The Irish-related words I remember best from my childhood are “dún an doras”, followed by “twasn’t a field you were brought up in”. And a wink.
I didn’t learn Irish because my family emigrated to Yorkshire when I was three. I am the youngest of seven children and we left behind our dog, Prince, and a bungalow in Offaly to move into a terraced house, with stairs and attics, that my father bought in Rotherham.
It was hard-earned. Both my parents were manual workers until they retired.
It didn’t surprise me that our unrelated milkman came from our village.
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Our next-door neighbours were from Pakistan. As was our experience, the men usually settle, then their families follow. When a petition against our new neighbours came from our old neighbours, my father refused to sign. “Always remember we have as much or as little right to be here, as them.”
He had experienced the days of, “no Irish, no blacks, no dogs”.
Once, on my annual holiday home, a cousin taught me to say: “Is gé mé” – which I repeated confidently, wondering why people smiled (It means, “I am a goose”). Undaunted, I learned to count to 10 and pronounce, “go raibh maith agat”, like a Gaeilgeoir.
At primary school, when I stressed the “h” in why, what, where and when, the teacher humiliated me for class entertainment. Another teacher asked me to “translate” when a child spoke with an Irish accent. Other ethnicities fared as badly, if not worse. One teacher threw the board duster at bilingual Polish kids if they stumbled over a word.
At home, I got a clip round the ear for using Yorkshire slang.
I learned to speak with what I thought was neither accent. I could pass as English. The downside was, I grew up in the era of the ubiquitous “Thick Paddy” stereotype. I was a teenager before I had the guts to identify as Irish and not feel ashamed to call out the put-downs – to predictable responses.
Perhaps for some, the popularity of learning or relearning Irish could be down to nostalgia, the Kneecap effect, the popularity of films like An Cailín Ciúin, post-Brexit passport envy
I first heard native Irish speakers when I moved to London at 16 to do NHS domestic, care and catering work. In the hospitals, work roles were differentiated mostly by uniforms, but our ethnicities also classified us. I don’t really do envy, but I envied the sense of belonging and “home” all the native speakers had with their array of languages.
It wasn’t until I was in my 20s, with a few degrees (from social sciences to masters in social policy and journalism, mostly paid for myself), and while working as a housing activist, living with my Russian-Jewish then partner, that I tried an Irish evening class.
Sadly, soon afterwards, my father, recently retired back home, died suddenly. The class reminded me of his soft Mayo accent and I could only cry.
This was a hostile time, during the London bombings, when Irish friends would ask me to buy their round with their money, as they felt unsafe with their accents. In Birmingham, I’d seen a “Hang the Irish” banner paraded on the street.
Fast forward to the last few years and the lack of a language I somehow feel I think in, made its presence felt. I empathised with the writer, the late Hilary Mantel, who was also raised in England, who wrote: “I felt a great sadness about the loss, for me, of the Irish language. I was aware my mouth was empty.”
Earlier this year, I tiptapped and hummed amid 50,000 people in Traflagar Square on St Patrick’s Day (another first for me) – my lime green earrings proudly whistling past my ears. On the stage, a musician wearing a keffiyeh translated the lyrics his band were singing. Óró, sé do bheatha ‘bhaile, and I do feel welcome home – happily London-Irish. But sadly, lacking in the vernacular.
Despite already studying Latin, French and Spanish at grammar school; a creative and life writing PhD in my 60s; qualifying professionally as a social and community worker, university teacher and journalist; and surviving as a working, sole parent – learning Gaeilge is a true challenge.
I’ve started classes in the ever-expanding Hammersmith Irish Cultural Centre, where you can go from absolute beginners to more advanced Gaeilge classes. City Lit, an adult education college in Covent Garden also has Irish classes for all abilities. There are too many courses to list, but they’re easily found. No shade on my teachers; I’m bad at obair bhaile or speaking the language, but I love learning and the distinguished and fun company in class
Perhaps for some, the popularity of learning or relearning Irish could be down to nostalgia, the Kneecap effect, the popularity of films like An Cailín Ciúin, post-Brexit passport envy, newly excavated antecedents – or that unshakeable confidence about being Irish here and now, that is so good to savour.
- Anna Derrig was born in Tullamore, Co Offaly. Her family left when she was three, in 1958. She is a freelance writer now living in London.
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