Eirerate

If you haven’t seen Brooklyn, you should.  Saoirse Ronan is the actress of her generation, and her portrayal of an Irish immigrant torn between two countries and two families is something to behold.  The scene with her Italian soon-to-be in-laws is also precious, and Jim Broadbent’s performance as an Irish priest is an homage to every actor who played every Irish priest ever.

But the real stars here are the older Irish women.  The mother of the main character (Ellis) lost a husband and one daughter.  When her remaining daughter leaves for America, her response is the classic Irish mom who won’t complain (you’re not supposed to),but clearly reveals her pain anyway.  The woman who runs the bakery in Ireland where Ellis works is the passive-aggressive Irish widow.  Her need to control everything is evident to everyone, including her—but she doesn’t care.  She pretends to keep her compulsion behind a veil of politeness, and the veil is pretty transparent. At the end of the day, she is plain old petty and mean.

Finally, the owner of the boarding house where Ellis lives in America is just a gem.  She steers the dinner conversation with that mix of engagement and play-by-play that is distinctly Irish.  One moment, she’s gregariously asking thoughtful questions.  The next, she’s offering commentary on why someone said something so thoughtless with a tone that borders on spitting.  It’s been said that the question no one has to utter in a true Irish household is “What do you really think?”  That’s more than the case here.

Given my family’s lineage, ours was a pretty peaceful household. Dad’s family was actually more German, with a good dose of French, but the Irish surname outlasted all takers.  Most of my Irish comes from Mom’s side, where the heritage was more pronounced.  In both cases, they were raised in households where conflict was apparent, but not discussed—kind of like Ellis’s workplace in Ireland—or it came in brief outbursts, which, once over, allowed people to continue with their lives, but only sort of.  Like removing a splinter, my people yell to get something out of their system, and once it’s out, to them, life goes on.  Observers may feel the need to consider (or feel) the collateral damage, but the initiator of the outburst is oblivious, and feels better—so, onward.

I’m sorry to say that was part of my family line I took with me when leaving home, and it took a very, very long time for me to understand that, to most of the rest of the world, this was pretty unusual, if not disturbing.  I’ve been considered angry, afraid, unstable, and more, all because of the need to vent my spleen in a way most Irish people not only understand, but participate in.  Like all things in life, it’s important to consider your audience, and I was clueless about that for a long, long time.

The other Irish trait I took with me is, at least in my opinion, more endearing, where I offer commentary on things where other people can’t respond.  I tell the quarterback when to throw the ball.  A video demonstrating the serving of a deli hot dog leads me to say “French fries and nacho sauce on a hot dog?  Are you crazy?” Cat videos (more specifically, kitten videos) bring out my best baby voice. In my heart of hearts, I know they can’t hear me, but I feel better telling them anyway.

I guess I’m still venting my spleen, but more gently.  Usually.

Here’s to the day that will end.

Fly

In my left
The last training wheel
In my right
The liberating crescent wrench
And in the time I thought
About putting both down to push her
She was away
A gleam in her eye that filled the world
A helmet the size of the globe.

She wasn’t rude
Or impatient
Just eager to try out two wheels
Not four.
So I stood in garage shadows
While she pedaled toward driveway sunlight
All with her quiet delight
Mine understanding more
Of parenthood’s nature.

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