience clapped for him, and walked to the podium. As he settled his papers and adjusted the microphone for his height, he looked over the crowd that sat waiting. He imagined them as his students, only happier to be there. A smile came to his lips.

“My father,” he started. “Was a Limerick man in search of a home. He was a restless sort who took to the water when the itch caught him. And when he did return to his family, it was only in fleeting appearances punctuated with his bombastic voice singing a tune that still sticks with me. ‘Roll the Old Chariot’ was not his song, but he adopted it in a way that folks have adopted narratives for centuries. Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard the song,”

Aiden waited and a few audience members raised their hands. He was surprised to find a good few of them did know the song. He continued. “Now this isn’t part of my timed talk, but if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to sing just a couple of lines from the song. Will you allow that? I promise that I’m a better singer than my father.”

There was a collective laugh from the audience with a few people clapping their encouragement.

“Excellent, follow along with me if you’re brave enough,” Aiden said, clearing his throat. “Oh we’d be alright, if the wind were in our sails, we’d be alright if the wind were in our sails...” He was surprised yet again, when a few brave souls fell in sync with him. Their voices rising in trepidation and good humor. Aiden sang with a comical bravado that got people to laugh, but the majority of the audience was actually singing by the time he wrapped it up. The crowd applauded him and themselves for their participation. Scholars were a stuffy bunch, but Aiden had the ability to shake them loose from their solemn protocol. Perhaps this was the charm Robert talked about.

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding his hands up. “I still have to get to my paper,” he said with a smile. “That song was easy enough to follow because it’s what’s known as ‘call and response.’ You can find rhetorical device in many work songs but a great deal of its roots are found in the African American church and ultimately on the old plantations of the South. This song especially. What my father failed to recognize, as an Irishman, was that he wasn’t the only one trying to get home or even find a home for his restless spirit. There was an entire people that he could relate to, a people who were forcibly wrenched from a homeland and aching to return. Today I want to talk to you about this call and response between the black experience and the Irish Experience. We’ll focus on my observations on homecoming narratives.”