A King in Ireland’s Sons

By Pádhraic Ó Dochartaigh — GUEST COLUMN

I grew up in a coastal town in the west of Ireland. A day without wind was as rare as a solar eclipse, and when the wind picked up and was joined by icy rain it was best to run for the shelter of your home, if you had one. This story is like that wind. There is no knowing when it will change direction and God knows where it will end up.

I lived in a magical house in the middle of the town. When you walked in the door it was like passing through the stellar gateway in the Stargate movie. You were in a separate universe. Outside you rarely heard anything but English, inside you rarely heard anything but Irish. Of course we spoke English to schoolmates who came to play because they couldn’t or wouldn’t speak Irish to us. But we didn’t mind much. They were friends and someone to play with. As soon as they left we just switched back to Irish and carried on with our lives.

Going outside was a different matter. We learned early that if we wanted to avoid trouble it was best not to be heard speaking Irish in public. People made us feel it was really rude and deeply offensive to speak Irish in what they considered their domain. And if we were unlucky, we could run into serious bullying — as we did now and then. And so we practiced the Irish art of public silence — of making ourselves invisible.