In Philadelphia, Here I Come!, a play about Gareth “Gar” O’Donnell’s decision to leave his home in Ireland for the United States, Brian Friel demonstrates the difficultly of trying to convey emotions to loved ones without open communication. A young man in his mid-twenties, Gar wants to leave home largely because of his stilted relationship with his father, S.B. Although they spend the majority of their time together, they’re unable to truly connect. In fact, their conversations are so predictable that Gar’s alter ego—a separate character called “Private” Gar whom only Gar and the audience hears—can anticipate everything S.B. says, bemoaning his father’s inability to speak meaningfully to him. This strained dynamic becomes especially upsetting to Gar as his departure from Ireland draws near, since he desperately wants his father to express his affection for him. And though it becomes clear that S.B. and Gar do share nonverbal affection and that S.B. truly is sad his son is leaving, his inability to communicate effectively gives Gar the impression that he doesn’t care about their relationship. In this way, Friel indicates that although affection can take many forms, a lack of direct communication can tragically estrange people from one another.
Gar views his father’s inability to speak openly as the reason their relationship is so strained. Sitting at the table with S.B. after a day of work, he yearns for his father to say something unpredictable, since this would prove that the old man wants to converse with him. Instead, though, S.B. only repeats the same phrases he says at the end of each day, prompting Private Gar to launch into a monologue about how he’s leaving home because he and his father can’t engage in a legitimate conversation. In keeping with this, he says that he and S.B. would embarrass each other if either one of them were ever to say something genuine about the other, such as, “You’re looking tired,” or, “That’s a bad cough you have.” This suggests that both men are so unused to relating to one another that they would be completely disarmed to discover that they think about each other. And yet, this kind of connection is precisely what Gar yearns for, as he privately declares that he might stay home if S.B. uttered just one honest remark instead of the idle pleasantries he uses to fill the silence. This, Private Gar says, would make him reconsider their entire relationship, causing him to wonder if he was wrong to assume that S.B. has no feelings. In turn, the audience sees just how much importance Gar places on the act of communication, and how deeply his father’s disinclination toward verbal engagement affects him.
Interestingly enough, though, Gar only voices these thoughts to himself, letting Private Gar (whom Friel describes in his stage notes as Gar’s “conscience” or “alter ego”) articulate the way he truly feels. That S.B. can’t hear Private Gar is worth noting, since it indicates that Gar is just as inept as his father when it comes to openly communicating. Rather than actually talking to S.B. about why he’s leaving home, he privately reflects upon how badly he wants his father to reach out to him. As a result, he fails to give voice to his feelings, despite his desire to engage with S.B. before he leaves.
Although Gar wants his father to speak openly with him, he also recognizes on a certain level that communication isn’t the only way for two people to relate or show affection. Gar articulates this when he recalls a peaceful day that he and S.B. spent fishing together. “[…I]t was a great, great happiness, and active, bubbling joy,” he thinks, “although nothing was being said—just the two of us fishing on a lake on a showery day.” This memory remains in Gar’s mind because it was one of the few times in his life that he felt a shared sense of happiness with his father. Even though they weren’t saying anything to each another, it’s clear that they both occupied the same headspace in that moment, relishing their time together. This, it’s easy to see, is much more emotionally rewarding than passing rote, mindless pleasantries back and forth at the end of the day in a sad imitation of verbal connection. By spotlighting this dynamic, Friel intimates that there are multiple ways for people to engage on an emotional level, not all of which depend upon language or conversation.
At the same time, though, Friel implies that knowing how to communicate effectively is a vital skill when it comes to showing affection. Although it’s possible to silently share meaningful moments like the one Gar and S.B. had while fishing, these moments are rare, which is why verbal engagement is so important when it comes to maintaining relationships. For instance, the audience learns that S.B. truly does feel strongly for his son when he talks to Madge (the housekeeper) about how fond he has always been of the boy. Unfortunately, he has never articulated this to Gar himself, which is why Gar feels so estranged. However, S.B. isn’t the only ineffective communicator, as evidenced by the fact that Gar himself literally runs out of the room at the first sign that his father might actually say something meaningful. This happens when Gar finally works up the courage to ask if his father remembers a tender moment from his childhood. Because S.B. doesn’t recall the specifics of this day, Gar shuts down and is so focused on hiding his disappointment that he fails to notice as his father slowly recollects the day, making it clear that he actually does remember. This failure to connect, in turn, illustrates how difficult it is to communicate openly after failing to do so for so long. With this, Friel stresses the importance of using frequent communication to establish a relational foundation—without this basis of openness, the play warns, people cannot effectively connect when they want to show affection.
Communication and Affection ThemeTracker
Communication and Affection Quotes in Philadelphia, Here I Come!
Public: Whether he says good-bye to me or not, or whether he slips me a few miserable quid or not, it’s a matter of total indifference to me, Madge.
Madge: Aye, so. Your tea’s on the table—but that’s a matter of total indifference to me.
Public: Give me time to wash, will you?
Madge: And another thing: just because he doesn’t say much doesn’t mean that he hasn’t feelings like the rest of us.
Public: Say much? He’s said nothing!
Madge: He said nothing either when your mother died.
Screwballs, we’ve eaten together like this for the past twenty-odd years, and never once in all that time have you made as much as one unpredictable remark. Now, even though you refuse to acknowledge the fact, Screwballs, I’m leaving you for ever. I’m going to Philadelphia, to work in an hotel. And you know why I’m going. Screwballs, don’t you. Because I’m twenty-five, and you treat me as if I were five—I can’t order even a dozen loaves without getting your permission. Because you pay me less than you pay Madge. But worse, far worse than that Screwballs, because—we embarrass one another. If one of us were to say, ‘You’re looking tired’ or ‘That’s a bad cough you have’, the other would fall over backways with embarrassment.
So tonight d’you know what I want you to do? I want you to make one unpredictable remark, and even though I’ll still be on that plane tomorrow morning, I’ll have doubts: Maybe I should have stuck it out; maybe the old codger did have feelings; maybe I have maligned the old bastard.
They open the door. Ned hesitates and begins taking off the broad leather belt with the huge brass buckle that supports his trousers.
Ned: (shyly, awkwardly) By the way. Gar, since I’ll not see you again before you go –
Tom: Hi! What are you at? At least wait till you’re sure of the women!
Ned: (impatiently to Tom) Agh, shut up! (to Public) If any of them Yankee scuts try to beat you up some dark night, you can…(Now he is very confused and flings the belt across the room to Public.) You know… there’s a bloody big buckle on it… manys a get I scutched with it…
[…]
Ned: You’ll make out all right over there…have a…
Tom: I know that look in his eyes!
Ned wheels rapidly on Tom, gives him a more than playful punch, and says savagely:
Ned: Christ, if there’s one get I hate, it’s you!
Joe and Tom and big, thick, generous Ned . . . No one will ever know or understand the fun there was; for there was fun and there was laughing—foolish, silly fun and foolish, silly laughing; but what it was all about you can’t remember, can you? Just the memory of it—that’s all you have now—just the memory; and even now, even so soon, it is being distilled of all its coarseness; and what’s left is going to be precious, precious gold…
And you had the rod in your left hand—I can see the cork nibbled away from the butt of the rod—and maybe we had been chatting—I don’t remember—it doesn’t matter—but between us at that moment there was this great happiness, this great joy—you must have felt it too—it was so much richer than a content—it was a great, great happiness, and active, bubbling joy—although nothing was being said—just the two of us fishing on a lake on a showery day —and young as I was I felt, I knew, that this was precious, and your hat was soft on the top of my ears—I can feel it—and I shrank down into your coat—and then, then for no reason at all except that you were happy too, you began to sing […].
[…] there’s an affinity between Screwballs and me that no one, literally, no one could understand—except you, Canon (deadly serious), because you’re warm and kind and soft and sympathetic—all things to all men—because you could translate all this loneliness, this groping, this dreadful bloody buffoonery into Christian terms that will make life bearable for us all. And yet you don’t say a word.
S.B.: (justly, reasonably) There was a brown one belonging to the doctor, and before that there was a wee flat-bottom—but it was green—or was it white? I’ll tell you, you wouldn’t be thinking of a punt—it could have been blue—one that the curate had down at the pier last summer—
Private’s mocking laughter increases. Public rushes quickly into the shop. Private, still mocking, follows.
—a fine sturdy wee punt it was, too, and it could well have been the…
He sees that he is alone and tails off.
I can see him, with his shoulders back, and the wee head up straight, and the mouth, aw, man, as set, and says he this morning, I can hear him saying it, says he, ‘I’m not going to school. I’m going into my daddy’s business’—you know—all important—and, d’you mind, you tried to coax him to go to school, and not a move you could get out of him, and him as manly looking, and this wee sailor suit as smart looking on him, and—and—and at the heel of the hunt I had to go with him myself, the two of us, hand in hand, as happy as larks—we were that happy, Madge—and him dancing and chatting beside me—mind?—you couldn’t get a word in edge-ways with all the chatting he used to go through…