Hail Mary

They don’t make Marys anymore. The word on the birth certificates is that the traditional name has been cast aside in favour of fancier imports. Not wishing to let a good lament go to waste, it got me thinking about the Marys in my life. The memorable ones, the influential ones.

Mary C – bucktoothed teacher in 6th class. Sprang up from the hearth of the Gaeltacht with a swagger in her stride to ply her trade with fire and brimstone. The only woman in our area brave enough to wear sun glasses over her head and indulge in the commonly frowned upon practice of draping her jacket over her shoulder thus leaving the sleeves to fend for themselves in the breeze. This was viewed as an indicator of immodesty by some but recognised as an important status marker among fellow bridge players. She was also the first teacher to give the thumbs up to letting our imaginations roam free, even if that meant some questionable dream sequences being reported under ‘my summer holidays’. In possession of a distinctive voice, I enjoyed mimicking her from behind corners to scare the bejaysis outta the comrades. And I was always grateful for her unfashionable discretion when a gang of us were busted for robbing emblems of the biggest blessed Mary of them all on a school trip to Knock. You got the feeling that if only she were 20 years younger, she might’ve kept watch. One more time for the road *clears throat* ‘Bígí ciúin!’

Mary G – Mary has never really been a fully signed-up, card-carrying member of my gang as such but since around the age of 12 till the present day, she and I have been colliding on and off across the mountainous terrain of life. Last time I saw Mary was a few years back as she rounded the corner at the bottom of our road out of view having quietly sneaked out of my folks’ house after retreating to my old bedroom, digging out all the packed up 45s and 33s (vinyl, brethren. Ask your parents), divorcing the sleeve notes from their covers and leaving them strewn across the floor, while the rest of us clinked glasses in the kitchen. Bouncing in well after midnight, with her half-mile radius of wine bottle opener curls in the door in front of her, she handed me a plastic bag containing a dog-eared copy of a Dan Brown book, knowing full well I hate Dan Brown, and knowing full well that I know that she hates Dan Brown. But sure that’s the kind of her. Her literature studies were steered off course by the arrival of her son, and there’s a whole other world she dreams of when she stares out that window of the sandwich bar she works in. I must give her a ring so we can meet up and dine out on our unfulfilled fantasies for an evening.

Mary M – Mary would generally be known by the English version of her surname but god pity the fool that addresses her by anything other than in Irish. This is the woman who protested at a temporary road-works sign painted in English on the road outside her house by painting over it and insisting (successfully) the local authority lay down the ‘correct’ version. A language fascist, in short. Mary and I started work together on the same day. She the administrator, me trying to administer some self-confidence and belief that I knew what I was supposed to be doing (not a notion). We went on to spend four years trading banter, ideas, fighting over the radio dial and the actions of cute hoor politicians. We only ever had one serious disagreement; it concerned money and was instigated by me. I’ve regretted it ever since but to her credit she never let it corrode her affection. In many ways, she reminded me of my mother, teaching me the unteachables of operating in the workplace and the value of correct formalities you can’t put a value on. Her other enduring lesson was to surrender the universal obsession with seeking an answer to every woe that comes our way. Sometimes you have to let things be. Sometimes there just isn’t an answer. “I know you’re not the biggest believee, a stór”, she grimaced to me on the phone at Christmas, “but would you for God sake say a prayer this illness doesn’t develop any further. There’s an overseas coming up in work and I’ve no intention missing out on a freebie”. Can’t keep an indomitable woman down.

Mary Coughlan – Mary’s been singing the blues to me for years with the conviction that she’s lived every word. More an interpreter of songs, but you only have to listen to ‘Doublecross’ for proof she knows full well what its writer meant. First time I saw Mary was in the ’90s in the famous Rotterdam Bar in Belfast, encased in her own world, yawning them out of her with all the fragile force of a woman on the brink. Turns out she was but thankfully sobriety has modified her rage in to something just as humorous and informed.

I could say Mary Robinson at this point; McAleese never did it for me, but I’m going to go with the singer Mary Margaret O’Hara for her unrivalled whooping and hollering. She only managed to stump up one album in the last thirty odd years but she came in to this world with a bunch of polaroid pictures of emotions to pass round. Perfect for when none of your own internal lenses can adequately capture them.

maryfromdungloe

The 348th Mary From Dungloe (Real name: Niamh. Probably)

Join in and raise a cup to your Marys, tell us about yers…

Five reasons to see Song of the Sea

song of the sea

1. For its paced and magical weaving of Irish legends into an enchanting tale of wonder

2. For its stunningly beautiful animated odyssey that goes where CGI and Pixar could never venture

3. For reminding us of the power of our own fables in addressing the big issues of life in unexpectedly moving ways we had possibly forgotten

4. For enthrallingly transporting a child to a place where its eyes are transfixed on the screen like rarely before

5. For letting an old cynic be that child

“Equality is all in the surname, ladies”

So ran the headline on an opinion piece by Barbara Scully  yesterday in response to the ‘news’ that Yvonne Connolly had legally shed her Keating title three years following the split from her husband, Ronan Keating.

One can only speculate, but some practices are demonstrably more personal than political. Just as she chose to change her name originally, the pursuit of gender equality is unlikely to have been the sole motivator in changing it back now, if at all. But sparked a public debate, it did. The ensuing clash of on-line opinions ranged from head-scratching mystification at the thought of ever changing a name; tossing about comprises and re-configurations informed by pragmatism and family practicalities, to the merits of blokes changing theirs. Romance featured in there somewhere, back in the early heady days. Overall, it’s a topic that tends to animate a few folk.

“I got married, not adopted. Of COURSE I didn’t take his name”

This is a common refrain among the particularly shrill participants in the debate. As an exercise in dabbling in logic, it’s impressive. Great strides in comprehension demonstrated there. As a statement with the potential to provoke a beating with a beetroot encrusted kipper, it’s irresistible.

Of course, the commentary wasn’t directed at Yvonne Connolly personally, and like any cultural practice, name-changing should not be immune to some form of periodic collective scrutiny and the obligatory on-line kicking. But horror and high octane gasps veer dangerously close to being as out-dated and inflexible as the charges laid against it.

Citing Iceland’s no-nonsense standardised name-changing traditions, Scully interprets it as an influencing factor in the country emerging as the most gender-balanced nation in the world according to The World Economic Forum Gender Gap Report. The corollary being that if Ireland were to take a similarly uniform approach, greater strides would be made in achieving the elusive goals of gender equality. Presumably, Scully, though she doesn’t elaborate on it, is being more considered than this over-simplification.

It’s not unreasonable to suggest the potential that dropping the habit would have in helping diminish inherited sexist attitudes and erode the disproportionate grip domestic life has on women’s identity, however subtly (or not) these are currently played out. How much is another question. The complexity of cultural norms is such that it would require a longitudinal study in attitudes to capture its impact, and few need more than a basic grasp of economics and politics to understand that equality in Nordic countries hinges on a little more than stringent naming traditions, or whether your fella volunteers to change his. As a weapon to combat sexism and equip women with the confidence and ability to invade the legislative arena, it would be foolish to over-state its reach. It also, worryingly, despite thumbs up to Icelandic and Canadian law, invites an over-reaching arm of the State to meddle in the private affairs of its citizens.

Furthermore, there is the implication that women bear the responsibility for promoting changes in equality, and opting to change their names runs counter to the overarching feminist cause. The one for which there is no actual consensus.

Is that not a little outdated in the *thinks for second* 21st century? Interpreting ‘traditional’ rituals in a contemporary context and soldering a neat link with inequality fails to stack up. Take that logic to its conclusion and we see women who have no-one to blame but themselves. With all the subtlety of a brick, many critics of name-changing view the practice as a direct attack on feminism. By feminists! So they can’t be feminists! Can they?

Well, of course they bloody well can.

The history of feminism is fairly static and indisputable, but the context of it is in a perpetual state of flux. Rifling through issues and holding them up for a good sniffing to reject or accept doesn’t undermine women’s appreciation or recognition of the battle that paved the way for strides in gender equality. But not every contemporary personal decision is a direct action against progressive political policy.

Women aren’t any less equal because they have chosen to change their name, or because they haven’t chosen to abandon ritualistic traditions associated with the wedding ceremony. We live in a Western World where women enjoy the freedom to make choices on which traditions they want to pick and choose, and attach their own personal meanings to them in the process. When it comes to name-changing, one person’s political meaning can’t be superimposed on the personal view of another. These simplistic arguments only serve to debase the meaningful fight for equality.

There’s a striking similarity between what these critics assert, and the claims put forward by more radical elements within feminism. The hyper surety of the dominant force of one innate characteristic, and its apparent ability to undermine all others. That to be truly feminist, women most embody all aspects of feminism, all of the time. How exhausting would that be? You can’t wear a white wedding dress, and fight for equal pay; you can’t freely enjoy traditional expressions of femininity, and attack the exploitation of women’s bodies; you can’t be well-off, and speak out against injustice; you can’t be white, and object to the racist sexism against black women.

You can’t be a Ms. Whatever feminist or a Mrs Whatever-Whatever feminist without signing up to the principles of equality; no more than you can’t be a onesie-wearing make-up free feminist without doing the same. As an argument, it has more aggression than logic, and ignores the fact that is it perfectly acceptable for women to reject absolutisms on issues appropriated by feminism. Issues that have a bearing on their own lives, to be adjudicated on privately. It doesn’t undermine their commitment to equality to do so, or the right of other women to do different. It didn’t prevent me from not changing my name.

The rights of women in Western Europe and those in more conservative and unequal societies are not mutually exclusive. Participation in traditional wedding rituals is not indicative of the subservient conditions women live in; inequality, poverty and social exclusion is. Domestic violence, misogyny and unequal pay transcend naming-practices. Individual women, as women, as feminists, as advocates of equality, as cheese addicts, as name-changers, as Bono-bashers, as dishevelled Wurzel Gummage lookalikes, are not duty bound to carry and exhibit all the apparent tasks of feminism all of the time, or prove their integrity by discarding name changing. Integrity trumps all labels and snooty dismissals of fairly benign practices.

Practically, I get the quiet life appeal of integrated names, but not having experienced any pressure to conform, the thought of changing it never occurred to me. As the bearer of an already inconvenient polysyllabic name, I’m often met with officials’ urgent need to know if I go by it. Well, I often get wench and gobshite, but generally yes. I was delighted when all the Eastern Europeans showed up, and those delightful Africans with their penchant for intricate naming traditions that renders each family member with a different surname. They would give Iceland a run for their newly minted money any day of the week, but they would also give us all a lesson in the dangers of holding too much stock in the correlation between non-patriarchal name-changing and growth in gender equality. That’s probably in The World Economic Forum Gender Gap Report, too. Only in more sober language.

Awkward: Top 5 cringeworthy moments this week

1. Discovering our wee one is starting school with the boss’s daughter in the same class. Insincere smiles across the sandpit on induction morning and lousy ventriloquist alert to my fella etc. We all know where this is going. Despite every conceivable intervention, they will inevitably end up best mates, *winces* play daters, college roommates, and married. I’ve a pain in my face thinking about the pain in my face all this uncharted civility will give me.

2. Being discovered eating those new Crunchie biscuits straight out of the packet. At 9 in the morning. I’m not going to bother justifying that one. Suffice to say there were a few hormones involved that gate-crashed the pity party that rapidly got out of hand.

3. Getting caught doing a mildly exaggerated impersonation of my Mother-in-Law by her son to his Mother-in-Law. I did an impersonation of him doing an impersonation of my Mother to my Mother in a hole-digging effort to even up the score. We’ll never speak of it again. Had it been the other way around, I’d have saved it for an argument, but he’s so offensively reasonable it’d have any maladjusted person scrambling for the crunchie biscuits.

4. Pretending to kidnap another child at our one’s childminder’s and being unaware of her mother witnessing the performance. I rarely see this woman, but I have fallen in love with her daughter and if I can’t have her, I can pretend to have her. When her mother isn’t around. I got that glazed smile and the suggestion that I speak to my husband about my needs as she calmly reclaimed the child.

5. Being asked if I’m pregnant. Again. It’s always worse for the person casually asking the question so to diffuse any tension, I didn’t contradict her.

Squalor Victoria

An unmarked police car crawled alongside us in the next lane refreshing our hopes for a parade passing through soon.  Not to mention the attitude of charcoal clouds holding court over sun-set; their brooding presence suggesting a menacing atmosphere that turned out to be little more than imaginings of impressionable old minds willingly losing the run of themselves.  Minds of two jumpy passengers on the mooch for some real-time iconography synonymous with televisual images alien to one, though proximate to both. For an island this size, anyway; where borders are all in the mind.

We’d already done two laps of the town at a glacial twenty miles an hour. Ordinarily, I try not to dip below 90 in case I remember where I am. As tour-guide skills go, mine are best applied to the cheese selection of the deli in Sainsbury’s, and the unsolicited pointing out of the declining ratio of pubs to churches.  Local civilisation is on the brink of collapse, I exclaimed wearily in manner of Scarlett O’Hara coming round with a raging hangover, before my fella attempted to skirt over my breakdown by pointing out a few obscure historical facts. It’s a two-hander that guests inwardly wish we’d hastily wrap up; though most have the decency to rewind and enquire if we were serious about Packie Bonner having slept in the bed they are staying in.

Little tests the limits of his hospitality, but I knew by the arched brow addressing me through the rear-view mirror, I was being given sole custody of my friend’s evening once she declared a need to see an Orange Parade. Mistaking the group of glamorous women hovering outside the old jail as fellow lambeg fans, we were swiftly dispatched at the gates and given the cross-community salute of g’luck before he sped off back home to the comfort of his personal safety, and sense.

Turned out the women were taking a guided tour of the jail before heading on for a few drinks. I thought I knew all there was to know about novel hen party themes. That’ll be one to add to the interrogation skills workshop, and build your own safe house weekend, so.  Without so much as the idle threat of an air-roll of a drum in earshot, there was nothing for it but to tag along.

The Victorians turned out to be an equal opportunity bunch – no child was too small or young to be incarcerated; no crime too ridiculous to land oneself a spell in the A or B wing in the company of 20 or more others in a space no bigger than a box room with irregular rations of food and the vacant stare into an uncertain future for company. Photos of previous occupants lined the walls. “Look at this wee fella, he couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. 1998?” “No ye eejit, that’s 1898”.

But enough on this latter day direct provision centre, and its shameful treatment of its in-mates; hark the unmistakable sound of marching men advancing towards us.

Our effervescent guide was wrapping up with an anecdote about the time the prison featured in Britain’s Most Haunted programme.

prison cell

Yup, enough room there for all of Mumford & Sons, Gaelgoirs, politicians, sun-worshippers, cinema pop-corn chompers, and the people behind on-line parenting magazines.

Descending the prison steps, I recognised the woman at the gate as a local community activist. “Are you down for a march? My mate here has never seen one”, I casually announced hoping my mate would twig the impossible nuances of this exchange and resist joining in. “Nah, I can’t be bothered, but there’s a band out tonight in fancy dress, sort of a tradition on the 11th night to collect money for charity”. With that, said band rounded the corner and stalled at the old army barracks at the top of the hill.

Is that…? Could it be? Noooo, I fought with myself, squinting again to be sure as we drew closer. Well, I’ll be damned. A few numbers on the spot before their leader put them at ease then finally dismissed them. Declaring it time to take a taxi home, I turned on my heel guffawing at the prospect of a clairvoyant turning up at the barracks in years to come convinced she had seen Spider Man and Bat Man marching on the eve of the 12th of July in this very street.

It transpired the taxi driver had played for the last few inmates in the prison forty years ago; a few blues numbers with his amateur band. They went on to play a Dublin club shortly after where their support was an outfit whose name he gleefully made us guess. Not Showaddywaddy nor or Bagatelle. Or The Boomtown Rats. Or Dickie Rock, who was already an internationally acclaimed artist by then.

He pressed us to give up for added shock value. All part of the repartee.

“OK then, who?”, we reluctantly played along, engine ticking over.

“Thin Lizzy”

No way, I thought. Imagine – those stone floors in that frighteningly austere building were home to inmates less than forty years ago. 29, to be exact.

Synth Vincent

st. vincent

St. Vincent spots another freak in the audience

We’re giving it socks from the ankles down to Annie Clark (St. Vincent) when she takes a moment from seducing us with another dazzling stairway-to-hell guitar riff to address us directly. She had already welcomed her audience “one and all, the freaks, the dominated, and dominatrix” (Oh stop *blushes*) because she’s certain she knows us from bygone days.

“Didn’t you at one time dream of taking flight?”, she poses in her faint Texan drawl. “Young arms outstretched, empty pizza boxes attached to each one before making the leap then falling and grazing your knees?” We’ve entered Annie’s realm of universal connection. “Yeah, we just dreamt of pizza”, quipped the bloke behind me.

Ah, relief. The tension in this threat of twee finally punctured enabling us to get back to the main business of enjoying the tunes from a musical deviant and her impressive cast of collaborators. It’s all angular and robotic dancing consistent with the sounds generated from shoving fistfuls of genres (pop, jazz, cabaret, metal?) through a four-(wo)manned mincer. Seamless rows of off-kilter and discordant arrangements fall out the outer end, chopped and topped by virtuoso guitar from its inventive conductor dipping through her back catalogue.

It’s all maddeningly familiar but entirely fresh, delivered by the love-child of Edward Scissorhands and a geisha. As a virgin show-goer, you’re guaranteed to wake up the following morning with thumping synth riffs competing for airplay and wondering what the hell you just saw. Thoroughly dominated, then.

Standout tracks: Your Lips Are Red, Digital Witness, Birth in Reverse, and.. well, all of them, really.

Sofa so good

Another summer, another attempt at a relaxing holiday. Here’s how it started out this time round: me squawking at a hotel manager intent on exporting us to their ‘sister’ venue on the outskirts of town.  The sister being the socially inept, bad-tempered, tuneless boring sibling of the fun-loving Mary Poppins. The call flashed on the screen as we pulled into the carpark with an alarming ease that should’ve really set my nerves on edge there and then. No-one gets a spot by the door in this life without paying for it. Certain the call was part of the soon-to-be-impressed-by sucking-up procedure to confirm our ETA and notify of us of the fresh cake awaiting us, I casually slipped the phone back unanswered in my bag; then gave it a nanosecond before anxiously fishing it out to listen to the voicemail as we waddled through the main doors.

A vision of indifference grimaced before us. I could hear my breathing rising an octave as details of a leaked pipe dripped forth from the lips of a receptionist a little too vacant looking round the gills. This conflicted with the checking-in tête-à-tête anxiety attack I’d been fearing but hoping to get through as quickly as possible. No-one encounters such arrival-by-numbers-chat without paying dearly for it in aches from rictus smiles and the distinct dirty feeling that one’s voice had a touch of helium throughout.

“We’re very sorry but the leak was just discovered this afternoon”

“The traffic wasn’t too bad, thanks”

“I’m afraid we’re over-booked for the evening”

“Ah it’s not that far now with the M50”

“Would you like to talk to the manager?”

“Coffee, black, no sugar.  This is great altogether”

*wincing on sounding like my Mother with that last response*

witch wizardmary poppins

                                                         Separated at birth, apparently

Mercifully my sister anxiety took over. The one that’s borderline uppity assertive while being overbearingly unreasonable by frequently pointing out that “in fact” she’s being more than reasonable; fangs bared throughout.

*taking it back down two octaves*

“Thank you, Ms. Stepford. Yes, we will see the manager now”.

We repaired to the sofa of customer service. Weddings (and subsequent divorces) were undoubtedly planned from the very same sunken spot. Many a chin stroked over the merits of having the tea and sandwiches before or during the disco part of the reception, so I took inspiration from those who had hunched over before me and gathered myself for some heavy negotiations.

The following afternoon I overheard a young bloke on the same sofa enthusiastically regale a suit with the one about his Da sending him off to sell a car that had no tax or insurance. He was just about to close the deal when our one’s Da re-appeared with the sun-cream, scuppering my chances of hearing how he clinched it in the end. If his sofa experience was anything like ours, he’ll have bagged the job. The yarn was a response to a request for an example of when he used his own initiative, which till then out-performed mine.  I tried to sell a dilemma without any tact or assurance (that I didn’t pose a risk of going postal).

Surfacing from the silence he had reclined into under a baseball cap, my fella eventually leaned forward to “suggest, that in the circumstances, we take a double room for tonight, and see how tomorrow goes”.  And with that, and a handful of requisite head-scratches, we were given our keys. God, he’s so reasonable.. How I am meant to relax?

The whole good was taken out of the cake. So I ordered a pint.

Seven Seven

Department of Speculation's avatardepartment of speculation

I’d been pottering around earlier scratching my head over the significance of today’s date. It kept staring back at me throughout the morning.  Checking my phone, flicking through my diary, composing a letter. There’s something about today. It took till lunchtime to twig it.

I was in a similarly listless state that morning, landing in late to a Mexican heave of relief across speechless faces. What? Surely being late isn’t a crisis that merits this reaction.

The news was haemorrhaging across the city. Russell Square. Tavistock Square. Edgeware Road. They meant little to me before. Now they’re universally known place-names synonymous with death and destruction.

The eeriness trickled southwards over the bridge as the day wore on. Peckham. Camberwell. Brixton. All reverent wake houses with business not as usual, heads shaking in disbelief.

A few posts back I mourned my own wee corner of London. Friday evenings down The Hermit’s Cave where we…

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Muckers

Smack bang in the middle of a belly laugh, interrupting myself to correct a detail in her version of the re-telling of a yarn involving some hi jinx the pair us got up to; pausing to get the odd passing in-joke it might take me a second to remember.  Short-hand chat, one finishing the other’s victories or injuries, euphemisms we forget that others can’t ever remember.  Fighting passionately over the most trivial things (whether it’s better to wash dishes with or without detergent (it was a stressful time); I AM better at reading maps; you did NOT say that etc.); flitting to the most indulgent excesses of praise volunteered for on behalf of the other (“you’re amazing at y”, “you’re fucking brilliant at x”). Giggling at how we both bagged coloured-in versions of dreams, the outlines of which we had devoted hours to drawing (“he’ll be quiet but he’ll get you”; “you’ll have four, three girls, one boy”). Wondering. Reading the silence. Interpreting wrongly. Righting it with a hug. Not going home just yet. Yet knowing that’s where we each belong now. Too far from one another. Too many missed laughs between us; too few opportunities to be ridiculous; and always feeling all the lighter for it. The raging range of destinations that only a session with a best mate can lead to.

********

In response to a ten minute writing prompt from me feathered aul mucker, Wee Blue Birdie, with the topic “Where would you rather be right now?” Feel free to grab and get gabbling with it.