Brendan Connellan

I got my Morrison Visa in 1994, but not without persistence. I had tried the two previous years and come up empty. The third year, I had very low expectations — it was one last shot. I had two blank postcards in my pocket, just in case I messed up. But I didn’t, so I filled one out for my brother too, on a whim. I never asked him, never told him. I was still licking stamps while the bus was turning on Leeson Street. It was a tight squeeze to dart through traffic and jump on the 46A before it pulled away, but I made it. Sometimes that’s how life changes — on instinct and timing.

Back then, only a quarter of my graduating class in Chemical Engineering at UCD got jobs straight out of college in the summer of 1993. I was lucky to be one of them. My job was just off Merrion Square, which meant I could enjoy the buzz of the city in the evenings. Dublin was just starting to come alive again. Temple Bar had begun drawing crowds with its live music. There was energy in the air, a real sense of momentum.

Leaving wasn’t easy. My boss was about to offer me a raise, a promotion, and a contract extension when I told him I was heading for the U.S. He looked at me, baffled, and said, “I don’t understand you. It’s always feast or famine. I don’t get it.” Fair enough. What he didn’t know was that I was number 53,000 in the visa lottery — and only 14,000 visas had been offered. In that situation, I felt I had no choice. You don’t ignore an open door like that.

Funny enough, my brother — the one I applied for — got his visa fourteen months before me. He couldn’t understand why the U.S. Embassy kept sending him paperwork. He might be the only person in history to receive a green card without ever applying for one. I’m still waiting for a thank you. No rush.

“When I first arrived, Riverdance was still the rage on Broadway. Interviewers kept asking about it. I’d joke that I could do a rendition if it helped seal the deal, explaining that the trick was to make it look like your arms had died.”

That always got a laugh — and helped distract from the fact that I’d spent six months drifting around the country. Americans didn’t quite see travel the way we do in Europe. They also asked me about Irish golf courses. I’d throw in a reference to the 12th hole at Ballybunion, since Tom Watson was always banging on about it — though apparently it was the 11th he really loved. Close enough.

The hardest part for me was choosing a place and staying put. America was (and still is) enormous. New York seemed like the obvious choice — Manhattan in the late ’90s was my natural habitat. But San Francisco kept pulling me in. I flew back and forth, trying to figure it out. Eventually, I ran out of money and had no energy left to keep moving. That’s what finally got me to stop and settle — and oddly enough, that’s when I was asked to Riverdance.

“I’m proud of the life I’ve carved out. I didn’t lose myself along the way. It hasn’t all gone to plan — far from it — but I kept going.”

I came without a set strategy, no research, just instinct. And it somehow worked. Had I stayed in Ireland, who knows what my life would look like. Sliding doors. You never really know. I’m just grateful to still be standing, still working things out. America has changed so much in thirty years — it keeps me sharp.

The Morrison Visa changed everything. It opened the door and said, “Hey you, come and get it.” If you had some drive and a good attitude, America in 1995 was wide open. No place on Earth could compare. For someone like me — someone who was okay starting with a blank page — it was the perfect opportunity.