Ray Conboy

I received my Morrison Visa in 1993. At the time, I was living in Holland, staying too long, partying too much, working dead-end jobs like a stint in a mayonnaise factory. The truth is, my mother applied for the visa for me. I didn’t even realise it until I came home.

I had just finished a degree in property valuation at RTC Galway, and yes, I still call it RTC, and I was getting ready to start a postgrad when the visa news came through. So I packed up and flew to San Diego that December to validate the visa. My aunt was living there, my mother is one of 21 kids, so there’s family everywhere, and I stayed with her over the holidays. But I didn’t settle straight away. I returned to Ireland and then came back to the States in the summer of 1994, this time landing in Seattle, where I ended up living for nearly four years.

There was no real path forward in Ireland back then. The country was in the middle of a global recession. My dad had lost his business. He was self-employed, and things were tough. I was offered a job in Thermo King, a decent job, but I’d just spent years in college, and the thought of factory work felt like moving backwards.

I’d done my fair share of factory jobs abroad, summers in BMW in Germany, and knew I didn’t want that life. I also knew I wasn’t going to stay in Galway forever. I’d lived in France, Germany, Spain, Holland… traveling was always part of who I was. My mother used to say I was always going to go. The visa just gave me the chance to do it for real.

I had so many memorable moments but here’s one from my very first day. I landed in California, expecting someone to meet me at the airport. This was pre-smartphone, no WhatsApp, no nothing just a phone number written down. I stood around for an hour, called the number, got voicemail, waited some more. Eventually I started walking around the airport, totally lost. Then I hear this roar of laughter coming from the pub in the terminal. There they were, my family, half-cut, pints in hand, saying, “We knew you’d figure it out!” That was my welcome to America.

Later, in Seattle, I was dating a girl who worked at the Crocodile Cafe, a famous grunge hangout where all the bands drank. One night, I was having drinks with Peter Buck from R.E.M. and this other Irish lad, and your man just lost the plot, roaring “I hate R.E.M.!” at the top of his lungs. I was this close to going to a party with Peter Buck, but I had to mind the lunatic instead. He nearly got left behind, Marine-style.

We were living in Capitol Hill in Seattle at the time, which we didn’t know was the gay district. We were four Irish lads, new off the boat, getting chased around the neighbourhood by guys saying, “Where’s the party?” It was a bit of a shock at first, but we got over ourselves quickly. It ended up being a brilliant place to live, great people, great fun, and much more European in vibe than Southern California.

“The challenge was starting from zero. I didn’t have a plan, didn’t have a career path, and didn’t have a penny. But I had hustle.”

We literally opened the Yellow Pages and started cold-calling Irish-American businesses in Seattle. One of the first people to give us a shot was a guy named Patrick, ex-Marine, who took us on for landscaping. It lasted about six weeks before he fired us “for being useless.”

Eventually, I made my way to Los Angeles. At an Irish Christmas party in Arizona, I met Donnie King, a guy from a Castlegar family who had gone from blue-collar to white-collar. He was a financial advisor at Merrill Lynch and explained how he got there: cold-calling, grinding, learning on the job.

I asked him if he could get me an interview, and to his credit, he did. I went into Ross Dress for Less, bought a shirt, blazer, pants, and shoes, and showed up for the interview. I looked like exactly what I was, a lad dressed by Ross Dress for Less.

But the hiring manager, Michael O’Connor, liked me. His brother was actually the first Irish person in space, he was the astronaut we gave the Irish passport to! Another guy in HR was Bill Ryan, his parents were from Ardmore. So here I was, on the 52nd floor in downtown L.A., being told by these Irish-American lads: “Get in there, Paddy, and do us proud.”

I worked 70 to 80 hours a week for three years. In the door at 6:15am, out the door at 8:15pm. It was hard, but it gave me a future.

Moving to the U.S. changed everything. The Morrison Visa opened up a path I didn’t even know existed.

“What I’m most proud of is building a life here. I became a financial advisor. I bought my own home. I raised two kids and put them both through college, which, in America, is no small thing.”

I went from a lad scraping by in Amsterdam to someone with a meaningful career, a family, a home, and a future. That’s what I’m proud of.

The Morrison Visa means the world. It changed the trajectory of my life. It gave me a life I couldn’t have had at home at the time. And not just me, it changed things for my family, for my kids.

I never thought I’d move to America. But I’m proud to be here now. I still feel Irish, and I’m also proud to be American.

One thing I’ve learned over time is that Irish-Americans, the real ones, the families who’ve stayed connected for generations, they’re just as Irish in their own way. They care for each other. They value family. And they took me in.

The Morrison Visa was like winning the lottery, but we didn’t even know it at the time. We were just 23 or 24 and stupid, full of courage or madness, but it changed our lives. We weren’t staying. We knew we had to go. And we’re lucky we got the chance.