"cad" poems - Hello Poetry

“Oh you’re Irish?” he said. “Did you learn the language much?” he said. Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question. Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?) No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age. Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child. Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony. But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen. Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school. Looking back I wonder, what was the point? A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity. Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?). And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores. It could have all been so different. Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture. Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors. Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then. You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page. We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others, not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them. Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt. But that’s not something I got from my secondary school. June-July 2018

0

Sep 12, 2018

Sep 12, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC

sean-m-o-kane

Teanga (Language)

“Oh you’re Irish?” he said. “Did you learn the language much?” he said. Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question. Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?) No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age. Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child. Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony. But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen. Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school. Looking back I wonder, what was the point? A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity. Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?). And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores. It could have all been so different. Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture. Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors. Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then. You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page. We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others, not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them. Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt. But that’s not something I got from my secondary school. June-July 2018