When my father died, countless people approached me to relate how much they liked him or to share a memory. At the time, it could be difficult to listen to: the tributes were delivered with the very best of intentions, of course, but they were propelled by their grief. Sometimes, I found myself comforting them, when I had enough pain of my own to deal with.
So many years later, I treasure every syllable uttered to me at the that time; and what was striking about it, then and now, was how so many of them used the same word to describe my father: gentleman. He was a gentleman.
A gentleman is a person who, if you say something stupid, won't point it out: an ability that takes patience, kindness, empathy and wisdom.
The sensation of that time returned vividly at the start of this month when Tomás Clancy died. Tomás was a regular contributor to my radio show, the wine correspondent for the Sunday Business Post, a lawyer, a teacher, a student, a music guru, a polymath, a father and a husband. He was also a gentleman. On social media, in emails and texts and the various pieces published about him, the word cropped up with an unerring frequency.
In another context, “gentleman” as a descriptor might imply that the person had notions: that they saw themselves as some sort of courtly, quasi-nobility; and many of the various dictionary definitions refer to a gentleman as a member of the landed gentry, or someone who doesn’t have to work for financial gain, who is chivalrous to ladies, or, to quote that much attributed phrase, can play the accordion, but doesn’t.
Yet in the Irish context, (accordion-playing aside), it means something quite different. Oddly, for a word with its roots firmly in the British class system, it is one of the highest compliments you can pay to an Irish man. In Ireland, a gentleman is the opposite of a snooty layabout: he is someone who is devoid of snobbishness, who is respectful to all people, regardless of their socio-economic background or intellect.
A gentleman is a person who, if you say something stupid, won’t point it out: an ability that takes patience, kindness, empathy and wisdom. These are qualities that are honed over time. Call a 25-year-old a gentleman and it’s almost certainly ironic. But call a middle-aged man a gentleman, and they’ve earned it.
Young men can grow up on a diet of thuggish sportsmen and narcissistic musicians. They can grow up with the idea that to solve a problem, you simply have to hit it.
Because I’m not a gentleman, I’m going to stick my oar into an area that might not be any of my business; though I think it should concern all of us. Feminism isn’t just about an equal number of women getting to be CEOs or government ministers: it’s about generating a pervasive respect that we should all enjoy and furnish to each other. Gender or sexuality or skin colour or whether we might prefer to live in a caravan over a house should be irrelevant. Because we’re all fragile humans. If we had that, so much else would follow.
For young women, to whom we would wish to teach this idea of respect, there are plenty of feminist role models in popular culture and elsewhere. But for young men, who also have to be taught this idea of respect, the role models are far scarcer. They can grow up on a diet of thuggish sportsmen and narcissistic musicians. They can grow up with the idea that to solve a problem, you simply have to hit it.
It’s a depressing thought. Yet when I read all the comments about Tomás, I found myself indulging an odd sort of hope. The likes of him – the genuine gentlemen – are the role models our young men need. His two sons had one. I had one. And it’s a safe bet that they are not the only two gentlemen our country has produced.
It doesn’t solve all problems, of course; and personally, I know I’ll never be kind enough or wise enough to be the gentlemen they were. But it’s something to aim for.