Over the past few weeks, I have heard President Connolly wax lyrically about the Irish language. It is obvious that she had a great experience with the language in her formative years. She seems oblivious that her experience is not shared by a substantive minority of 1 million citizens in the population – who have no interest or developed a particular disdain for the cupla focail.
Many have described with bitterness their childhood experience of having the Irish language beaten into them. I count myself among those. Even at 75 years old I can still feel the pain on my hands and elsewhere when the leather was used with excessive force to try and instil in me a gra for the Gaelic but all to no avail I am afraid to say. Here is my story having to deal with that language.
St Joseph’s Industrial School
I was incarcerated in St Joseph’s industrial school in Tralee, Co Kerry for 8 years. From the beginning of that time there were two subjects that seemed to preoccupy the teaching staff – one was religion, which was somewhat tolerable, however the second one was the Irish language, which was met with fierce resistance by many boys due to the excessive use of force to instil it into our heads.
On my first day in 3rd class, it was my misfortune along with 20 other boys to encounter brother Murphy who was our Irish teacher. He had a fierce reputation for violence in trying to instil the Irish language into the boys of St Joseph’s.
Not an Irish Name
At enrolment he enquired of me what was my name. When I replied, Michael Clemenger, he let out a loud roar. Clemenger that is not an Irish name. What kind of a mongrel half bit of a leftover boy are you? We will have to do something about that. He wrote my new name on the blackboard Micheal Amadan. From now on you will respond to Amadan not Clemenger.
Over the months he tried in vain to instil even the basics of the language into our heads. It was common as a result for boys to be sent to sick bay for repairs following savage beatings with the leather. He took particular pleasure when boys returned to class unable to sit at their desk on both cheeks such was their discomfort. To me it seemed that some of the boys almost lost the will to live such was the terror brother Murphy engendered in them.
Latin rather than Irish
When he tried it with me, I walked out of the class to complain to two senior brothers. Brother Murphy was aware of my association with them. He often saw me coming out of their rooms late at night. In exacerbation one morning he called out loud Amadan come up here, I have a question I would like to ask you, as he sat back in his chair with a smirk on his face. Why Amadan are you able to answer the Latin Mass so well and not be able to speak a few words of Irish. Why is that?
I hesitated for a moment before answering
I like the Latin sir.
Can you give the class an example of your Latin skills. The sarcasm in his voice was not lost on me. With that I gave the blessing that Father O Neill gave at the end of daily Mass.
‘Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus’
(May almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit)
Brother Murphy was not amused when all the other boys in the class blessed themselves with smiles on their faces. You don’t like the Irish language in the same way Amadan.
No sir.
Why is that?
I can’t learn what’s beaten into me. Brother Murphy told me to get back to my desk before you feel the leather on your backside. I never quite developed a gra for the language years later, where I had to learn it in order to matriculate and go to university. When I entered Trinity College as an undergraduate on my first day, I wondered what brother Murphy would have made of Micheal Amadan. Also, I feel a lot more sadness for some of the boys in my class, who had abandoned any interest in further education when they left school because of their experiences. Some of them were assigned to the cobblers, the tailors or carpentry shops where they made the most of their allocations.
The Fainne
Over the years I have met academics wearing the Fainne with pride. A Fainne is a pin badge worn to show fluency in Irish language. I sensed a certain snobbery by them on those of us who still cannot speak a word of Irish. Like President Connolly, many seem to have a wonderful association with the Irish language. By way of response and to keep them grounded I always ask them the same question.
Why is it that Padraic Pearse on the steps of the General Post Office before the start of the 1916 Rising did not deliver the proclamation of the Republic in Irish?
(c) Michael Clemenger
About The Secret of the Clay by Michael Clemenger:
This book was written out of years of curiosity about the iconic image of Padraic Pearse’s surrender to the British forces commanding Officer Major General WHM Lowe in the 1916 surrender in Dublin Ireland. This image had a pair of concealed ankles of a woman whose name I did not know. Why she had been whitewashed out of the surrender picture I presumed was political.
I was surprised to see a full-sized portrait of this iconic picture go on display in Seanad Eireann in March 2021. At last, I had a name for the concealed ankles – Elizabeth O’ Farrell. I decided to find out more about her. I could never have imagined the exciting journey of discovery I was about to encounter.
Why had I not read more about Elizabeth O’ Farrell and other 1916 women in my history studies? The answer came when I discovered that Elizabeth O’ Farrell had been buried in Glasnevin cemetery with a woman by the name of Sheila Grenan.
In writing this historical fiction account of the role of Elizabeth O’ Farrell and Sheila Grenan I have tried to give a flavour of the life these women chose to live together as one until the death of Elizabeth in June 1957.
Order your copy online here.
And you can read more from Michael Clemenger on Writing.ie here.
