Julie Breathnach-Banwait is a chartered psychologist, poet, bilingual writer, editor and mother from Ceantar na n-Oileán in Connemara, Co Galway. She has lived outside of Ireland for 22 years, 13 of those in Western Australia with her husband and son. She is currently editor of the Journal of the Australian Irish Heritage Association and has published two poetry collections, Dánta Póca (2020) and Ar thóir gach ní (2022).
On a recent visit to Galway, before being grounded by Covid, I was entering the all-too-familiar doors of the University Hospital, when I heard it, ‘fáilte go ospidéal na hollscoile, Gaillimh.’ Visitors and staff bustled past untouched, swallowed by purpose into a maze of hospital corridors and sliding doors. I waited. It repeated. ‘Welcome to university hospital, Galway.’ A woman’s soft voice, it was, a familiar lilt, identical to my own.
This was new. I hadn’t heard my language spoken in the city like that before. It was acknowledgement. It was inclusion. It felt like I belonged.
I am bilingual. I wasn’t always. I grew up with the Irish language. Everybody in my house, family and community spoke it. It was a Gaeltacht. All seemed clear and we got on with our lives.
For a young child, language is merely a vehicle for communication thus I did not know that I was an Irish speaker until I was labelled so by a non-Irish speaker.
I remember asking my Mum if I was an Irish speaker and she told me I was in fact and that was just fine. I deduced however, in time, that many people outside of my community found this odd and sometimes a little intriguing.
Divulging that you are an Irish speaker usually thrusts a conversation on a path of awe or silence, both of which are equally baffling. The questions of language and identity started to intrigue me.
Off I went to school. Formal English teaching began. I scarpered home sprightly and told my Mom all about it. She told me she already knew it, could speak it herself and that it wasn’t that big of a deal. My peace-keeping Mum reasoned people could speak any language they wished as long as they were not hurting anyone.
As I grew and became more accustomed to English, I began to feel like two people, seamlessly switching between two languages. I began to realise how much languages shape who we are, how we think and what we think about.
Fast forward 20 years. University. Emigration. Work. I had become engrossed and had succumbed unbeknownst into the English-speaking world. The gnawing of being two people every now and again reared its ugly two heads every now and again and led me to explore social constructionism. Being bilingual made this complex and a whole lot of fun.
Whilst visiting home, I needed to attune my ear each time to convert to Irish. It generally returned rather smoothly, until the gaps widened between visits. I hadn’t noticed the fading at first until a native speaker from my community came to stay with me here in Australia and spoke to me in Irish. It felt natural and comfortable, as natural and comfortable as it can feel to speak Irish whilst surrounded by the Australian bush and the Indian Ocean.
I awakened to the uncomfortable idea that my Irish had been nesting dormant, waiting for me to disrupt its slumber, brush the dust off it and put it to work. So I did. The immersive claw back ensued.
