“The Irish Question”

The Irish Question and The Irish Answer

Would they grace us with their affections and grant us home rule? What of the land, and who rightfully would own it? Would it not just be easier to divide a chunk of the island off for the craic and see what happens! Yes, surely that will not have any long lasting effects on the people for hundreds of years to come….

But I wish to discuss an 'Irish Question' people seem to think is far more important. Important enough that it is usually the 3rd question people ask me when they first meet me (question 4 is usually what my blood type is). Behold, a typical conversation:

Hi, what's your name?
Dara, nice to meet you.
What did you do at uni?
I studied Irish.
Oh, so you'll be an Irish teacher then?
Huh?

Doctors, Lawyers, and Hide Beetles

It took me a while to realise that this is actually quite strange. You wouldn't, upon hearing someone is doing biology, ask "oh so you'll be a Hide Beetle Handler for the National History Museum then?"

Side note: these flesh-feasting freaks (and I am referring to the bugs, not the handlers) are brought in to strip the carcasses to the bone. Once defleshed, the bones are displayed for sticky children to press their faces against their museum glass.

All that to say, you would probably ask a more open question, and wait to learn something about the person and their passions.

I used to give people the benefit of the doubt. I used to think, ah well, in fairness, people may not be exposed to the world of Irish. They may not realise that for a language to flourish, we need all sorts of people doing all sorts of jobs. We need Irish speaking lawyers, doctors, counsellors. We need Irish speaking Hide beetle handlers walking about the National Museum of Ireland!

I chose Irish as a GCSE subject 12 years ago now. I am only at the beginning of my career and yet not once have I had to babysit a classroom full of sticky children. I hope to keep it that way!

When I tell people I am an Irish translator, along with the surprise that such a job exists, there is a pang of disappointment in people. Disappointed by the fact I was not in the 'noble pursuit' of teaching Irish. I imagine the same disappointment was felt by an Irish Mammy in the 20th century when her 3rd son said he wanted to become a Hide Beetle Handler rather than a priest.

In the same vein, I once had someone react viscerally when I said I took on Irish as it was a lucrative career choice when it was so niche. Horrified by the thought of me making a livable wage rather than taking my vow of poverty and the Sworn Protector of The Irish Language. I don't remember that part of my graduation ceremony!

You wouldn't be horrified at the idea of an accountant making a career choice based on potential earnings, nor the Hide Beetle Ha— sorry, I'll shut up about the beetles, I promise.

"French is the language of business"

That was my granda's line when I stated I wanted to do Irish. I think he has finally given up on that spiel now. A few years ago it was probably Mandarin with the boom in Chinese trade and manufacturing globally. With us joining the EU in '73 I imagine the 'language of business' was Italian, Spanish or German or any other selection from the now 24 official languages.

Before that, it was English. And the Irish of the 19th and 20th centuries needed reminding of this. Violently.

It was systemic. The Bata Scóir put the fear in ya. Wooden stick, yoked around the child's neck. For every word in Irish spoken during the school day, a notch was placed into the wood. You could then easily keep track of how many beatings were owed. Literally beating the language out of the youth.

But more horrifyingly, this poison leeched its way into the family home. When red-handed James arrived into the kitchen complaining that "Master so-and-so gave me slaps for saying the word 'cáis' instead of cheese!" the slaps were twice as painful on the now pulsating hands. But nothing stings like it being your own mother handing out the punishment.

Most ironically, the mother, Mary on paper, greets the mirror as Máire, will say her "Sé Do Bheatha, a Mhuire" tonight, knelt at her bed, and will ask for the Lord's forgiveness.

The language of power

She only wants the best for her wee Séamus. A bright little fella, but a bleak future without being able to speak English. The colonised mind had been twisted into knots to believe that pre-Famine Ireland was gone, Irish was a painful and shameful reminder of the dark days. The 'New World' in America would be full of riches and full bellies, English-speaking bellies, that is. It's a tale as old as time, the sensible choice in order to give your children a better life than you had.

Before English was 'the language of business', I suppose Latin was 'the language of power'. Nothing says 'you are not worthy' like not even speaking the same language as the god you worship! With this canyon slicing its way between the non-Latin speaking layman and the written Word, you can see how easy it would be for those in such a position of power to misrepresent personal opinion as genuine divine instruction, control information and discourage questions. You can see that a culture built on unquestioned power and authority would prove fertile ground for later cases of abuse.

If you didn't already guess, I did not become an Irish teacher. I did however, amongst a plethora of other things, become a translator. That last paragraph made me think a lot about who holds power and what languages they insist is the next 'in' language to have. I like to think I am empowering others in my work, afterall, who gets to decide what languages matter and which don't?

It would appear that the 'language of business/authority/power' is whatever language your child is not currently speaking.

You must excuse me, in my frantic typing I have knocked over and smashed my tank of hide beetles. There are now 400 of them crawling around my bedroom.