Interview with an Irishman

17 April 2011
387

R. Linda:

The other day, we were sent to a conference on Interviewing. We had to pair off and ask our partner a question, any question that would get an interview off and provide reasonable answers. I did mine on the "Art of Pushing Pencils and Trying to Look Busy." Me partner was quite honest in his responses and I had to admit there is an art to looking busy when one is not.

He, in turn, asked the age-old and baited question: What's an Irishman? Such a question right? I thought so when it was first posed to ME, of all people. I was wondering what rock the questioner lived under and then looked closely to see if his eyes be crossed and took a sniff to see if whiskey be on his breath. But no to either and so I did what me own sainted Mam told me never to do, I answered a question with a question. Brilliant! And me question was this: "How'd ya mean?"

Like I say brilliant!

He looked at me long and hard and then shrugged and said,

"They say (the public does), that you Irish are charmers, any truth in that? And please give me an example."

"Oh begorrah no we are not! I can cite me Grandda as being the most uncharming Irishman in the entire country of Ireland. I remember being in the country with him on his farm when I was a wee lad of 7. Two French tourists had got themselves lost on his country lane and so stopped to ask directions. You would have thought they pulled him away from something more important than looking at a crack in the wall which is what he had been doing. He levelled a full-brow stare he did. Now let me give ye an example of a 'full brow', and please don't try this at home UNLESS ye be Irish, otherwise ye may never get rid of the expression -- it be when your forehead crinkles in so many lines you look like a Shar-pei, and the eyebrows come way down over the eyes so ye can't see those at all, and the cheeks plump up to meet the forehead so it looks like your face be squished and the chin juts out making the mouth look like a severe line. I think in Mexico it be called the 'stank face' but in me country it is the 'full brow' and it be mean mean-looking either way. He levelled that hostile stare at em' and said with contempt in his voice, that they were out in the middle of nowhere and that was that and not to bother him when he was working! I be sure the image lives with those two poor lost souls to this day." So charming? I need to go off and laugh.

 "Well, friendly then, the Irish are friendly sorts are you not?" Me partner decided to attack this Irishman question by coming down a notch from charming to friendly. OH ME ARSE let me snicker now!


"Oh sure we be friendly," I said chuckling to meself, thinking we can be overly so if we want something. "I remember when me cousin Sean was "friendly" to a family of American tourists from New York. He had come upon them picnicking near the Cliffs of Moher one sunny day. He had been biking uphill so he was in amok sweat to reach the top and he was very thirsty as a result. Stupid as he is, he had forgotten his water bottle so he was in powerful need of refreshment. As he approached the picnickers they gave him a friendly wave and he did so back and well, that was all he needed for an invitation and pulled himself and his bike up to where they were. Yes, he did. I don't know if they expected such, but there he was. In our lyrical Irish accented way he spoke about what a wonderful day for a picnic and ride up the cliffs he did. They chatted thinking he'd take off but no, no, cousin Sean put down the kickstand on the bike and sat himself down among them. Without being asked, he picked up a sanny and started munching and talking and regaling them with his stupidity and then asked the taken aback woman, if she'd pass him a can of Pepsi. This she did, looking at her husband totally bewildered and when cousin was done with the lunch, he got up, thanked them and continued his biking uphill leaving the family short a couple of sannys and two cans of Pepsi. So friendly? Sure we are!"


"Well . . . " me partner said scratching his head, "the Irish are known for their religious fervour, right?"


This was a statement more than a question and there again I had to laugh. 


"Doesn't matter if one is Catholic, Proddy or doesn't believe in anything, we all bring the Saints' names into play when something happens. For example, we had a neighbour, young Billy McGlick, who professed to believe in nothin' because he was done with the battle between the two main religions in Ireland, and so he was joining the non-third religion, the atheists. He was a practising atheist for more years than I can remember, but one day in July the Orangemen were gearing up for a parade and the Catholics in town were not having it. This business got the two sides rock-throwing and name-callin' and well, it was a restless mess. Ye needed a hardhat to walk from one side of town to the other ye did. Well, Billy thought because he was an atheist he was immune from all this nonsense and hardhat? Nah, he had a hard head and he even had a tee shirt that said I AM A PRACTICING ATHEIST on it, that he wore proudly.  As he walked by the warring masses, he moved by unscathed because both sides were rather stunned to see an atheist in their midst. This worked until he got down to the very end of town where the train station was, and there, unbeknownst to the Catholic and Proddy population, were British troops newly arrived to keep the peace. Well, Billy didn't come upon them until the very last and when he did, he stopped in the middle of the street where they were congregating and realised the mode of dress had suddenly changed with the accent. They were rather surprised to see a local stroll into their circle and so stared back at him just as surprised as he was. Billy didn't hold out his shirt like he did as he passed his neighbours, no it was more like how can I cover this shite up? When a young soldier pointed at Billy's shirt and shouted at him, "Ey! Wot gives?" That was all Billy had to hear and he turned and started to run, which be the last thing one should do in that situation. Because as he started off, they all naturally thought he was an instigator and took off after him. Didn't take much to catch him, the soldiers being in better physical shape than Billy. When they had him he protested and they dragged his arse back and oh, the platitudes that came out of his mouth! He was begorrahing and Jesus, Mary and Josephing, and by the saints this and that, all the way to the major who took him in for agitating riot. So doesn't matter what we are, we exercise religious shouting of saints' names no matter which we are even if like Billy, we are a practising atheist."


"Well, hearing THAT story Gabe, are the Irish plain fools?" My partner ventured to ask in frustration.


I couldn't get upset over that, I have all along said that some of us can be foolish, like me cousin Sean, and some of us can be cunning and devious like me Grandda, but some of us can be quite the smarties. 


"In literature we have taken the Queen's English and painted verbal rainbows with the words, to use an Irish friend of mine's thoughts on that very subject. We have the most famous and sought-after classical literature in the world and the authors are all stories in themselves. We can put fingers to the keyboard and charm the keys to create wonderful scenes of romance, tragedy, inspiration, imagination, you name it we can do it and it doesn't take much, it comes naturally. I have no clue why that is, but it is. Even meself is what one would call a 'Paddy' because I be the one who never has the luck, gets it wrong most of the time, and be the butt of jokes, but I do have me moments to make ya laugh and grin at the very least. That takes a certain talent it does, so foolish? Like a fox." I grinned at him.


"Well, are all Irishmen great storytellers then?" He tried again.


I scratched me head on that one. Were we all? 


"Hum. Well no, not exactly, but we can be enterprising if nothing else. I do remember when I was in university that there was a woman, one Nancy Finneran, who rather fancied she was good at storytellin'. She got it into her head to write a novel. She'd be the next Ellen O'Connell Fitzsimon she would, but instead of poetry, she'd try a turn at novellas. Well, she wrote up six in the matter of a week apiece. Some feat that considering it can take years to write that great Irish novel. Well, she made the publishing rounds and no one would publish any of her stories. So, enterprising and determined, Nancy decided to self-publish she did and she did! She took a load of books to the local bookstore and asked if they'd like some free publicity and a book signin'. Well, the business was slow, so okay they said have at it. Well, she managed to get all her friends to buy a book and she signed the books, and as people went by they thought, oh a book signin' must be a new and up-and-comin' author, I'll buy a book! And so they did. This went on all day and she had notta book left! Well, a week later, a few disappointed people were arriving at the bookstore for their money back. The bookstore was free of liability as they were not selling Ms. Finneran's books through them, no, no commission, it was just to stimulate business INSIDE the shop they had let her set up a table outside. Well, as ye can imagine, there were some very angry Irish persons stuck with a "book of shite" as one so aptly put it and out (let me calculate and convert currency quickly) about $28.00 American. Before the word got out, Ms. Finneran was able to do two more of these book signings and sold a shite load more of her trashy and not-very-good novels. The same thing happened a week later at those shops as well, Irish persons who had been duped into thinking she was related to the McCourts (I don't know how that happened) demanding their money returned and the same thing, the shops said they hadn't sold any of the books through them, it was just her on her own outside to stimulate business INSIDE. Oi! To this day, Ms. Finneran's notoriety grows as does her purse. There were enough Irish persons stuck with her book that they formed the Nancy Finneran - Most Famous of the Worst Writers in Ireland Club, much after the order of the Oxford Companion's citation of the Greatest Bad Writer Who Ever Lived title which was given to Amanda McKittrick Ros for her self-published trash. But to this day Ms. Finneran sneers that at least she sold over 400 novels in the width of three weeks and continues on in the same fashion all over the emerald isle! Em . . . ok then."


"Well then, all Irishmen can sing!" He stated perplexed, that there must be something we do well.


"Uh, not exactly," I said bursting THAT bubble. "Ye can't judge us by our movies where we get some sappy theme going and some boyo breaks out in song, usually the non-Irish Danny Boy and everyone tears up at such a beautiful tenor singing through his tears. GIVE ME A FREAKING IRISH BREAK! Doesn't happen. We aren't all the Clancy Brothers, we don't always sing in perfect harmony and a Ronan Tynan isn't exactly a common type of Irishman among us. Geez." I said laughing.


"Then you all can dance rings around the rest of us, right?"


"Oh here we go," I said, "for one, the entire country is not made up of River Dancers, no, some of us are so in our cups we don't know the left foot from the right, and many of us sport two left feet naturally." I shook me head.


"Michael Flatley is exceptional though." He muttered.


"MICHAEL FLATLEY?" I shouted stunned, "He's not a son of Ireland he was born in Chicago, has affected an Irish accent, is good at Spanish dance that looks Irish and he dresses like he's at a Cinco de Mayo celebration half the time!" I was livid I was. 


"Doesn't he have a castle in Ireland where Michael Jackson stayed?" I was asked.


"There ye go! Proves it!" I threw me hands up like well what else do you need to prove he isn't one of us? "He be an Irish AMERICAN." 


"You are getting feisty on me," he said looking a little uncomfortable. 


"Feisty?" I looked back at him as if insulted, but I wasn't. 


"Irish . . . like to start fights. Fighting Irish and all that right? You are all a stand-up and fight kind of race."


Another statement. Hum, should I punch him in the nose and prove it, or say something "feisty" instead? I decided to take him head-on with more verbiage.


"We don't go lookin' to knock ya on yer arse if that's what ya mean. No, we do get a bit "feisty" if ya start callin' us stupid, thick, dolts, Paddy's, and dirty Irish. Then we get upset and yeah if ya keep at us, we will do somethin' about it, but we all aren't born pugilists. Take me sister, Sheila for instance. She was being bullied by two girls a couple of grades ahead of her. She didn't tell any of us at home because me sissy be the type she will handle situations in her own good time and on her own. Did I mention we can be an independent lot? So this carried on every day after school. She'd be walkin' home and they'd come up and make fun of her reddish hair and freckles (which while we be on the subject, not everyone in Ireland be fair-skinned, freckled and sporting a mop of curly red hair), but me sissy was one of those rare birds. These two said she was the daughter of leprechauns because of it, and so stereotyping was going on big time. Well, sissy said nothing, just kept walking and once the two bullies turned off to their street she was left quite alone to plot how to get even. We do have that going for us, we do think about getting even if we are harassed enough and it takes a lot to get us there it does, fierily red hair or no. Well, me sissy had taken notice of how many people she knew with ginger (red) hair. And there were seven. That was a good number it was. So, she set off in her spare time of befriending these redheads and they were mostly older than she, but one younger. She made sure to not be seen with any of them until she was ready. Me clever sister formed a club of sorts, the Redheads it was called. She got the group of them together and put the question to them, had they been bullied or made fun of by non-redheads? And the answer was an overwhelming YES! Had this and that happened to them? YES! Were they tired of it? YES! Did they want to do something about it? YES! So the club was formed and they made it seem very exclusive which it was. Unless you had red hair you couldn't be a member, BUT then she thought, hey wait a minute, if these non-redheads are willing to stand up for us, they should be members. So the little club of 7 became 10, then a few more until there were 24 members, meself included! Word got out and the red-haired people were popular, they were having fun! And the two bullies saw this, they wanted to join too! Well, me sissy being a fair-minded player, decided they would have to take a swearin' in they would. They'd have to swear to uphold the membership rules and abide by the fact that the redheads were in charge. They did! It was an ingenious thing she did and I was very proud to be a card-caring member of the Red Head Club. Oh and a note, one of the bullies became her best friend and was a bridesmaid in her wedding party. So you see we might have the fight in us, but we also are diplomats of sorts, and enterprising to boot!


Me partner nodded with a smile. He liked it, was a better story than answer, but he had one last question and that was the dreaded, "Irishmen are known as drunkards, why do people think that, is it true?"


"Oh, can we talk about Michael Flatley instead?" I joked. "Really, he's a great Irish American who has done a lot for Irish dance," I said. Me friend squinted at me waiting and I sighed, nothing for it but to explain that too.


"Well, I've told many a story meself about us and the drink. But let me preface this with the fact I think the UK as a whole loves its beer, whiskey and scotch. I would like to say we know how to relax after a day at the office or hard physical toil we do. A stop at the pub before going on home is as natural a thing as finding old ladies in a tea shop. We be a social lot we are, and where better a place to meet I ask you? But let me say I know for a fact the nationality that drinks the most is wee Luxembourg. Ye can look it up, it isn't the Irish thank you very much." And with that, I ended our interview or thought I did. As me friend got up to leave he turned and gave me a parting shot to think about, yes he did.


"You know Gabe what Sigmund Freud said about your race?"


"No, what?" I asked.


"He said, "The Irish are one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.""


"Touche'!" I said to his retreating back and I had to laugh as I gathered up me things, it was certainly something to think about.

Gabe
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