THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO RETURN FROM THE WEST: A POETICS OF VOICE IN IRISH VOLUME ONE A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED TO THE FACULTY OF THE DIVISION OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCES IN CANDIDACY FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY DEPARTMENT OF ANTHROPOLOGY BY STEVE COLEMAN CHICAGO, ILLINOIS AUGUST 1999 TABLE OF CONTENTS VOLUME ONE LIST OF TABLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v ACKNOWLEDGMENTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vi ABSTRACT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Chapter ONE. INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The term voice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Voice in Irish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Politics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Preview of Chapters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 3 5 9 13 TWO. RÁTH CAIRN: BEYOND THE BLACK PIG’S DYKE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Boundaries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Gaeltacht—beyond geography? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Power and diglossia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Intentional community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The view from the Gaeltacht and the view from the nation-state . . . . . Dissolution? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Authority . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Talk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Personalism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The kin universe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ráth Cairn as a place . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 29 36 42 52 56 68 71 73 78 81 83 85 THREE. THREE THINGS WHICH CANNOT BE LEARNED . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dreoilín (Wren) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The next day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Entrance to the field . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Up the Galties! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My “training” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Learning bilingualism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 89 92 96 98 102 106 ii iii FOUR. THE POET: ELOQUENCE AND VIOLENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A question of character . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “The crack” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Irish characters and “the Irish character” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Do something old . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The historical role of poets and poetry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Medieval Irish antiquarianism: constructing a tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . Eloquence and violence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Modern poetic ideology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Voice and history: poetry as oppositional discourse in the Gaeltacht ........................................................ Máirtín Mac Donncha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TEXT: “Oíche Chiún Cheobranach” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hard talk: an old word about a half word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Symbolic violence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . TEXT: Beairtlín An Gadaí (Beairtlín the Thief) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Discussion of the text . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry as high register . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Two songs by Máirtín Mac Donncha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109 109 112 115 118 120 122 128 131 FIVE. REPOSSESSION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ur-history . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry, prophecy and history . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Return from the West . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Raidió na Gaeltachta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . West and East . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “a ring lit out on the ocean” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The ring of light as a dialectical image . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “A Cat and a Mouse in a Box” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A scene among ruins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The living and the dead . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 181 184 187 189 192 195 214 220 224 228 230 134 137 139 142 148 150 155 161 162 170 179 VOLUME TWO SIX. VOICE: THE NATION, THE STATE, AND THE NEIGHBORS . . . . . . . Something about a bicycle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “We-language” and “they language” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anxieties of Standard Irish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Demography, regimentation, and neurosis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 233 233 236 251 255 iv Coin of the realm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A discourse of linguistic purity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Full sentence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Language and value . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Quotation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Imitation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Voice and the social construction of codes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 261 264 270 271 272 275 277 284 SEVEN. VOICES OF THE DEAD AND A ‘NEW MEDIUM’: MÁIRTÍN Ó CADHAIN’S CRÉ NA CILLE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘A new medium’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ó Cadhain’s realism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lack of transcendence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Clay as medium and trope . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Clarification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ó Cadhain in the public sphere . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 289 290 295 298 301 305 312 320 EIGHT. JOE HEANEY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Joe Heaney as interpreter of a tradition . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Musical form and the act of singing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lyric song as direct discourse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The song and the story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Singing style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Embodiment: “pulse” and “drone” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Sean-nós” as a genre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . “Laments” and caoineadh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Songs as commodities? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Performance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Allegorical lamination of contexts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Narrative, naming, and dance music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Conclusions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 323 323 326 328 332 338 340 346 348 351 353 355 361 363 NINE. CONCLUSION . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Constructions of the person and personal constructions . . . . . . . . . . . . “Language” and community . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Irish-speaking communities and the nation-state . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theories of modernity and the ideology of modernization . . . . . . . . . . 366 366 375 376 381 BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 384 LIST OF TABLES TABLE 4.1: Projected “I” in Beairtlín An Gadaí . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 TABLE 7.1: Cré na Cille, frontispiece (with translation) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 304 v ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I am greatly indebted to the members of my committee for their patience, understanding, and kind support of this project: Paul Friedrich, Jim Fernandez, Eric Hamp, Ray Fogelson, and William Hanks. Likewise to present and former colleagues in the Department of Anthropology, National University of Ireland, Maynooth: Eileen Kane, Abdullahi Osman El-Tom, Séamas Ó Síocháin, Jamie Saris, Larry Taylor, and Stuart McLean. I have benefitted greatly from discussions with Irish-language scholars: Angela Bourke, Conchúr Ó Giollagáin, Eamon Ó Ciosáin, Lillis Ó Laoire, Nancy Stenson, and Gearóid Ó Crualaoich. I am indebted to my fellow students in the Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, for moral support and advice, and to Anne Ch’ien for her patience and assistance. For years of friendship, advice and support, I am grateful to Dale Pesmen, Tania Fel, Michael Wasserman, and Amy Kerwin. I am especially grateful for the kind support of Jimmy Keane and his relations in Chicago and Ráth Cairn. Above all, I am indebted to the people of Ráth Cairn. Tá mé fíor-bhuíoch díobh as an bhfáilte groí a chuir siad romham thar na blianta. Up na Galties! vi ABSTRACT This dissertation centers on a range of practices in spoken and written Irish involving the construction and transmission of poetic "voice." These range from quotation and imitation in conversation to a whole range of types and uses of direct discourse in verbal art, including literature. A range of historical and political issues are centered around the nature and definition of Irish-speaking communities, conflicts over genre, code-switching, dialect and standardization, and the peculiar position of Irish as both a national and a minority language. I argue that these conflicts also involve "voice," since they center on the nature and identities of populations, ideological constructions of who the "best" or most typical Irish speakers are. On another level, this dissertation explores the connections a local community makes between cultural forms and persons. Voicing functions through textualizing various behaviors, making them emblems of particular (as well as generic) personalities. By studying this process, I show how one tradition constitutes itself as such, while constituting its own tradition bearers as recognizable social persons. I also show how unique individuals contribute to and transform these traditions. vii viii The Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking community) of Ráth Cairn, County Meath, was founded in 1935 as a result of grass-roots political agitation—Irish speakers in the West demanding good land in the East. I use the history of Ráth Cairn as a framework for investigating the use of traditional forms of rhetoric by rural Irishspeakers in their negotiations with the state. Irish-speakers engage in a complex dialogue with the power and authority of the Irish state, its ideologies, and those of the wider world beyond. This dissertation is perhaps unique in its attempt to analyze these dynamics through the medium of voice—the range of practices and ideologies governing the reception and transmission of reported speech. CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION This dissertation centers on a range of practices in spoken and written Irish that I gather together under the heading of the construction and transmission of poetic “voice.” These range from quotation and imitation in conversation to a whole range of types and uses of direct discourse in verbal art, including literature. On another level I deal with a range of historical and political issues centered around the nature and definition of Irish-speaking communities, conflicts over genre, code-switching, dialect and standardization, and the peculiar position of Irish as both a national and a minority language. I argue that these conflicts also involve “voice,” since they center on the nature and identities of populations, ideological constructions of who the “best” or most typical Irish speakers are. I worked in an Irish-speaking community (Ráth Cairn, County Meath) which was founded in 1935 as a result of grass-roots political agitation—Irish speakers in the West demanding good land in the East. I use the history of Ráth Cairn as a framework for investigating the use of traditional forms of rhetoric by rural Irish-speakers in their conflicts with the state. Thus, I compare political 1 2 speeches from the 1930s with the narrative reminiscences of older Ráth Cairn people in the 1990s, along with various other genres including poetry, song, and a novel. The construction of voice involves speakers’ intuitions about language and culture, local regional and national ideologies of speaking and of the relation of the act of speaking to culture, the person, and the world. The present-day genre known as sean-nós (‘old-style’) song has been influenced greatly by the intuitions of the singer, Joe Heaney, about singing as a way of speaking, and the stylistic innovations which he brought to the genre as a result. As I show in Chapter 8, Joe Heaney’s innovations came out of a complex dialogue with local and national ideologies and represent an attempt to refigure the politics of style in Ireland and the meaning of Irish-language tradition as a whole. Sean-nós (“oldstyle”) as a label for a genre of song, is a recent creation; Joe Heaney’s understanding of it came out of his synthesis and reformulation of existing genres (“laments” and certain types of song). Due to his own efforts, sean-nós is now a local genre with its own local styles and contexts. Thus the dynamic between local and national culture is played out in large part through the medium of genre. 3 The term voice My choice of the perhaps overly vague term voice is deliberate. Linguists, anthropologists and critics have long been interested in reported speech;1 lately it has been seen as one specific aspect of a much wider question, that of reflexivity in language (Lucy 1993, Silverstein and Urban 1996). There is what I believe to be a creative tension within both the common–sense and theoretical meanings of the term ‘voice’. A well-known paradox of linguistics is that sociolects are typically studied through analyzing the grammar of a few or even of a single speaker, while idiolects of individual speakers can only be analyzed with reference to societal norms of speaking (Anttila 1989). Studies such as Sapir’s Speech as a Personality Trait (Sapir 1985) show the complexity of the concrete individual’s voice. For Sapir, the individual was both a microcosm and a unique instantiation of his or her language and culture, with individual variations built in successive layers on more generalized social patterns: ...we have the following materials to deal with in our attempt to get at the personality of an individual, in so far as it can be gathered from his speech. We have his voice. We have the dynamics of his voice, exemplified by such factors as intonation, rhythm, continuity, and speed. We have pronunciation, vocabulary, and style. Let us look at these materials as constituting so and so many levels on which expressive patterns are built (Sapir 1985:543-43). Sapir argued for the sui generis and equally totalizing and cosmographically valid character of the language and culture of every individual, 1. to name just a few: Bakhtin 1981, Volosinov 1973, Mertz 1985, Tannen 1989, Rumsey 1990, and Hill 1995. 4 constituted as they are by the individual’s subjectivity and reflected in the historically-specific complex organization called “personality” (Silverstein 1986:78-9). Friedrich and Redfield (1979:403), following Sapir, maintain that “the individual is the ultimate system of variation” in speech style. The language of the individual is a “level of organization with its own distinctive processes and complexities” (ibid. 435). Such complexities may also be approached starting from the sociocentric pole. The term “voice” is used in Bakhtin’s theory to refer to the elements of a social system of discourse. Bakhtinian voices represent particular social-semantic points of view or philosophical positions (Bakhtin 1981, Hill 1995), such that any concrete individual speaks in and through sets of social voices. Just as Peirce said “we ought to say that we are in thought and not that thoughts are in us” (Peirce 5.289), we could say that rather than having a voice, we live in a system of voices: As a result of the work done by all these stratifying forces in language, there are no “neutral” words and forms––words and forms that can belong to “no one”; language has been completely taken over, shot through with intentions and accents. For any individual consciousness living in it, language is not an abstract system of normative forms but rather a concrete heteroglot conception of the world. All words have the “taste” of a profession, a genre, a tendency, a party, a particular work, a particular person, a generation, an age group, the day and hour. Each word tastes of the contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life; all words and form are populated by intentions. Contextual overtones (generic, tendentious, individualistic) are inevitable in the word (Bakhtin 1981:293). Irvine (1990, 1996) has shown the crucial role that consciousness of such “tastes” or linguistic intentions plays in the mediation of linguistic practice. Stereotypic 5 images of social types of speakers link ways of speaking to social contexts and economic and cultural values. Voice in Irish This project began as an exploration of the cultural role of poetry in the Irish Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking district). Many poetic genres in Ireland are maximally voiced––first-person utterances framed as representing the point of view of one or more protagonists in what are implicitly dramatic scenes, scenes which may themselves be reported in framing narratives. There is a relationship, in the linguistic culture of the Gaeltacht, between the forms of these poetic utterances and local understandings of the nature of poets, poetry and speech in general. Intuitions of virtuosi like Máirtín Mac Donncha and Joe Heaney (Chapters 4 and 8) and the abundant folklore about poets and poetry (Ó hÓgáin 1979, 1982) provide important insights into Irish-speakers’ assumptions about the relation of speech to values, feeling, thought, and action. Such a study could not confine itself to one genre of poetry alone, or only to those forms of talk recognized by speakers as ‘poetry’ or as being ‘poetic’. Performance forms emergent in ordinary conversation, such as ‘yarns’, 2 bear interesting functional similarities to traditional lyric poems, while voicing phenomena feature in music and dance performance and even in the use of placenames (Chapter 5). Furthermore, relatively de-voiced (“third-person”) 2. Jokes, usually narratives which break into direct speech for their punch lines. 6 genres such as traditional storytelling also have reflexive aspects, and are intimately related to more lyrical forms. Lyric forms must thus be studied in the context of a more general ethnography of speaking. In Ireland as elsewhere, voice is culturally represented as an attribute (sound image) of distinct physical personalities. Through the working of stereotype, verbal art represents its personae as tokens of cultural types. Likewise, in some genres, poets use an impersonal voice which stands as the voice of the community or of the ordinary man or woman. This culturally constructed voice is underpinned by the working of ‘voice’ in Bakhtin’s sense in which a literary work or the speech of a single person features the interaction of a plurality of voices representing various social, semantic, and generic positions–– a level of meaning which is only partially accessible to the speaker. Studying the interaction between these two levels or types of voice illuminates the imaginative background of verbal art, as well as the role and meaning of the person. For Irish-speakers, voices are first of all concrete and immediate––they are experienced and reproduced in a small-scale human universe of personalized speech. Between 4 and 5 million people live in the Republic of Ireland, of whom as few as 30,000 are habitual speakers of Irish (estimates vary widely).3 In the 20th Century the revival movement, increased mobility and modern communication has drawn these speakers together to a great extent. An 3. According to the 1991 Census of Population, the combined population of the officiallydesignated Gaeltacht areas was 83,268 with a total labor force of 28,500 (source: Údarás na Gaeltachta). 7 important part of this is the recognizability of individual concrete voices. In my time in Ireland I have been surprised again and again by this. Things as apparently impersonal as a computer program for teaching Irish or a dubbed French film about the birth of Christ contain voices which one can immediately recognize and “put a name to.” Locally, in “face to face” rural communities or urban networks, people quote and imitate other peoples’s voices, thickening the texture of their speech by decentering portions of it, attributing it to some other person and context. The interanimation of voices is especially prominent in performance; quotation of others often functions to ‘key’ performance (Bauman 1977) transforming an everyday situation into a performance situation. In Irish, ‘to put a voice to a song’ (guth a chuir le amhrán) is to sing it, as opposed to reciting the words.4 Verbal art in Irish typically involves the creation and animation of voices––the use of the directly quoted speech of others, both as embedded speech of characters in narrative and as lyric poetry and song. Imitation and other forms of direct quotation are common in many speech genres and frequently function to key a transition from conversation to performance. A variety of devices are used to mark direct discourse as the words of another. As I show in this dissertation, voice is part of a larger process where surface forms are invested with meaning as indexical icons of persons and 4. Guth and glór are both used to translate the English word voice. Glór has more the sense of one’s physical voice––the term is used in praising a singer’s voice––whereas guth carries the additional sense of speaker’s intention––d’aon guth means ‘of one voice’, to express agreement. The term friotal is used (more technically) to refer to speech, utterance, or way of expressing something––friotal a chur ar rud means ‘to put something into words’ (Ó Dónaill 1977). 8 narratives. Thus, practices as diverse as dance steps and place-names can function in the tradition in a manner not far removed from that of direct quotation or lyric poetry. Irish practices of quotation and imitation imply an intuitive identification between a discrete individual and his or her unique “voice.” At the same time these practices make of individuals living stereotypes of typical social points of view. A poet may strive for an “everyman’s” voice, speaking on behalf of and in the accent of his or her local community (Denvir 1989, 1997). But this same poet’s works may be received and transmitted orally as his or her highly personal production, embedded in narratives and reminiscences of the poet’s life and the situations to which his or her creations are responses. Irish speakers practice forms of quotation (“as x would say”) to mark stretches of speech as typical of named others, known to both speaker and addressees (Chapter 6). Quotation of this type reinforces typifying images of persons and speech styles. Likewise, speakers mark off speech which tastes stylistically inappropriate by means of what I term anti-quotation (“as you’d say,” “as the other one would say”), pragmatically attempting to “insulate” (Irvine 1996) a stretch of speech by vaguely gesturing towards other, oblique, contexts. Such practices are techniques of negotiation through sets of social voices; they make boundaries within individuals’ speech: Talk is layered; speakers use a wide variety of device to embed discourse-fragment within discourse-fragment, creating a textured whole in which several messages and social claims may be enunciated simultaneously. Any competent speaker can 9 appropriate multiple socially-situated voices in a single discourse. In pragmatic terms, any competent speaker is able to hedge assertions in varying degrees by embedding them in within other discourses. Obliqueness is both a goal and an outcome of the social texturedness of discourse (Mannheim 1987:267) Folk poetry likewise shows a great complexity of voicing, deriving from a range of practices of authorship: poems often have several authors, explicitly or implicitly; an other may “complete,” rebut, parody, echo and plagiarize works,5 typically leaving traces of other or contested ownerships and authorships. Rather than representing imperfection, such traces are central to the aesthetic and emotional power of much performance, especially of sung lyric poetry (Chapter 8). Politics In the analysis of Ó Crualaoich (1989), the Irish language has embodied a subaltern discourse in opposition to the dominant Anglophone discourse of the State, both the colonial state and its latter-day successor. It would be a mistake, however, to read such an analysis as treating the Irish language as a single independent or self-contained “discourse,” independent from English.6 The basic fact of social and cultural stratification, which underlies the linguistic situation of minority languages in European nation-states (Gal 1984, Hill 1985, Fernandez 5. This is true of music, dance and other performance forms also. 6. Although much of linguistics and even linguistic anthropology might habitually do so (Urciuoli 1995). 10 1986, Ó Giolláin 1993, 1996), ensures that Irish and English are stylistically interpenetrated in very complex ways. New nation-states may try to elevate peripheral and “folk” language and culture to the level of more or less official “national” culture. But combined with the developmentalist ideology of the nation-state (Errington 1998) this has the ironic effect of marking off these very sources as marginal, less progressive, tied to the past and to “tradition.” In Ireland it was the view of conservative nationalism that Irish be kept “pure.” Douglas Hyde’s “The Necessity for Deanglicizing Ireland” (Hyde 1986 [1892]) recognized heteroglossia in Ireland as the negative consequence of colonialism, while looking back on an somewhat idealized Gaelic past. There has been a great deal of resistance to the project of standardizing Irish (Chapter 6), motivated (from the predominantly Anglophone urban center) by such an image of an idyllically class- (and therefore register-) free Gaeltacht. “The speech of the people” (caint na ndaoine) was held up as a national treasury of folk wisdom, a source for literature (Chapter 7), the opposite of urban sophistication––a view parodied by Máirtín Ó Cadhain: “The only learning is the learning of unlearned old people” 7 (Ó Cadhain 1990 [1950]:138). Opposition to standardization from within the Gaeltacht (ie., from the rural Irishspeaking periphery) is likewise motivated by the fairly well-grounded perception that a standard register of Irish would be the property of others. What both these perspectives ignore is the extent to which Irish and English languages 7. Níl aon léann ann ach an léann atá ag seandaoine gan léann. 11 are increasingly part of the same discourse. Quite typically, forms which are presented as “standard” or formal-register Irish (especially in the media and in bureaucratic documents) are transparently modeled on English vocabulary and grammar, either to satisfy ideological requirements of rigid translation (Chapter 6), or, more typically, because their authors are from urban anglophone backgrounds and lack the linguistic means to produce more grammatical utterances in Irish. Rural Irish-speakers who grow up in the Gaeltacht may conversely use English words as a stylistic element in dialogic opposition to such purism, while using the term gaeilgeoirí (literally, “Irish-speakers”) to refer ironically to urban Irish-learners vacationing in the Gaeltacht. Within both Irish and English speech there is a continuum from what is perceived as maximally “Irish” to maximally “English” grammar, with the former representing rural poverty and the latter urban prosperity. Thus the term “Hiberno-English” is commonly used to refer, not to an Irish national standard register of English, but to marginal rural or inner-city urban “dialect” speech, relatively more affected by Irish-language grammar and vocabulary. The only “standard” explicitly cultivated by state institutions in either language is in Irish, and is merely a standardized orthography. There are also efforts to encourage a standardized pronunciation of Irish (Chapter 6), but a spoken standard, as a living speech register, does not exist. Instead one encounters various styles in the print and electronic media, in official translations from English, “corrected” versions of 12 dialect novels,8 and so on. It is telling that the only medium which currently appears to take seriously the creation of formal-register Irish that is acceptable and understandable to native speakers of Irish is Raidió na Gaeltachta, which was created as the result of direct action by political pressure groups in the Gaeltacht, and which is largely run and controlled by Gaeltacht people. Raidió na Gaeltachta has by and large refused to adopt a national standard as the basis for its spoken Irish, preferring to let speakers use their “natural” local dialects (Chapters 5 and 6). As a result, speakers all over Ireland have been exposed to all three dialects of Irish (southern, northern, and western) to such an extent that they are much more intelligible to the average Irish-speaker than they were when the station began broadcasting more than 25 years ago. In a sense, the station is creating the unified communication community dreamed of by advocates of standardization from below rather than by imposing an artificial standard register from “above.” For Irish nationalists of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the “national epic,” embodiment of the mythical unity of the nation, was yet to be written. The task of literature was producing rather than challenging this unity. Even the Irish-language lyric tradition posed problems for cultural nationalists, who found in it a fragmentariness lodged in the artifacts themselves. Thus when [Thomas] Davis remarks that ‘There are great gaps in Irish song to be filled up’ he refers not to the state of research but to the nature of 8. Note that almost any novel written by a native speaker is thus a “dialect” novel. 13 the object, a nature that is for him historical and absolutely not essential (Lloyd 1993:91). It is the mode of discourse of Irish language lyrics that frustrated cultural nationalists, who were looking for the symbolic expression of a national essence, and who found Irish-language texts too allegorical, bound up in their historical contexts of utterance. Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s Cré na Cille played an important role in exploding the myth of monologic Irish language discourse and the saintly image of the Gaeltacht. Ó Cadhain’s novel exposed and deepened the heteroglossia of Irish in order to engage more strongly with the dominant discourses of the new Irish state. “Internal” voicing in Irish is also directed at “external” English-language discourses. This is as true for Gaeltacht verbal art as it is for literary and political writing. Preview of Chapters Chapter 2. Ráth Cairn: Beyond the Black Pig’s Dyke In Chapter 2, I introduce the community of Ráth Cairn, County Meath. Ráth Cairn is unique—an Irish-speaking community which was deliberately created in 1935, through migration from the poor West coast to the fertile Midlands of Ireland. It is also unique in that its creation was the result of negotiations between the grass-roots political activists of Muintir na Gaeltachta (People of the Gaeltacht) and the Irish state. Sixty-four years after its creation, Irish is still the main community language in Ráth Cairn. Less than 500 people 14 live there (depending how one defines “there”), surrounded by mainly monoglot English-speakers. In its early days, the community aroused a certain amount of suspicion and open hostility from its neighbors. In view of the foregoing, Ráth Cairn’s status as a distinct community might seem unproblematic. But as I demonstrate, it is difficult to define exactly where Ráth Cairn’s limits as a community are. In fact, these limits have been contested continually since Ráth Cairn’s founding in 1935. And the very creation of Ráth Cairn was seen by Muintir na Gaeltachta as a way of breaking out of “The Black Pig’s Dyke,” the confining limits of state policy towards the Gaeltacht. The people of Connemara and Ráth Cairn found themselves resisting both linguistic segregation, in diglossia, and spatial segregation, as “a separate people” so classified by the state. In what Ó Ciosáin (1991) terms “the geographic fallacy,” the state classifies Irish speakers according to their place of residence, defining the Gaeltacht as “Irish-speaking districts.” This goes against the categories of Irish-speakers themselves, who historically have seen the Gaeltacht as the social, cultural and linguistic unity of Irish-speakers, reinforced by relationships of kinship and exchange, as well as by the institutions of the Gaelic learned classes (Ó Murchú 1984b). The state’s need to classify and segregate Irish speakers geographically arises from its own failure to transform itself after achieving independence from Britain in 1921. Although one of the principle aims of the anticolonial struggle 15 was to reinstate Irish as a national language, the effort to do so has largely failed. In spite of economic support for the Gaeltacht and the significant role given to Irish in the educational curriculum, the state itself has remained the major force for anglicization since independence. Unless forced from below to do otherwise, the state, the Catholic Church, business, and the media have mainly functioned through English, even in the officially defined Gaeltacht areas. The habitual functioning of these institutions has thus threatened to impose a type of diglossia on Irish-speakers. But these speakers by and large reject the ideological implications of such a diglossia—the sense that Irish is naturally appropriate for certain domains and not for others. In fact, as I show in Chapter 2, Irish-speakers implicitly reject the very idea of “domains” of language use, seeing language use as an aspect of specific persons rather than of abstract domains. This ideology of language use grows out of their historical sense of “the Gaeltacht” as a social, rather than a geographic category. Ironically, for more than thirty years, the state denied Ráth Cairn even a geographic designation as an officially “Irish-speaking district.” Being located in the eastern part of the country, Ráth Cairn did not fit in to the role assigned to the Gaeltacht in the imagined geography of the Irish nation-state. This schema saw the Gaeltacht as a distant reservoir of natural Gaelicness rather than a part of the “modern” world. Although he never lived in Ráth Cairn, Máirtín Ó Cadhain played a crucial role in its inception and survival. Born in An Cnocán Glas in the 16 Connemara Gaeltacht, Ó Cadhain was a life-long radical, republican, and Irishlanguage activist. He was interned in a prison camp during World War II, then became a Dublin-based writer and late in his life became Professor of Modern Irish at Trinity College. As a leader of Muintir na Gaeltachta in the 1930s, Ó Cadhain was directly responsible for Ráth Cairn’s creation. He also intervened at critical moments in Ráth Cairn’s history in the 1960s. Beginning with a threatened voting strike against the dominant political party, Fianna Fáil, in the 1960s, the people of Ráth Cairn, in alliance with urban Irish-speakers like Ó Cadhain, who likewise failed to fit into the conservative nationalist schema, undertook a series of struggles with the state. As an outcome of these negotiations, the people of Ráth Cairn achieved partial control of a set of local institutions and a degree of political autonomy, through the founding of a local cooperative, Comharchumann Ráth Cairn. But these gains have come at the cost of acquiescing to the logic of the state, which will dictate future directions of growth and struggle. Chapter Three: Three Things Which Cannot Be Learned Beginning with an impressionistic vignette, in this chapter I try to situate myself as an ethnographer in the social and linguistic life of Ráth Cairn. I describe my somewhat unusual entry into the field as well as the role I was expected to play there as performer in, imitator of, recorder of, and witness to the social life of the community. I give a brief account of my initial bewilderment in a 17 bilingual situation, which led to a tendency to exaggerate the distinctions I found between languages and cultures, as well as the more profound distinctions between the world as it appears in (what is constructed locally as) “everyday life,” and the very different world that emerges in performance and occasions of heightened sociability. Chapter Four. The Poet: Eloquence and Violence This chapter begins by considering the role of the rural Irish “character,” stereotypically a marginal figure who is empowered by his or her own marginality to play a critical role vis-a-vis the unquestioned strictures of everyday life. The “character” effectively challenges the opposition between ordinary life and its heightened performative extensions. In Irish-speaking communities, however, I argue that the figure of the “character” has deeper roots. His or her role often coincides with that of another more venerable social institution, the poet. In the present-day Gaeltacht, poetry and poetic speech are the distinguishing features of a set of prestigious registers that underlie the value of the Irish language itself in opposition to English. Poets have thus played a critical social and cultural role in preserving a role for Irish as the texture of sociality. Poetry functions most saliently as the carrier of “voice” in first-person lyric and dialogic forms: song, dramatic dialogue poetry and satirical verse. These forms emerge from everyday practices of quotation and imitation. 18 To contextualize the forms and social functions of present-day Gaeltacht poetry, I give a brief sketch of the historical forms and roles of poetry as they developed under the medieval Gaelic political order. I explore the construction of textuality in the medieval manuscript tradition through the transmission of archaized “oral” voices. This helps reveal the complexity of the linguistic ideology of Irish—the social construal of the grounds of the effectiveness of various forms of speech as social action. There is a fair amount of continuity between these medieval constructions and present-day “folk” beliefs and practices involving poetic eloquence and the figure of the poet as a social type. Most salient is the continuing belief that the two social functions of poet are to “praise and blame.” The perceived ability of poetic speech to manipulate the very ground of sociality, including a person’s name and social reputation, was expressed in a variety of beliefs about the magical efficacy of poetry. Practices and beliefs surrounding poetry challenge our predominant intellectual distinction between “real” and “symbolic” violence. Even in medieval Ireland, poetry and poetic speech were socially construed as occupying the dividing line between historical epochs and politicalcultural regimes. But poets were at the center of power, first acting to legitimize the institutions of kingship, then, as the Gaelic order disintegrated, acting as foci of rebellion and resistance to colonization. From the eighteenth through the twentieth centuries, Gaeltacht poets have likewise articulated positions critical of both the colonial order and that of the independent nation-state. 19 Chapter 4 concludes by situating a few works of the Ráth Cairn poet, Máirtín Mac Donncha, in this tradition. As is typical of present-day Gaeltacht poets, Mac Donncha is very aware of his place in a tradition which he traces back to the nineteenth-century Galway poets, Colm de Bhailís and Antaine Raiftearaí. I illustrate his place in this tradition by presenting Mac Donncha’s performance of a satire composed de Bhailís, along with his explanation of how and why the work was composed, and of the basis of its poetic power. I maintain that Máirtín’s transmission of this work helps constitute his own power and authority as a poet in Ráth Cairn, 120 miles away from De Bhailís’ home community and 80 years after the his death. Both de Bhailís’ original poem and Máirtín Mac Donncha’s performance of it mobilize and transmit the voices of named local persons, as do Máirtín’s satirical poems composed about local events in Ráth Cairn. Rather than to directly present the texts of these satires (which Máirtín thought would be inappropriate for a work circulated outside of the community), I present instead two songs of praise. One is a lament for the great Ráth Cairn singer, Darach Ó Catháin; the other a poem in commemoration of the community’s 50th anniversary. In both songs, Mac Donncha presents images of ideal sociality, bound to specific named persons, critically contrasting these with the reality of the social and political situation in Ráth Cairn and Ireland as a whole. The poem for Ó Catháin has the additional aspect of embodying (through its textual constructions and performance conventions) the very form of sociality it 20 celebrates. Thus the poem itself is self-consciously constructed as a link through time between the sociality of Darach Ó Catháin and potential future occasions. The tradition itself is constituted in terms of these links. “Voice” is the master trope through which textuality is constructed; it binds texts to specific times and images of persons. As I show in Chapters 5 and 8, Irish texts are fundamentally indexical and allegorical in that they bind disparate and incommensurable times, places and persons together. Chapter Five. Repossession In Chapter 5, I reexamine the poetic mythology of sacral kingship, showing how, after the collapse of the Gaelic political order, these tropes were refigured and democratized in response to utopian hopes and the new forms of political organization that came to the fore from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries. Present-day Gaeltacht poets take the community itself as their patron, but this community is imagined in ways fundamentally different than the “imagined community” of the nation-state. I show how the verbal art of poets, storytellers, and a novelist take elements of the medieval poetic topos and refigure them to critically intervene in twentieth century politics. In a 1934 political speech agitating for land in County Meath, Máirtín Ó Cadhain drew on the tropes and worldview of traditional folklore. In Walter Benjamin’s theory, folktales dramatize the victory of ordinary people’s cunning over powerful mythic forces. Ó Cadhain’s speech identifies these monstrous 21 archaic forces with the modern anglophone nation-state, neatly reversing the state’s own construction of Irish-speakers as relics of the past. In a public lecture given in 1950, Ó Cadhain developed this motif further, arguing that the very idea of “folklore” propagated by the Irish nation-state amounted to the preservation in living death of Gaeltacht sociality. He contrasted “the dead clay” of the archived remains of Gaelic culture with “the living clay” of Irish-speaking people, who as a result of state policy, were forced to emigrate. In this imaginative intervention, the state itself is an archaic space of death, founded on the entombed remains of a Gaelic culture which Ó Cadhain reveals as in fact being very much alive. The founding myth of Ráth Cairn was that Connemara people are the original inhabitants of, and rightful heirs to, the lands of County Meath, driven west by Cromwell’s seventeenth-century conquest and plantations. The move to Ráth Cairn was thus constructed as a return from the West. In opposition to the mythology of conservative nationalism, which sees Gaeltacht people as relics of a glorious national past, the settlers of Ráth Cairn saw themselves more as arriving from an alternate world, having their own history which was grounded in a fundamentally different set of social relations and cultural values than those they found in County Meath. I analyze a conversation broadcast on Raidió na Gaeltachta in 1992 in which a few of Ráth Cairn’s original settlers relate memories of their first Christmas in County Meath. This conversation utilizes some of the formal 22 features of traditional storytelling to explore the different natures of wealth and poverty in Connemara and County Meath, finally locating these differences in different forms of sociality. The social relations and ritual practices of “the Meath man” are thus contrasted with those of “the Ráth Cairn man.” The conversation’s participants make these points through an argument of images in which Ráth Cairn itself appears as an Otherworld apparition to the Meath men. Quite similar images appear in a contemporary poem about Ráth Cairn and a film made by Máirtín Ó Cadhain about his native townland in Connemara, an Cnocán Glas. I argue that these images are dialectical images in the sense propounded by Walter Benjamin, “historical indexes” which exist in the margins of time and embody the experience of loss, historical transformation and utopian hope. Chapter Six. Voice: The Nation, The State, and The Neighbors In this chapter I explore a few of the consequences of the unusual status of the Irish language as both a minority language and the official national language of Ireland. I contrast three different discourses about the language: the discourse of national development, the discourse of purity, and the discourse of personalism. Underlying the debates about the ideal form of the Irish language are conflicting conceptions of community—of what kinds of people speak Irish and what types of social relations ideally underpin the Irish state. Each discourse constitutes a particular set of ways for locating social value in linguistic forms. 23 The discourse of development maintains that, to be effective as a national language, Irish must throw off its “seventeenth-century trappings,” modernizing both its orthography, pronunciation, and vocabulary. In doing so, however, the standardizing institutions of the nation-state would make a decisive break with the forms and functions of the language in surviving Irish-speaking communities. In contrast to the hodge-podge of local dialects found in Gaeltacht areas, this discourse locates the socially unifying function of a standardized Irish in its purported uniformity and semiotic transparency. A major problem of this discourse is that by its own reckoning, English already fulfills these functions in Ireland. Thus the main rationale for constructing a new, “modern,” Irish would be to reinforce the symbolic identity of Ireland as an independent nation-state. But Irish already serves this purely symbolic function, even while performing a minimal role in the national arena. The contradictions between the linguistic ideals of the Irish state and its actual practices underlie a continuing sense of anxiety as to the state’s legitimacy. I explore the manifestations of this unease in two sets of “myths” about the state’s relationship to the language. The discourse of linguistic purity sees local Gaeltacht communities as transformative spaces where urban Irish people can come into contact with “genuine” local speech communities, immersing themselves in the idioms and values of local social life. An outgrowth of Romantic nationalism, in its more revolutionary incarnations this discourse is rooted in techniques of the self which 24 ultimately aim to transform the urban Irish state. The discourse of linguistic purity had its historical origins in the revolutionary movements which gave birth to the Irish state itself. Thus, many urban Irish speakers place a higher value on controlling the dialectal nuances of a single poor rural townland than they place on the possession of a national Standard form of the language. In contrast to the first two discourses, I argue that the discourse and practice of “personalism” predominates in Gaeltacht communities. In this discourse, the value of linguistic forms is felt to derive from their social and personal provenance. Language is apperceived in terms of voice, a quality in which individual character is seen to emerge from concrete sociality (kinship, locality, and commensal relationships). This explains the seemingly odd fact that Gaeltacht people are quite tolerant of “horizontal” variation between local dialects, but have tended to reject “vertical” variation in the form of a superposed “standard” Irish register. In everyday practices of quotation and imitation, as well as in satiric verbal art, the trope of “voice” is used by Gaeltacht people to critically examine the social bases of speech styles. Gaeltacht people have been quite tolerant of borrowing from, and codeswitching with English, in contrast to the linguistic ideals propagated by the discourses of development and linguistic purity. In opposition to these discourses, a certain self-consciousness of hybridity has developed in the Gaeltacht. I conclude the chapter by exploring this consciousness in a satirical sketch written by a Connemara poet, Joe Steve Ó Neachtain. 25 Chapter Seven: Voices of the Dead and a ‘New Medium’: Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s Cré Na Cille In this chapter I examine a single artistic work, Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s modernist novel Cré na Cille. Although Ó Cadhain wished to “develop” Irish as a modern literary language, the continuity of Irish literary tradition had been broken by centuries of colonization and the destruction of the native Irish ruling classes. Twentieth-century Irish-language writing had tended to follow narrowly “folkloric” themes, sticking to “traditional idioms” of Gaeltacht speech and the traditional themes of the oral folktale. Although Ó Cadhain was raised in these traditions and had a superb command of the idioms and themes of local speech, he refused to directly adopt them as the basis of his literature. Instead, as I argue here, he took the basic technique of Gaeltacht poetry, the construction of voice in direct discourse, and adapted it to the form of the modern novel. Cré na Cille contains nothing but the direct speech of its characters, a community of corpses buried in an unnamed graveyard in the Connemara Gaeltacht. The result was a satiric polylogue which functioned on several levels. On one level, the novel exploded the romantic national myth of the Gaeltacht as a place of spiritual, cultural, and linguistic purity. The novel appeared to its conservative critics as an encyclopedic compendium of invective and obscenity. These linguistic riches were marshalled by the novel’s characters for the furtherance of a mind-numbing series of amazingly petty local feuds and 26 rivalries, powered by an inexorable process of class formation, false “modernization” and anglicization of the Gaeltacht. On another, potentially more disturbing level, the community portrayed in Cré na Cille looked quite similar to the national “community” that was 1940s Ireland. The textual history of Cré na Cille, serialized in a national newspaper, enabled it to function, in part, as a subterranean commentary on daily life in Ó Cadhain’s adopted city, Dublin. At a deeper level yet, the novel reflected Ó Cadhain’s life-transforming experience as the guest of a national institution, the Curragh concentration camp in County Kildare, where he and other republicans were interned for most of the Second World War. Cré na Cille also functioned directly as satiric verbal art in the Gaeltacht. Ó Cadhain was proud of the fact that the novel was bought and read in Connemara and the Aran Islands. It was read out loud in nighttime gatherings in visiting-houses. On this level, the book found a place within Gaeltacht verbal art, recognized by Ó Cadhain’s neighbors as a new extension of poetic satire. Cré na Cille thus operated, through the construction of voice, as an internal critique of false “modernity” and social climbing, dramatized in terms of the characters’ conflicting speech styles. Chapter Eight. Joe Heaney My initial interest in the Irish language and the Gaeltacht was first inspired by my acquaintance with Joe Heaney (Seosamh Ó hÉinniú), the famous 27 sean-nós singer from the vicinity of Carna in the Connemara Gaeltacht. Joe was an exceptionally articulate spokesman for Irish language traditions as he understood them. Among the points that he forcefully made to his American students were that songs had “stories,” and that singers of sean-nós songs sang the actual words of the poets. In a way, my entire fieldwork and dissertation represents an attempt to fully understand the significance of these assertions. Thus it is fitting that I end the dissertation with a look at the person who began it. Although Joe Heaney died in 1984, I was able to work with archived tapes of (English-language) interviews that Joe did with a few of his American students. I argue in this chapter that, in response to their questions, Joe Heaney was forced to articulate a theory of the relationship between musical form and social and personal value. It will be evident from the preceding chapters that Joe’s “theory” was fully grounded in the linguistic ideologies and practices of poetic speech in the Gaeltacht. I argue that nonetheless, Joe Heaney’s ideas about musical form also represent the fruits of years of reflection (as an emigrant in Britain and the U.S.) on the philosophical basis of his own tradition. These reflections underlie Joe Heaney’s own role in Ireland as one of the single most important transformers of the Irish song tradition. He played a part in the contemporary elevation of the Irish-language song tradition into a new genre on the national scene, sean-nós (old-style) singing. 28 Although aiding and abetting the transformation of local verbal art into a symbol of national identity, Joe Heaney’s view of what it means to sing a song directly contradicted many of the new roles destined for sean-nós as a genre. In order to show this, I situate Joe’s strictures about singing in the context of Gaeltacht performance in general. Joe Heaney understood the act of singing to involve a joining of the points of view of the singer and the song’s protagonists. This is in keeping with the nature of the Irish-language poetic tradition—the creation and transmission of direct voice. As with the Irish tradition in general, the sean-nós tradition is built upon a sense of poetic speech as a transparent, visionary medium. But in Joe Heaney’s view, musical form emerges from the calibration of the singer’s and audiences life histories of suffering with the “secret” narratives condensed in the song’s lyrical poetic form . Thus, there is an allegorical (and an allegorically opaque) relation between the experiences of a song’s protagonists and those of its present day performers and audiences. The emotional power of sean-nós song lies in these allegorical relationships to meaning, which are predominantly indexical, as much as in the referentially symbolic relationship of a song to its “story.” CHAPTER TWO RÁTH CAIRN: BEYOND THE BLACK PIG’S DYKE [F]or Ráth Cairn in this period [1939-1967] was like a river. Coming from the hills in Connemara in its youth, growing to middle age on the plains of Meath, and in its old age flowing into the ocean of English-language ways [béarlachas]... 1 (Seoighe 1986:88) As Máirtín Ó Cadhain said, it was as if a box of matches were thrown out of an airplane. (Ó Méalóid and Mac Cóil 1997) Boundaries Ráth Cairn is a unique community, founded in 1935 when Irish-speakers from Connemara’s rocky shores were relocated to the prosperous rich soil of County Meath.2 It is not far from the Hill of Tara, the mythic center of Irish sacred kingship.3 Although County Meath is located at the conceptual center of ancient Ireland, the imagination of Meath’s English-speaking rural poor is crisscrossed with boundaries, consciousness of periphery. The area of Ráth Cairn 1. [M]ar go raibh Ráth Cairn sa tréimhse seo ar nós abhainn. Ag teacht óna cnoic i gConamara ina óige; ag fás go meánaois ar mhachaire na Mí agus ina sheanaois ag dul amach i bhfarraigí an Bhéarlachais... 2. 27 families (182 people) moved to Ráth Cairn in 1935, followed by 13 families (105 people) who moved to Lambay (Kilbride parish) in 1937 (Sammon 1997:157). 3. Ireland is divided into four “provinces:” Leinster, Munster, Connaught, and Ulster (the eastern, southern, western and northern provinces). The Irish term for province is cúige (fifth); “Meath” (An Mhí in modern orthography) was considered to be “the fifth province” the transcendent center of sacred kingship. 29 30 is on the edge of the historic “Pale,” the region surrounding Dublin which underwent the earliest and most intensive colonial transformation. Some say that fragments of a wall crossing nearby fields are remnants of actual walls around the Pale––thought of as a physically-bounded entity as much as a zone of political and social influence. Physical reminders of warfare and conquest abound in the area––castle ruins dot the landscape alongside still-inhabited colonial “big houses;” the Yellow Steeple in the nearby town of Trim, halfdestroyed by Cromwellian gunpowder, still stands, as do hump-shaped “mottes,” early Norman earthen fortifications. Ancient ringforts (raths) are common; Tlachta (on the Hill of Ward between Ráth Cairn and Athboy), once an important ritual center, is rumored to have been the site of human sacrifice. There are 5,000 year-old passage tombs at Newgrange, Lochcrew and elsewhere. Meath people talk of haunted places, buried treasure unearthed, golden chalices, bog butter,4 of battles between native kings, of Cromwell, the Penal Laws, the persecution of the Plunketts (native Catholic landlords), the misdeeds of foreign landlords, events of the Famine, the locations of ancient roads, holy wells, miracles. One very unreliable source claimed (incorrectly) that the Black Pig’s Dyke, a wall built to hold back the tribes of ancient Ulster, was a local feature, and even claimed to have seen the pig! But Slieve Gullion, a mountain on the border of present-day Northern Ireland, is visible from the area. 4. Ancient butter buried for preservation and presumably forgotten. 31 The poor people of Meath might imaginatively possess or be possessed by the landscape, but for a very long time most of the county’s property has been legally owned by a relative few. Class divisions are complex in County Meath, and combine with cultural and political differences, but the county as a whole nonetheless portrays itself (and is portrayed by others) as the domain of wealthy “ranchers.” In present-day Meath the holdings of the county’s “large farmers” are among the largest in the European Union (Wilson 1988:680). In a pattern established in the 19th Century, calves from the West of Ireland are sold to farmers in East Galway or the Midlands and then resold as mature animals to be fattened in Meath for the Dublin or international markets. For the people of Connemara in the 1930’s, “Meath” was synonymous with wealthy farmers in the East––the fat of the land belonged to others. In 1934 Máirtín Ó Cadhain referred to Meath as “Éire na mBullán” (Ireland of the Bullock) as opposed to “Éire na nDaoine” (Ireland of the People). In actual fact, Meath had (and still has) many poor and landless people. Areas of broad level fields with few houses are bounded by marginal land with many small cottages—Land Commission and council houses in which lives a rural proletariat. Migrants to Ráth Cairn in the 1930s were impressed by Meath’s class inequalities,5 and defined themselves as “Ráth Cairn people” in opposition to the poor “Meath man” and his apparent subservience to the rich (Chapter 5). 5. although the Western Gaeltacht has always had class divisions, a fact often overlooked by outsiders (Ó Ciosáin 1991). 32 Meath’s invisible boundaries include the those of the officially recognized Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking district) of Ráth Cairn. The geographical and administrative Gaeltacht does not correspond to locations of either Irishspeakers, Connemara migrants and their descendants, or people who identify themselves as Ráth Cairn people or as connected in some way with Ráth Cairn. Early on in my stay there (in 1992) I was taken on a tongue-in-cheek guided tour of “Bosnia”—the latest handy metaphor for confusion, tribalism, and contestation of space—the point being the impossibility of drawing boundaries between “Ráth Cairn people” (which in this case meant both Irish-speakers and those assimilated into Gaeltacht culture) and “Meath people.” Ráth Cairn itself forms part of two ecclesiastical parishes, that of Kilbride and Athboy, corresponding to the area known as Ráth Cairn (proper) and Lambay, which was settled in 1937, a few years after Ráth Cairn. In true segmentary fashion, the distinction between Lambay and Ráth Cairn is mainly for internal consumption. Drinkers in the pub make wisecracks to those going home to Lambay: “Be sure to close the gate!” This nonexistent gate lent its name to a local newsletter, An Geata. Signs saying “Fáilte go dtí an Ghaeltacht” (Welcome to the Gaeltacht) greet the traveller on two roads leading into the place, but these are resented by some and seem to be down as often as they are up. Nor do they mark the actual boundaries of the administrative Gaeltacht. Consciousness of difference, of being singled out by the State, is not always desired; the term “[Indian] reservation” is 33 sometimes used bitterly by Gaeltacht people, deprecatingly by outsiders. I was told once that at a wedding in Connemara, the couple, who were about to move to Ráth Cairn, were toasted as being headed “from the West Bank to the Gaza strip.” All Ráth Cairn people are bilingual, but many of the first generation had little knowledge of English, and several older people alive today are clearly not comfortable speaking English, except for basic transactions such as buying groceries, etc. Other Gaeltacht areas are surrounded by areas of transition and assimilation,6 but usually located within the generously-drawn boundaries of the officially-recognized Gaeltacht. Ráth Cairn has no geographical transition zone. In Connemara, especially in the 1930s, although shopkeepers and others living in towns were culturally and linguistically more assimilated to English,7 they were basically from the same stock as everyone else. In the first several decades of 6. Assimilation can go both ways. In my time in Ireland I have seen at least two areas apparently increase their use of Irish (An Spidéal and the island of Árainn in Co. Galway), both seemingly in response to perceived economic advantage in the language. In both cases what may be happening is more public use of the language, ie., its use in new public domains. 7. A study group headed by Pádraig Ó Ríagáin (Foras Forbartha 1971:58-59) found it “quite striking” that the use of Irish as an everyday vernacular was confined to the most marginal parts of the officially-designated Gaeltacht areas, which are themselves geographically and economically marginal to Ireland as a whole. Individual pockets of Irish speakers tended to be “more closely related to an English-speaking village” than to each other. Even in Gaeltacht towns which are largely Irish speaking, I have often seen fluent native speakers of Irish working in hotels refuse to speak Irish to customers who are also fluent native speakers of Irish. This seems to happen most when such customers are not from the immediate area or otherwise well-known to or related to the speaker. Typically customers’ Irish-language questions are answered in English. It may be that in such cases English is being used as an Hregister to keep the customer at a social distance from the staff member. 34 Ráth Cairn’s existence, there were no shops8 and most commercial business was transacted with people who had no relation to Ráth Cairn people and often little knowledge of Irish. Taking the three-mile walk into Athboy to go to Mass, the pub, or shops meant negotiating an absolute transition between languages and, to a great extent, cultures. There is an entire genre of anecdotes about hilarious linguistic misunderstandings between Ráth Cairn people and Athboy shopkeepers (Chapter 5). Such anecdotes are told in Connemara as well, but there the zone of confusion is farther from home—even a 25-mile journey to Galway City would only have involved gradual changes in the 1930s. Ráth Cairn people were further isolated in the early years by hostility and misunderstanding between themselves and the English-speakers of County Meath. This isolation in the early years, along with shortages of land and limited opportunities at home, meant that the younger generation in Ráth Cairn (those who were in their teens in 1935) made relatively fewer marriages than their peers in Connemara would have. Much of this bachelor generation matured into “characters” (Chapter 4), uncles and aunts who had the time to perfect and pass their very rich store of verbal and musical talent on to the next generations. In spite of its early isolation, as a community Ráth Cairn is unbounded. The original Irish-speakers came from several parts of the Connemara Gaeltacht.9 8. One family ran a small shop for a while; the local cooperative finally opened a shop in Ráth Cairn in 1993. 9. mostly from various places in Ceantar na n-Oileáin, a group of islands joined to the mainland by a series of causeways and bridges. 35 Ráth Cairn people thus have different networks of relations, “local” loyalties to specific places in Connemara, and dialectal differences in their Irish-language speech. Intermarriage among migrants and their descendants has caused these networks of affiliation to overlap considerably; in- and out-migration to England and America and intermarriage with local Meath people has added further layers of connections. Boundaries, distinctions between persons or places, taken from another point of view, are connections, lines of exchange and commensality, sites of hybridization. Such negotiations are personal in Ráth Cairn, running through families where Irish-speakers have married English-speakers. The latter may become perfectly fluent in Irish, the former may abandon the language. Couples meet abroad and return to raise children; older siblings speaking English with London or Manchester accents, younger ones with Meath accents, all sounding more or less the same in Irish. Irish-speakers from Dublin move to Ráth Cairn and raise children in exclusively Irish-speaking households, then send them to the local school, where they acquire Meath-accented English. Grandmothers, living in the family house or in the remodeled 1935-era house nearby, pass their language and traditions on to grandchildren. Families who spoke English at home a generation ago speak Irish at home now, or the other way around. Although less than 700 people live in the officially defined Gaeltacht of Ráth Cairn, networks of relatives, “friends,” and former residents extend nationally and internationally. 36 There is always a significant number of people passing through, who live there for a few years, attracted by the language, job opportunities, and the social life. One particular house, which belonged to a Ráth Cairn person who had relocated to England, was rented by a man from India, his wife from Connemara, and their (trilingual) children. When this family left, the house was rented by an Irish-speaker (not of Gaeltacht origin), his Russian wife, and children. The house was eventually bought by a Dutch couple. The Gaeltacht—beyond geography? The relocation, in the 1930s, of Irish speakers from Connemara to County Meath was only a small part of a massive reorganization of land-holding which began well before Irish independence.10 The Land Commission, founded in 1881, facilitated the transfer of millions of acres of land from large landowners as estates were broken up or went bankrupt (Ó Conghaile 1992:614). Many large estates in the Midlands of Ireland were divided up among the poor of the west coast in the 1930s. Ráth Cairn and the two other “Gaeltacht Colonies” in County Meath were created by the Land Commission as a result of a directive from the Taoiseach (prime minister), Eamon De Valera, following discussions between De Valera and the Gaeltacht activist organization, Muintir na Gaeltachta (People of the Gaeltacht). This unusual origin—in response to pressure from below rather 10. Through a series of land reforms, “[m]ost Irish farmers became the effective owners of their holdings before 1921” (Lee 1989:71). 37 than grand developmental strategies from above—may explain why the Meath colonies were the only Land Commission project that involved creating communities rather than relocating individuals, and the only one where language was a consideration. The British Government had created the Congested Districts Board (C.D.B.) in 1891 to organize development and relief projects along Ireland’s west coast. Most of the areas the C.D.B. was responsible for were areas where Irish predominated, but it saw its goals in terms of the well-being of individuals and families rather than community or language preservation. The Irish Free State set up the Gaeltacht Commission in 1925 to survey and report on the condition of the language in the West of Ireland; among the Commission’s recommendations was the division of large estates among small Gaeltacht farmers. Like the C.D.B., the Gaeltacht Commission seemed to identify the Gaeltacht’s problems mainly in terms of “congestion” and underdevelopment. The Commission recognized language and community as essential elements for development (Ó Tuathaigh 1986:16-19), but arguably it still took these for granted as something “natural” rather than as the deliberate products of human agency. Thus for the Commission, “the problem of maintaining Irish was seen as one of stabilizing the population and the economy of the area” (Ó Riagáin 1992:4), the assumption apparently being that the language would take care of itself. Although the Gaeltacht Commission did recommend that government services and education be provided to Gaeltacht areas in the Irish language, little 38 was done in this regard. When De Valera’s Fianna Fáil government came to power in 1932 and introduced social welfare programs such as the Dole and the “Free Beef,”11 even these services were often conducted in English in the Gaeltacht. In fact only 14 or 15 of the Gaeltacht Commission’s 80 recommendations were put into effect; as an Irish-language newspaper asked, “Is this the Magna Carta of the Gael—15 recommendations out of 80?” (Ó Ciosáin 1993:31). The Gaeltacht Commission did not remain in operation as a state body (in the manner of the Congested Districts Board); its recommendations remained to be carried out (or ignored) by other government bodies. One lasting legacy of the Gaeltacht Commission was its survey of Irishspeaking areas, which it classified as either “Fíor-Ghaeltacht” (True Irishspeaking District) or “Breac-Ghaeltacht” (Partly Irish-speaking District; literally ‘speckled’ or ‘spotted’). Areas were labelled as “Fíor-Ghaeltacht” if over 80% of the population was found to have an “ordinary conversational ability in Irish;” for the “Breac-Ghaeltacht” the figure was 25% to 80% (Ó Riagáin, 1992:4). These boundaries were generously drawn, however, perhaps telling more about the state’s hopes for these areas than about their actual condition. 11. When De Valera stopped the payment of land annuities to Britain in 1932, Britain retaliated by imposing import duties on Irish livestock. In the “Economic War” that resulted, Ireland imposed duties on British coal in turn. The cycle of sanctions and counter-sanctions continued until 1938, depressing the Irish economy, especially the beef industry (Lee 1989:178). The Government responded creatively to this crisis by, among other things, buying unmarketable beef and distributing it along with the Dole, an act that made De Valera quite popular in impoverished areas of the West where people otherwise could afford very little meat in their diets (cf. Ó Ciosáin 1993:32). 39 But the most profound effect of this survey was that in it, the bureaucratic logic of the state and the romantic ideology of the nation worked hand in hand to define the Gaeltacht in terms of physical space, in what Ó Ciosáin (1991:7) calls “the geographic fallacy.” In 1956 the Department of the Gaeltacht was set up; it redefined the official Gaeltacht, retaining mainly areas that had been classed as “FíorGhaeltacht” and dropping the “Breac-Ghaeltacht” designation (it did not grant any kind of recognition to the Meath communities). Although the official categories changed, the basic thinking behind them did not; thus maps of the Gaeltacht tend to represent “true” Irish-speaking areas in solid color and “questionable” (Hindley 1990) or “breac-” Gaeltacht in spots or cross-hatching. Implicit in all this is an invidious linguistic ideology which conflates language use and geographical space. In fact, the Gaeltacht Commission had originally used the term “Fíor-Ghaeltacht” to refer to areas “in which the Irish language may and should be restored at once in matters of education, administration, and for general purposes” (Quoted in Ó Riagáin 1997:31). As Ó Riagáin points out, the term designated an area’s potential rather than actual language use. In other words, the Commission’s classifications were directed at the state, urging it to change its own language use in these areas. The work of the Commission was subsequently inverted and effectively became a quasi-moral judgment of the areas themselves, rather than a directive aimed at the state. Thus “purity” came to be seen as an unbroken state of solidity (many or all residents 40 being fluent speakers; most or all talk in Irish) and any kind of “mixture” as a sign of a fall from grace. The spatializing metaphor is then available to project back onto language use, when visitors to the “Fíor-Ghaeltacht,” expecting to hear nothing but Irish, hear English spoken and thereby assume that “the Gaeltacht” has weakened somehow. This appears more ironic when one considers that the same state that underwrites these distinctions has been imposing Englishlanguage domains and speech events (church services, media and school books, interactions with bureaucrats, etc.) in these communities, contrary to the recommendations of the Gaeltacht Commission. A geographical definition of the Gaeltacht makes it much more difficult to understand the functional aspect of language or phenomena such as bilingualism. Sociolinguistic theory itself propagates spatial metaphors with terms like “domain,” which imply at least the possibility of boundary-like divisions between different types of language use (Urciuoli 1995). Thus, the Committee on Irish Language Attitudes Research (CLAR 1975), the first large-scale sociolinguistic research project in Ireland, assumed that the choice of one language in preference to another equally accessible language is made more or less consciously and consistently with reference to situations and topics, these being possibly centered around institutional settings (or domains) such as home, work, or public administration (CLAR 1975:233; quoted in Ó Riagáin 1992:8). National language policy in Ireland has to some extent been aimed at producing a bilingualism rooted in a stable diglossia, a linguistic division of labor between Irish and English (Ó Murchú 1970, Ó Ciosáin 1988), but seems to have failed to 41 produce any functional “domains” that are felt by most Irish people to be truly more proper for Irish than English. On a national level, “there is no diglossia. Both languages occur over the full range of social domains, though the use of Irish in many of them is, of course, minimal” (Ó Murchú 1988:248). Not an inch of functional territory has been yielded to Irish and Irish alone. Hence the importance of geographical territory in Irish language policy. Irish-speakers themselves, however, have tended to feel things differently. Even the term Gaeltacht itself was used originally (as an abstract noun) to refer to the general community of Irish-speakers (which included speakers of what is now known as “Scots Gaelic”) rather than a place or a bounded geographical entity; there was only “the Gaeltacht,” not this one or that one.12 It was formed in opposition to the earlier term galltacht which originally denoted “foreignness” or the adoption of English language and culture (Ó Murchú 1984b; McCaughey 1989:106-7). “Gaeltacht” was a quasi-national concept, but one which predated the nation-state, since Irish-speaking communities shared common cultural and legal institutions long before there was a modern state or any degree of political unity.13 12. The geographic sense of the term originated in Scotland, where the geographical, cultural and linguistic opposition between Highlands and Lowlands was already well formed by the 14th Century (Dorian 1981:16). 13. Cf. Leerssen 1996, Ó Buachalla 1996. Gaelic society had little political unity, but a fair degree of cultural and linguistic unity, owing to the presence of a learned class (poets, religious, and legal professionals) which moved relatively freely between political domains. The existence very early on of Gaelic-speaking ‘national’ consciousness and a well-developed idea of cultural unity makes Ireland problematic for Anderson’s (1983) analysis of the rise of nationalism. 42 Irish is now perhaps unique in Europe for being both a “national” and a “minority” language. The Irish State (along with, to a lesser extent, associated hegemonic institutions like the Catholic Church and large-scale business capital) sponsors Irish through a variety of very different means, such as giving it a constitutional status and a a major position in school curricula, grants to Irish speakers in the Gaeltacht, and the occasional dramatic gesture such as assistance in the creation of Ráth Cairn. But at the same time, on a much larger scale but in a much less obvious way, the State and virtually all of the dominant forces in society, in their habitual routinized functioning, constantly undermine the language, so that the great language shift in Ireland, which was already well underway at the beginning of the 19th Century, is still going on. One consequence of this unique situation is that, as I argue here, the State can generously sponsor the language, but cannot create linguistic community—this can only be achieved by the people themselves on a local level. But doing so frequently requires them to fight the state, to break with the reasonable habitual surface of everyday (anglophone) business as usual—in other words, to be “language fanatics” (see below)––and to seek out the help of fellow “fanatics” from within the power structure. Power and diglossia Eckert (1980) argues that in European minority language situations, “language shift has been a means as well as a result of social change” (Eckert 43 1980:1058). She points out that (in France) new majority-language domains and types of speech events were created by state penetration into minority-language communities, while older ones, associated with the minority language, gradually lost status and were abandoned in response. In such processes, the social significance of domains and speech events associated with a particular language is projected onto the language itself, and then onto its speakers. Every gain or new domain occupied by the majority language effectively redefines the entire complex relationship felt to pertain between the two languages and their speakers. Fernandez (1986) has shown a similar process in Asturias, where “Bable” and Castillian exist in a complementary relationship with regard to the emotions, senses and intellect: since Castillian has become the dominant discourse of education, news, etc., Bable is conversely felt to be the language of emotion, locality, and the body. There is an ideology of modernization at work here, based on assumptions that are often shared by both the state and speakers of minority languages. The centralizing nation-state imposes a regime of cultural and social stratification in which elements of language and culture are classified as “traditional” or “modern.” It might be assumed that all new domains and speech events are thereby “modern,” but in fact many of these are felt to be “traditional” as well. The state classifies certain aspects of culture as “folklore” (Ó Giolláin 1989, 1993; Ó Crualaoich 1989), and this leads to a revaluation of this material in local communities and the redefinition or outright creation of new genres and types of performance events. 44 The history of the Gaeltacht in the 20th Century shows that with a certain degree of support from the state and members of the state class, speakers of minority languages can regain ground for their languages. In Ireland every such gain has been at the cost of direct action. Direct action breaks, or threatens to break, what the state sees as a social contract between itself and Irish speakers. But the state, acting alone, purely on the basis of its own logic and habitus, seems unable to provide real gains for a minority language insofar as this involves ceding some of its own power and control over communities. In Ráth Cairn such struggles have been first and foremost about access to and local control of the basic things of life: land, a chance to make a living, church services, a pub, a shop, schools, infrastructure. The language question is not separate from these basic things—it runs like a thread through all of them. People agitating for them are then quite right to do so in the name of their language. In many ways such struggles are quite different from language politics on a “national” scale as described by Anderson and others, where language is, so the argument goes, taken as a relatively abstract object and a symbolic badge of identity. This is very much the view from the nation-state. I am suspicious of these arguments even at the national level. In fact, for almost all of the many “gaeilgeoirí” (Irish learners) I have met, the Andersonian model does not fit; they are engaged in very complex, intricate and personal acts of cultural translation, if not transformation. 45 It is the view from the nation-state that sees the Gaeltacht as a geographical, bounded entity. By conflating the social life of language and geographic space, such a view naturalizes language use and even community, denying self-consciousness or intention as qualities of the “natives” themselves and a failure to see community as the outcome of human action and struggle. Thus “linguistic geographer” Reg Hindley, in his book The Death of the Irish Language (Hindley 1990:132-33) labels as “language ‘fanatics’” those who agitated for recognition of Ráth Cairn as an official Gaeltacht area. At the same time he praises the “dedicated head” of Ráth Cairn’s primary school and the “sensitive and intelligent local leadership” of its cooperative, apparently failing to realize that these were some of the same people he labels “fanatics.” Basing grant decisions solely on the question of who actually speaks Irish would present a bureaucratic nightmare—would the gaeilgeoirí (Irish-learners) of Dublin be entitled to grants? Who would determine who speaks Irish, or even how “speaking Irish” would be defined? A geographical definition of the Gaeltacht solves these problems and avoids embarrassing questions about actual language use.14 In addition to satisfying the logic of the state, such a definition serves deeper needs. The Irish language is felt by most people to be a symbolic 14. Currently, school age Gaeltacht children are tested for competence in Irish; families receive a small grant for each child who passes the test, and these grants enable them to apply for further grants, ie., for improving their houses. These grants are tremendously resented by English speakers, though an English-speaking poor or lower middle class household is entitled to almost the same amount of grant money. I was always amazed when “large farmers” in Meath (who can get small fortunes in E.U. grants and subsidies) complain about Ráth Cairn people and “all the grants they get.” 46 cornerstone of Irish identity, and thus of Ireland’s autonomy as a nation-state (CLAR 1975). But English has nearly absolute hegemony as the language of commerce, education and government, and is the only language spoken by most Irish people. The state finds a way out of this dilemma by preserving the Gaeltacht areas as exemplary centers 15 of Irishness. The fact that they are rural, and (except for Ráth Cairn) located in the West, remote from urban centers, enables them to be taken up in a historical narrative of development. History is spatialized, so that by driving from Dublin out to the Gaeltacht one can experience the national past, and one can send the children to be steeped in the national essence. This kind of situation is common enough in European nation-states (eg, Karelia for Finland, urban excursionistas in rural Catalonia; cf. Ó Giolláin 1993). The symbolic elevation of the Gaeltacht was originally intended by language revivalists as the first step in reconstituting Irish as a national language; it meant taking communities and areas that were despised and disadvantaged and revaluing them as transformative spaces for the re-gaelicization of the nation. Thus the more radical nationalists saw the Gaeltacht as holding the key to the future of Ireland as well as to its past. Unfortunately the Gaeltacht could also serve a narrowly “symbolic” function as the spiritual homeland of a nation whose material interests lay elsewhere. As Johnson (1993:158) observes, “the separation of the economic and the cultural, the symbolic and the material led to a 15. I have stolen this term from Geertz (1980). 47 contradiction between theory and practice in the maintenance of the defined cultural heartland of the country.” These separations lie at the cold spiritual center of another sacred space: that of the ideology of modernization. From the point of view of conservative nationalism, English is easily seen as embodying the metropolis, and thus as more “modern” and even as the inevitable end of progress and development; the great English-language ocean into which the Gaelic river flows. Such a view entails the ideological erasure (Irvine and Gal, to appear) of Irish in the city—more native speakers of Irish now live in Dublin than in the Gaeltacht—as well as of the many “modern” attributes of the rural Gaeltacht and its people. Another related ambiguity stems from the fact that Irish society has no enduring pattern of diglossia involving Irish and English. For many people whose primary language is English, having spaces designated as “Irish-speaking” offers a solution to the question “when and to whom shall I speak Irish/English?”16 Spatial segregation of Irish is an ambiguous manifestation of the symbolic power of English. On the one hand it removes the language from everyday life (where English holds sway in every domain). On the other hand, given the hegemony of English, creating spaces for Irish ensures some limited rights for Irish-speakers. College campuses in Ireland thus have designated 16. Since Irish is a mandatory subject for most of first and second-level education, very few people in Ireland are denied the chance to become fluent Irish speakers, or at least to become fairly competent in Irish grammar and vocabulary. Many basically anglophone Irish people have told me they do speak Irish, but only when in the Gaeltacht or while abroad on holidays! People speak Irish abroad so they won’t be understood by strangers and so they won’t be mistaken for English. 48 rooms, buildings, and dormitories as places for Irish. This is seen as necessary because, as many Irish-speakers have said to me, the use of Irish in everyday public situations is often apparently felt by non-Irish speakers to be an intrusion at worst and exceptional or remarkable (marked) at best. But non-Irish speakers rarely seem to feel that their speaking English is similarly intrusive or marked, in any situation. It could be argued, therefore, that the lack of diglossia in Ireland indicates a situation of conflict,17 and is experienced by Irish-speakers as such. The Irish speakers I am acquainted with in Ráth Cairn and Connemara tend to speak “Irish” all the time with other Irish-speakers, switching to “English” mainly when non-Irish speakers are participating in a conversation.18 This is the generally accepted norm and ideological ideal in these communities, not always borne out in actual practice. For these speakers, “speaking Irish” may include plenty of code switching to English (usually within the sentence) no matter what the situation or who is participating. The use of large numbers of English lexical items 19 and even entire phrases or even sentences in English is often seen by outsiders and speakers of other dialects of Irish as a sign that 17. Martin-Jones (1989) and Eckert (1980) argue that diglossia itself is perhaps never an equal relationship in European societies; cf. Gal (1987). 18. Similar patterns of use were noted by Dorian (1981) for East Sutherland (Scots) Gaelic. 19. Borrowing is only partly motivated by a lack of lexical resources in Irish; as was often said to me, Irish “has words for everything” (due to the work of lexicographers and terminology committees) but these words are unknown to or sometimes known to but rejected by native speakers. In Chapter 6 I discuss what I call (after Irvine 1996) strategies of insulation in codeswitching. 49 Connemara Irish is “polluted.” But this borrowing enables speakers to construct the entire speech event as an “Irish-language” speech event, which is symbolically and perhaps psychologically important. This type of borrowing of the resources of English within an overall “Irish” context could perhaps be seen as an act of possession or incorporation of English by Irish speakers rather than as the “pollution” of their dialect (cf Hill 1985). Such strategies are sometimes read by outsiders as an attempt to avoid speaking English at all; at a music festival in the Rinn Gaeltacht in Waterford in 1993, two youths expressed amazement to me that the visiting Connemara people (including the Ráth Cairn contingent) “spoke Irish all the time.”20 Thus speakers of Connemara Irish do not readily recognize diglossia or even a regime of separate “domains” of speaking. Cape Breton (Canada) speakers of Scots Gaelic refused to typify codes and domains in the abstract for Mertz (1993:168). Their use of language was rather a creative response to “the complex social life of the community, a life that is not primarily understood as a series of segmented ‘domains.’” 20. Teenagers and youths in Ráth Cairn often speak English to one another, seemingly as a matter of fashion. As with teenagers everywhere, their speech practices change frequently. In four years in Ráth Cairn I noticed several such changes. Sometimes the addition or subtraction of influential peers tipped the balance one way or another, e.g. a youth from Connemara shows up to work in a local factory and precipitates a shift towards Irish. Sometimes it seemed to me that the main motivation for speaking English was resentment at elders’ attempts to regiment language use. On a trip to perform at a festival on the Isle of Man in 1993 the sizable group of young people present began speaking mainly English to one another the moment the boat left the dock. As far as I know none of the older people made any fuss about this, and by the end of the week almost all of the youths were back speaking Irish to one another again. 50 For Connemara and Ráth Cairn people as well, language use is felt to be embodied in concrete personal relationships: language is an aspect of persons. This is part of a much wider approach to life that one could call, for lack of a better term, “personalism.” Thus, in an article titled “The Gaeltacht—Myth and Reality,” Donncha Ó hÉallaithe (1993:3), an Irish language activist who settled in Connemara, mentions that Gaeltacht people often answer in English when addressed in Irish by gaeilgeoirí: Gaeltacht people in the main are not language enthusiasts, language pushers or language lovers, nor could they ever take seriously the idea of restoring Irish as the major language of communication all over Ireland. I can’t remember, in my 20 years living here, ever hearing anybody say: “Tá grá mór agam don Ghaeilge” [I have a great love for Irish]. For most Gaeltacht people Irish is simply and solely a local language of communication for use when communicating with people from their own language community, whether on a building site in Boston, at a striptease show in a pub on Holloway Road [in London], at a disco in downtown Gaoth Dobhair, in a factory in Conamara or on the ferry from Ros a’ Mhíl to the Aran Islands . This statement is true as far as it goes—Gaeltacht people tend not to take their language as an abstract object of contemplation, in everyday conversation at any rate. But verbal art in Irish is full of sentiments toward the language which imply that it more for its speakers than “a local language of communication for use...” This ranges from explicit lyrical praise of the language and its beauty to subtle mocking of béarlachas (English-speaking ways) in humorous folk drama. Such works have a great historical depth in the Irish literary and folk traditions, and are a pervasive presence in the everyday lives of Irish speakers. Any discussion of speakers’ attitudes to their language should properly pay attention to their 51 own use of language in verbal art (as well as in answering survey questions or responding to outsiders’ questions). As Friedrich (1979, 1986) has argued, poetic language plays a central role in constituting the imaginations of speakers and shaping their views of and responses to “everyday life” itself. Taken too literally, Ó hÉallaithe’s statement offers an excellent rationale for the abandonment of Irish: in semiotic terms, it says that language use is merely a reflection of presupposed social (“community”) relationships, rather than a way of negotiating or even creating such relationships. The poetics of despair that Ó hÉallaithe evokes is certainly present in the western Gaeltacht. With a nod to Stewart (1988), we could call it the view from the emigrant ship: it sees community itself as an ever-receding nádúr (“nature”), now limited to the confines of individual human beings. Floating atomistically on the tides of modernity, when meeting they speak Irish to reaffirm their insider status (as a small gesture of resistance), then go on to raise their children (in Boston or London) in English. This is a sense that community is an origin-point we can only look back on nostalgically, rather than a project or a possibility. Such attitudes exist. It is not clear to me, though, that one can always infer them from practices such as the refusal to speak Irish to non-native-speaking outsiders (which is much more common in Connemara than in Ráth Cairn) or a wider refusal to take “Irish” as an abstract object of affection. Ó hÉallaithe, ostensibly debunking myths while speaking in the name of Gaeltacht people, seems 52 ultimately to take the point of view of romantic nationalism, naturalizing language use and denying intention to the natives. Intentional community Removed from the stony seashores and meager soil of Connemara, Ráth Cairn’s Irish-speakers traded their homes for a place in a utopian project. Ráth Cairn calls into question the naturalization of community, the invidious assumption that it is somehow places that speak Irish rather than people. But Ráth Cairn was originally created in response to the agitations of an organized grass-roots group from the Gaeltacht, that appealed directly to the Taoiseach (the Irish Prime Minister), Eamon De Valera (Chapter 5). And the community was founded by people from a geographically limited area, some of whom knew each other, and some of whom were politically organized and agitated for the move. In all these ways, Ráth Cairn has a much stronger basis for community than did other groups of migrants to the East,21 and more than most communities in Ireland. It has maintained and strengthened its identity as an Irish-speaking 21. Two other Gaeltacht “colonies” were created in the 1930s, most notably the one in Baile Ghib (Gibbstown), about 10 miles to the north of Ráth Cairn. Baile Ghib was populated by Irish-speakers from widely separated areas, including speakers of quite different dialects of Irish, who were mixed in with English-speaking families. English soon became the community language, although Irish is still spoken in many households and by the older generations there. Another tiny group went to Allenstown, Co. Meath but were quickly assimilated. There are several other places in the Midlands of Ireland where individuals or small groups of Irishspeakers were given land in the 1930s and after, but Ráth Cairn, Baile Ghib and Allenstown were the only attempts to create Gaelic “colonies.” 53 community, now the only one in the province of Leinster, and the only one which was deliberately created. Ráth Cairn’s continued existence as an Irish-speaking community challenges a deeply held assumption that speaking Irish is a purely “natural” rather than an intentional activity. Implicit in this point of view (shared by many academics) is an association of urbanity with modernity: rural people who speak the language are “Irish-speakers” or even “native speakers,” while urban Irishspeakers are “language activists,” if not “fanatics.” For both romantic revivalists and native speakers themselves, Irishspeaking often seems to be a property of places rather than of communities. 22 It is commonly believed that Irish was always spoken in present-day Gaeltacht areas (except of course Ráth Cairn). One is born speaking the language, and one speaks it because one lives in a place no one else wanted. The extent of the present-day Connemara Gaeltacht mirrors very closely the distribution of granite rather than sedimentary rocks in West Galway: the poorest, rockiest, boggiest land speaks Irish. It is easy for people to whom their language is a badge of poverty to resent or mock others who wish to learn it.23 Romantic nationalism offers an easy refuge in the form of a nativism that sees “tradition” as an uncritical, unconscious and 22. But the ‘indigenous’ semiotic of place is quite different than that of the nation-state. 23. The often derogatory use of the term gaeilgeoir (literally, ‘Irish-speaker’) to refer to a non-native speaker who is speaking Irish illustrates the ambivalence of the situation. 54 inalienable property. This attitude is not far removed from the concept of dúchas: a quasi-genetic ‘nature’ that can neither be acquired nor gotten rid of. Although their immediate economic gains proved to be fairly minimal, the settlers of Ráth Cairn were blasted out of such “traditions” in 1935, and forced to take a more deliberate stance towards their own community and its language and culture. Of course, all speakers of minority languages must (as individuals or collectively) actively “choose,” at some level, to continue speaking the language and especially whether or not to pass it on to their children, but most people, everywhere, prefer to clothe such decisions in an ideological cloak of inevitability. Few such garments are available for Irish speakers these days, other than the mystique of the Gaeltacht as a place apart. Ráth Cairn, as a section of ordinary Meath farmland, has resisted such mystique, focusing attention more on Irish as a social product than as a natural attribute of place. Like any language or culture, Irish has always assimilated outsiders, claiming or reclaiming territory; as a symbolic system in Peirce’s sense, it has the power to “create defenders and animate them with strength” (Peirce 1976 4:243-4). Ráth Cairn is an intentional community, but one which continues to defy all intentions: a compromise between utopian dreams of the Gaeltacht radicals of the 1930s, De Valera’s exercise in nation-building, the dreams of language enthusiasts in Dublin and elsewhere, and those of individuals and families in Connemara who simply wanted land and a chance to get ahead. 55 It is often repeated about the oldest generation that the day they were removed from the open spaces, ocean, and shore of Connemara “they were lost.” I have heard similar sentiments even from those who were in their early teens or younger when they came to Ráth Cairn. Even though they moved only about 120 miles to the East, Ráth Cairn was a world away from Connemara, especially in the 1930s. Seremetakis (1994:8) uses the term “sensory landscape” for a community’s physical “repository and horizon of historical experience, emotions, embedded sensibilities and hence social relationships.” The migration to County Meath radically altered the sensory landscape of the people of Ráth Cairn. Exposure to new production techniques (plowing, intensive farming) and social relations of production (commodity crop production, wage labor, the increasing importance of the cash economy) threatened to further dissociate and fragment the social worlds of the migrants. The people of Ráth Cairn have countered and in large part successfully resisted this fragmentation of experience, typical of both (post-) modernity and marginality. Although Ráth Cairn was fairly isolated until the 1960s, the oldest currently living generation (who were in their teens in 1935) have maintained or reestablished contacts with Connemara while holding onto much of its place-lore and traditions, and are truly multilocal (cf. Rodman 1992). 56 The view from the Gaeltacht and the view from the nation-state Symbolic capital that becomes official, as in the case of official languages, is often embedded in histories and ideologies that may challenge the hegemony of the state. (Haeri 1997:795-96) A cheerful term like “multilocalism” might seem cruelly ironic in the context of the history of Irish emigration, which even through the 1970s was, for many people, forced economic migration often without hope of return. To the present day the population of most of the rural West is declining through migration to Irish cities and abroad. For up to half of Ráth Cairn’s original migrants the move to County Meath was only the first stop on the way to Dublin and overseas. By the early 1960s, according to Micheál Seoighe (1986:98), 50% were still in Ráth Cairn, 20% were working in other places in Ireland, another 20% working in England, 9% in America and 1% in Australia. In both Connemara and Ráth Cairn, the 1960s brought a revival of grassroots political activism. It was only when increasing prosperity in the 1960s allowed more people to remain in or return to Ireland that this type of activism gained strength.24 In the 1960s and early 1970s, groups such as Cearta Sibhialta na Gaeltachta (Gaeltacht Civil Rights) were founded in Connemara to demand fair treatment of Irish-speakers as a minority language community. At about the same time a coalition based in Ráth Cairn and Dublin was pressuring the 24. The generation of the 1930s had been the last previous generation to not emigrate in large numbers—in that case it was the depression which “closed” America and Britain to Irish emigrants. 57 government to grant official Gaeltacht status to Ráth Cairn. As far as I know these groups were the first Gaeltacht-based groups since the 1930s to take an explicitly rights-based stand on language issues. One common denominator in all these events was Máirtín Ó Cadhain, who had been a leader of the 1930s movement in Connemara. In a pamphlet published in 1964, Ó Cadhain urged Irish-language activists to threaten to abstain from voting25 to protest the government’s complacency in its Irishlanguage policies. This tactic was successfully used in the local elections of 1967 to get Ráth Cairn and Baile Ghib officially recognized as Gaeltacht areas. Recognition was desired partially because it would entitle residents to state support such as grants for housing. The main motivation, though, seems to have been a desire to expand Ráth Cairn’s uneconomically small farm holdings. The fact that Gaeltacht status had not been granted by the Department of the Gaeltacht in 1956 perhaps shows that the Government saw the Ráth Cairn project more in terms of land reform and “relief” than of language maintenance. Another problem was that its Irish-speakers were no longer confined to the initial “colony”—more families had arrived in the 1950s and settled in adjacent townlands, and members of the original families had expanded their holdings 25. Ó Cadhain saw this as the only response to the complacency of the Fianna Fáil party, which otherwise could count on the loyalty of Gaeltacht people as well as urban Irish-speakers. Fianna Fáil, the dominant political party, was founded by the remains of the anti-Treaty side after losing the Civil War of 1921-22. The party first came to power in 1932, led by Eamon De Valera, and is still the largest political party in the State. It is in many ways reminiscent of Mexico’s P.R.I. in that it commands the loyalties of the rural poor due to its populist policies and clientelist practices. 58 outside of the original colony (Ó Gadhra 1986:115), presenting a sociolinguistic situation potentially too complicated to untangle. The creation of spaces or domains for Irish is always a political act at some level. It is also contrary to most Irish speakers’ own norms, an imposition on and a reification of their everyday speech practices. Irish speakers live in a set of wider domains that belong to an aggressively hegemonic anglophone society. The history of Ráth Cairn bears this out. Take, for example, the provision in the original colony of a site for a (Catholic) church. People told me that the intended function of this small piece of land (near the primary school) had been a mystery for several decades. It eventually came to light that it was intended for a church, which the parish priest in Athboy (some say the Bishop of Meath) had decided against building. This may have been nothing but an ordinary ecclesiastical power-play (keeping all of the flock under one roof), but it meant that Ráth Cairn people, in addition to walking three miles into town to go to Mass, had to make confessions and otherwise deal with priests mainly through the medium of English, depending on the abilities and inclinations of whatever priests happened to be stationed in Athboy. In Athboy the Irish-speakers formed a small minority at Mass, but in a church in Ráth Cairn the language question would have to be addressed. The seminary in Maynooth, established in the mid-19th Century, played an important role in anglicizing the country, introducing a new regime of civil Catholicism that was conservative, middle-class and anglophone (Larkin 1984; 59 Taylor 1995). Even after the reforms of Vatican II introduced the vernacular Mass, the church as an institution did not readily embrace Irish; in Athboy, Mass was said in English (except on St. Patrick’ s Day!). The demand for Irish-speaking priests and Irish language church services became a cause celebre in the 1960s; a pamphlet produced in 1964 by Dublin activists (including the ubiquitous Máirtín Ó Cadhain) used the plight of Ráth Cairn to highlight the situation in the Gaeltacht as a whole.26 The headmaster of the primary school, Seán Ó Coisdealbha, had been one of the original members of Muintir na Gaeltachta involved in the creation of Ráth Cairn. He and his wife Ide had made the school the center of public life—the only public institution in Ráth Cairn. They made use of traditional verbal art in the classroom and taught through the medium of Irish, including the Catechism. When they retired in the 1960s, the Bishop of Meath “took the opportunity” to introduce the teaching of catechism through English (Ó Méalóid and Mac Cóil 1997). The children of Ráth Cairn were told that they had one week to prepare themselves and be ready to make confession in English. The authors of the pamphlet stated in response: Ráth Cairn, County Meath is a true Gaeltacht community [pobal Fíor-Ghaeltacht]. The people came from Connemara thirty years ago and many had little or no English. They never heard the Word of God in Irish in Ráth Cairn—except in the school. [...] Even if we are Irish-speakers that is no reason for us to be second-class citizens in the Kingdom of God. God is not an English-speaking God to us. It is not to an English-speaking God that the little children of Ráth Cairn should be expected to confide the loneliest secrets of their 26. This was many people’s first introduction to Ráth Cairn (Ó Gadhra 1986:111-12); the pamphlet was entitled “Chuala tú faoi Ráth Cairn?” (Have you heard about Ráth Cairn?). 60 hearts. Christ asked for the little children to be let unto Him. Or did He say that they had to be English speakers?27 This is a rejection of diglossia, and takes the form of an appeal to the personal nature of the interaction between a child and God. Speaking style is here seen (ideally) to reflect concrete personal relationships; and this is seen as a matter of civil rights (“second-class citizens”). As a result of the agitation, a young Maynooth priest, Tomás Ó Fiaich, began driving out to Ráth Cairn to perform Irish-language Masses. This is a good example of how Ráth Cairn has acquired influential allies within the power structure; typically people who play roles as activists or reformers within their own organizations. Ó Fiaich was active in the Irish-language movement in Maynooth, and revived Cumann na Sagart (The Priests’ Society) as a national organization promoting Irish among the clergy (Ó Doibhlin 1995). He would later become Cardinal Ó Fiaich and a crusader for civil rights of Catholics in Northern Ireland. The drive to establish linguistic rights for Ráth Cairn led to the establishment of locally controlled spaces for the language. A branch of the Gaelic League, “Craobh Cearta Ráth Cairn” (the Ráth Cairn Rights Branch) was founded in 1971. Construction began on a community hall, and this led to the 27. Is pobal Fíor-Ghaeltacht é Ráth Cairn na Mí. As Conamara a tháinig na daoine deich mbliana fichead ó shoin agus a lán acu ar bheagán nó d’uireasa Béarla. Níor chuala siad Briathar Dé ariamh i nGaeilge i Ráth Cairn—ach amháin sa scoil. [...]Má’s Gaeilgeoirí féin muid ní shin fáth ar bith gur saoránaigh de’n dara grad a bheadh ionainn i Ríocht Dé. Ní Dia Béarlach linn Dia. Ní le Dia Béarlach is cóir iarraidh ar pháistí beaga Ráth Cairn na rúin is uaigni in a croí a ligeann. D’iarr Críost na páistí beaga a ligeann Chuige. Nó arbh éard a d’ordaigh Sé gur lucht Béarla a chaithfeadh a bheith ann? (pamphlet reprinted in Ó Conghaile 1986:150-51). 61 creation of a community co-op, Comharchumann Ráth Cairn. This co-op is locally controlled—local people buy shares, ownership of which gives them voting rights in elections to the governing committee. The hall became the site of Irish-language Masses, a drama club, and eventually an Irish-language secondary school. An important addition to the community was the pub, originally in the hall and then moved to a new building attached to it. Previously drinkers had to make the trek to pubs in Athboy, where there were sometimes conflicts between Ráth Cairn people and others. Ráth Cairn’s pub largely replaced nighttime gatherings in houses as the locus of performance. As a semipublic28 place, it brought performance further into the public realm and acts as an interface between local people and outsiders. Eventually a church was built, Áras Cuimhneacháin Naomh Phádraig, completed in 1985. The co-op also helped farmers expand their holdings, organized a project to bring in piped water, and bought land for a housing estate (not yet built). It is by far the most important institution in Ráth Cairn, and functions in a variety of ways as the go-between in local peoples’ dealings with the State. The struggle for official recognition of Ráth Cairn followed a pattern typical of the relationship between Irish-speakers and the state. The state makes “symbolic” gestures to the language, which it has to be forced into upholding. 28. It is organized as a private club, open to non-members; this gives the Co-op more control over who uses it. The threat of being barred is a powerful sanction. 62 Protest consists of embarrassing the state with adverse publicity through the threat or actual practice of autonomous action (e.g., not voting).29 Members of Cearta Sibhialta na Gaeltachta (Gaeltacht Civil Rights) set up an illegal radio transmitter broadcasting in Irish in Connemara in 1970, an action which led directly to the creation by the state of Raidió na Gaeltachta (Ó Glaisne 1982), a Irish language Gaeltacht-based radio station which broadcasts nationally. Raidió na Gaeltachta was the first national institution to function through Irish only, and the first to be largely controlled by Gaeltacht people. Another result of the agitation of Cearta Sibhialta na Gaeltachta was the setting up in 1980 of Údarás na Gaeltachta, which took over responsibility for industrial development in the Gaeltacht, previously the responsibility of Gaeltarra, a state board, and GaelLinn, a private organization.30 Údarás na Gaeltachta is unique in that a majority of its board of directors are democratically elected by Gaeltacht residents. The actions of Cearta Sibhialta na Gaeltachta reflected a new understanding among Gaeltacht activists that increasing local autonomy was the 29. A few times in Ráth Cairn I heard local wits express dissatisfaction with the government by proposing that “we might as well all speak English now.” 30. These organizations had focused on developing “traditional” crafts and industries such as knitting and fishing, although Gaeltarra went so far as to set up two industrial estates in Connemara and Donegal in 1965. In the 1960s and 1970s Gaeltarra increasingly followed the model of the Industrial Development Agency (I.D.A.), which was founded in 1949 and attempted to attract foreign industrial capital to Ireland. Údarás na Gaeltachta has followed the same model. Both Gaeltarra and Údarás na Gaeltachta have been criticized for lacking a coherent cultural and linguistic policy, making it hard to distinguish them from the I.D.A. (Johnson 1979:70). According to Údarás na Gaeltachta, “the population of the Gaeltacht is more than 86,000 according to the 1996 Census of Population and the total labour force is 28,500... [Údarás na Gaeltachta sponsored industries] account for 7,880 full-time jobs and 4,000 part-time/seasonal jobs” (Údarás na Gaeltachta FAQ). For comparison, the current (1998) population of Ráth Cairn is about 450, according to the head of the local Coop (Foinse, 2/22/98). 63 only means to preservation of their communities (Ó Gadhra 1988:258). They represent a fundamental shift in attitudes towards the Irish language. The State has always claimed the language as a “national” language, the birthright of all Irish people, a perspective that makes problematic any special treatment for Gaeltacht people.31 The Gaeltacht-based social movements of the 1960s and 1970s sought to redefine the language as a “minority” language, seeking “civil rights” for Gaeltacht people (and for urban Irish speakers) as an oppressed minority in search of increased autonomy.32 Such struggles increasingly take place on the terrain of the state and according its logic. By fighting for recognition as a Gaeltacht area the people of Ráth Cairn effectively redefined themselves (in certain contexts) as a geographically-bounded community. In the same way, the creation of Údarás na Gaeltachta strengthened the geographical definition of the Gaeltacht by turning it into a set of electoral districts. In a dialectic similar to that identified by the Comaroffs (1992) in processes of colonization, the logic of the state has increasingly informed not only the responses of the powerful but also the expectations, actions and achievements of local resistance. 31. Many monoglot English speakers in Ireland have insisted to me that Irish is “their” language, often in the context of objecting to compulsory Irish in the school curriculum, grants for Irish-speakers, etc. 32. Diamond (1974:278) argues that such struggles are a response to the expansion of the state and civil law, and the “drastic changes in the socioeconomic structure” which result. 64 Once new local institutions are created, the struggle is not over; in fact it is often only the beginning. The minority rights perspective on Irish language communities, once accepted by the State, is available to the latter as a means of containing Gaeltacht communities and limiting their demands for autonomy. Gaeltacht cooperatives exemplify the fine line that separates locally autonomous structures from instruments of the state: In most cases the Gaeltacht cooperatives are merely structures through which government aid may be channelled into the Gaeltacht regions, structures which involve planning at a more local level. A significant point here, however, is that the momentum comes from within the Gaeltacht itself. The planners are in this case local people living in small rural communities who actually experience the conditions they are striving to improve... (Johnson 1979:71). As an example of this, there has been constant tension within Raidió na Gaeltachta, and between the station and its listeners, over who controls the station (the State or local people) and over the station’s mission or target audience—Gaeltacht people or a national audience (Ó Drisceoil 1996). The station was set up under the auspices of Raidió Telefís Éireann (the national broadcasting authority), which directly appoints top management. There is also an appointed advisory committee of representatives of the different Gaeltacht communities. The first committee did not include any of the activists who had campaigned for the establishment of the station; most of its members were also members of Fianna Fáil, the party then in power. (Ó Glaisne 1982:73-77). Paradoxically, it has often been the national organization (R.T.É.) which has attempted to impose a “local” definition of Raidió na Gaeltachta’s coverage, 65 while “local,” Gaeltacht-based staff wanted the station to cover national and international news (Ó Glaisne 1982; Ó Drisceoil 1996; Watson 1997:218). The question is one of autonomy for Irish and Irish speaking communities, an autonomy which is outward-looking, versus a protected status as an inwardlooking reserve. Thus Raidió na Gaeltachta has built up an international network of Irish-speakers for use as correspondents (Watson 1997:218), and is well-known for its ability to cover national news, especially political news, and has forced politicians to be able to account for themselves through the medium of Irish (Ó Ciosáin, 1998:20). The case of Raidió na Gaeltachta—a “local” station with national and international reach—shows that perhaps the “local” is not merely a geographic entity; locality is not a physical container for people but a wider set of concrete social relationships. There was similar pressure to establish a national Irish-language television channel, including experiments in pirate broadcasting in Connemara in 1986. Ráth Cairn people were actively involved in this campaign; the community boasts its own independent production company, Scun Scan. These efforts led to the creation of Telefís na Gaeilge (T. na G.) which began broadcasting in 1996. Interestingly, the most determined opposition to T. na G. came from Ireland’s largest private media conglomerate, Independent Newspapers. Although T. na G. has headquarters in the Gaeltacht, it defines itself as a “national” service and is much more firmly under the control of R.T.É than Raidió na Gaeltachta. Thus the name of the station, Teilifís na Gaeilge, which is Television “of Irish,” that is, of 66 “Irish” as the official national language and property of all Irish people, rather than Teilifís na Gaeltachta, Television “of the Gaeltacht,” the voice and point of view of the habitually Irish-speaking community (however that community is defined). This shows in T. na G.’s programming, most of which features simple, standardized (and English-subtitled) Irish comprehensible to learners and nonnative speakers. Very little of its programming seems to present a Gaeltacht point of view. In a way this may a good thing—in Ráth Cairn the night of T. na G.’s first broadcast, one of the things that most impressed some of the older people were the Toyota ads in Irish! But T. na G. has a quality of placelessness that R. na G. lacks, a quality that manifests itself in its journalists’ apparent attempts to avoid “Gaeltacht” accents. As with other institutions, the point of view projected by T. na G. closely reflects its own power structure. Seosamh Ó Cuaig, a member of Cearta Sibhialta na Gaeltachta who has been an elected member of the board of Údarás Na Gaeltachta and is now a journalist with Raidió na Gaeltachta, put the matter like this: But it is the people coming in from outside that are on top in the Údarás [na Gaeltachta]. The things we helped create, said T.P. Ó Conchubhair [another Gaeltacht activist] to me once, are managed by outsiders now. There are four or five grades in the Údarás, I said to John Lowry. In the lowest grade, 90% of the people are Gaeltacht people. There is nobody from the Gaeltacht in the highest grade. T[elefís] na G[aeltachta] is that way because it is coming from the outside. ‘We’ll go West and save the Sioux Indians’, that’s the mentality there. You couldn’t put a Sioux Indian in charge of the Sioux Indians. It isn’t that way with Raidió na Gaeltachta, yet. Raidió na Gaeltachta is the only Gaeltacht institution we ever had. R.T.É. is in charge of it, but it is the mentality of the Gaeltacht that 67 was in it [from the beginning]. This is under severe siege with a lot of people trying to put an end to it. There is pressure on Raidió na Gaeltachta to emphasize the national aspect. But what does that mean? It isn’t [a case of] local and national but local and universal. That’s what I say.33 “The mentality of the Gaeltacht” (meon na Gaeltachta), in its particularity as a locally grounded perspective, not only can speak for itself, but has something to say to the world. As with the Sioux Indians, only autonomy can safeguard such perspectives. A flyer issued by Ráth Cairn’s production company to present proposals for T. na G. makes this point very clearly: The Gaeltacht regions are the centers from which one will see the world. The service must be located in the Gaeltacht and in the hands of Gaeltacht people and Irish speakers (Scun Scan 1993, my translation). The most insidious threat to the Irish language and Irish speaking communities is the reasonable habitual surface of everyday anglophone business as usual that characterizes Irish society as a whole. This everyday habitus is often seen to manifest itself as “market forces.” Thus as Watson (1997:214-17) shows, it was a shift towards a “market-driven” policy based on an American-style ratings system that led R.T.É. to drop much of its Irish-language broadcasting in the 33. Ach is iad na daoine thar teora isteach atá in uachtar san Údarás. Na rudaí ar chuidigh muid leo, arsa T.P. Ó Conchubhair liom uair, is eachtrannaigh atá ina mbainisteoirí orthu. Tá ceithre nó cúig ghrád san Údarás, a dúirt mé le John Lowry. Maidir leis an ngrád is ísle, 90% de na daoine atá ar an ngrád sin, is de mhuintir na Gaeltachta iad. An grád is airde, níl duine ar bith as an nGaeltacht air. Tá TnaG ar an gcaoi sin mar gheall gur ón taobh amuigh atá an rud ag tíocht. ‘Gabhfaidh muid siar agus slánóidh muid na Sioux Indians’, sin é an meon atá ann. Ní fhéadfá Sioux Indian a chur i gceannas ar na Sioux Indians. Níl sé sin ann le Raidió na Gaeltachta, fós. Is é Raidió na Gaeltachta t-aon institiúd Gaeltachta dá raibh againn. Tá RTÉ i gceannas air, ach is é meon na Gaeltachta a bhí ann. Tá anléigear air sin agus go leor daoine ag iarraidh deireadh a chúr leis. Tá brú ar Raidió na Gaeltachta béim a chur ar an ngné Náisiúnta. Ach céard is brí leis sin? Ní áitiúil agus náisiúnta ach áitiúil agus uilíoch. Sin é a deirimse (Seosamh Ó Cuaig, interviewed in Foinse, 5/3/98). 68 1960s, which provoked a civil rights-based response from Gaeltacht activists. In Bourdieu’s (1991) terms, this reflects a political struggle to define the outlines of “linguistic markets” for Irish—are they national or local? Dissolution? Another manifestation of this problem is the current housing crisis in the Gaeltacht—real estate prices are booming in Ireland and Gaeltacht people often cannot afford to buy houses in their own communities. Local co-ops like Comharchumann Ráth Cairn are unable to control who buys and sells land in the open market, and have no power to regulate the housing market according to language. The very improvements provided by Ráth Cairn’s co-op in its struggle for autonomy have made the area attractive for English speakers who are looking for a vibrant stable community to settle in. In response to this, the co-op is attempting to incorporate Ráth Cairn as a town with a town council, in order to have the resources to buy and sell land and to directly make decisions about land use. If this succeeds, the co-op will, in effect become part of the state. Making language a criterion for membership in the community goes against the mentality of many in Ráth Cairn who have come to rely on cooperative networks with Meath people. Thus, the issue of whether or not “Ráth Cairn welcomes English-speakers” has been debated in local newspapers. This points to a fundamental problem in the “minority rights” perspective regarding Irish: separation from the larger community in Ireland, whether 69 linguistic, political or geographic, is often seen as part of the problem rather than part of the solution. Most Irish speakers feel that, for better or worse, the fate of the language in the Gaeltacht is tied to its fate in the nation as a whole. This, for members of Muintir na Gaeltachta in the 1930s, was the whole point of demanding land in County Meath. As Máirtín Ó Cadhain put it in a speech in 1934 (Chapter 5): Irish will survive in the Gaeltacht to the degree that it succeeds in the Galltacht [English-speaking areas]. We, the people of the Gaeltacht, are not willing to be made into a separate people or to have any Black Pig’s Dyke put around us to entrap us. When Ráth Cairn was created in the 1930s, children from several poor local English-speaking families attended its primary school, becoming fluent in Irish. But these children were not eligible for the “£2 grant” for Irish-speaking children34 because they were not “from Irish-speaking families.” I have heard older people in Ráth Cairn express resentment at this, saying that it had artificially separated them from the other children who were their playmates and confidantes. Many of these same children turned against the language in later life. This shows the intimate scale on which the “Black Pig’s Dyke” worked. It also shows the extent to which it was officially imposed upon, and resented by, both Ráth Cairn and Meath people. 34. The infamous grant “for speaking Irish,” much resented by English-speakers, was administered through the school system, and it was decided that Ráth Cairn children were eligible, even though the area was not officially recognized as a Gaeltacht until much later. The amount of money involved was economically significant in the 1930s. 70 Like Máirtín Ó Cadhain, Ó Riagáin (1997) makes the argument that the “survival” of Irish as a minority language requires its “revival” and reinvigoration on a national scale. But this is because, in his view, the Gaeltacht has ceased to be a geographically grounded entity: Bilingualism in Ireland always had a territorial or regional dimension. But it would seem that the linguistic distinctions between the Gaeltacht and the rest of the country are disappearing. This is due to the effect of changing occupational patterns in the areas. The move towards non-agricultural work, participation in second and third-level education, and changes in shopping and recreational patterns have all brought about an expansion of social networks beyond the boundaries of the Irish-speaking community. To these changes may be added increased flows of in-migrants and returned emigrants. ‘In the Gaeltacht the historical process of language shift is progressing to the point where Irish is ceasing to be a community language and becoming instead the language of particular social networks’ (APC 1988:xxvi). In this respect, bilingualism in the Gaeltacht is converging towards the pattern found elsewhere in the state. [... ] [Outside the Gaeltacht] Irishspeaking networks have never been large enough or sufficiently numerous to form an Irish-speaking community, even in the urban centres. Rather, they appear to have been characterized by a marked degree of impermanence, openness, and instability (Ó Riagáin 1997:278). This description may be more of a reflection of ideological changes in the urban observers and their theories, and changes in Government language policy, than of changes in the rural Gaeltacht. “Impermanence, openness, and instability” would seem to have characterized both the consciousness of Irish speakers and the realities of their lives in the rural Gaeltacht for a very long time. What is the difference between “a community language” and “the language of particular social networks?” Taking “networks” as an object of study undoubtedly represents a theoretical advance over more strictly spatializing 71 definitions, but much of the old baggage slips back in as researchers attempt to quantify “density,” “openness,” or “closedness” of social networks. As Ó Riagáin (1997:35-37) acknowledges, the social composition of social networks is insufficient in itself to predict or explain their linguistic behavior (cf. MartinJones 1989, Gal 1987). Sociolinguists aren’t the only ones who worry about these things. Images of dissolution or scattering come up in local talk, as this chapter’s epigraphs show. What constitutes a community? How do ways of speaking command loyalty? Authority We need to look at ideologies of speakers as implicated in their their speech practices. A research report published by Bord na Gaeilge, a state “board” (organization) for the promotion of Irish, assumes that “a clear, convincing, authoritative ideological rationale” is an alternative to what it sees as a lack of “overt pragmatic reasons for using the language” (APC 1988:xxxiv). In this view, ideological rationales are alternatives to practical reasons (cf. Sahlins 1976). The very separation of these two “alternatives” belies a point of view from which Irish can only play a “symbolic” role—the point of view of the state, founded on the separations of the economic and the cultural, the symbolic and the material worlds. 72 In response to these distinctions one could suggest that “pragmatic reasons” (however overt) are the very texture of lived worlds, and lived worlds are the homelands of “ideological rationales.” My gut feeling that I have no overt pragmatic reason for getting out of bed in the morning is certainly going to color (and be colored by) my ideological rationale for doing so. Bord na Gaeilge lives in a different world than did Máirtín Ó Conaire, a late lamented raconteur in Ráth Cairn. According to legend, he loved to talk to visiting gaeilgeoirí and offer helpful English glosses to Irish phrases. “Bord na Gaeilge,” Máirtín insisted, meant “The Irish Table.” Bord (pronounced baurd in Connemara Irish, bo:rd in Standard Irish) is used for tables, borders or edges, banks of bodies of water, loads (of turf or seaweed), “boarding” ships, and in a bureaucratic register for state “boards.” Máirtín’s exercise in cultural translation from below was “making fun of the English-speakers” (ag magadh faoi na Béarlóirí), interrupting official discourse to reveal its English-language voice. Máirtín Ó Conaire’s pun works to remind his neighbors in Ráth Cairn of the difference between “our” and “their” ways of speaking (Chapter 6). It is grounded in a different sense of linguistic authority than that promoted by the state and its “centripetal” (Bakhtin 1981:270) institutions of standardization. Gaeltacht culture in general has been resolutely local; authority and value are grounded in locality and community. Hence the relative lack of enthusiasm from Gaeltacht people for standard Irish, and their high tolerance for, and even indifference to, dialectal variations within their own Gaeltacht areas. 73 This concept of locality is grounded in a sense of commensal social relationships, as opposed to location in a spatially-defined geographical area. Thus it underwrites the other distinctions I have discussed between Gaeltacht people’s understandings and those of the nation-state at large—differences in the sense of the term Gaeltacht, the rejection of diglossia, taking language as an entity in itself or as an aspect of persons, etc. The personalism implicit in it is manifested in a variety of ubiquitous speech practices involving quotation and transmission of reported speech (Chapters 6 and 8). An example of this is the statement by Seosamh Ó Cuaig that I discussed above, which features instances of reported speech in which Ó Cuaig grounds his views in dialogues with named others. Talk Máirtín Ó Cadhain once said that he remembered his father’s and mother’s wedding. He had heard so many stories about it he believed that he was there. It is the same with me and the founding of this Gaeltacht. (Mac Donncha 1986:120, my translation). Ráth Cairn’s 50th anniversary celebrations in 1985 were immensely important as a collective event that focused national attention on the community and inscribed a collective history (cf. Ó Conghaile 1986). The event spawned what was almost a genre of personal reminiscence (Chapter 5; cf. Ó Giollagáin 1996, 1997), building on the forms of traditional historical narrative (seanchas). 74 Social memory in Ráth Cairn continually reassembles fragments, wilfully seeking continuities; as elsewhere in Ireland, old people use each other and younger people to help them remember in a collective play of musement. A story or fragmentary thought, the name of a person or place, a line from a poem calls forth other fragments (like “starting a hare”); lone individuals go back35 on “the road of thoughts” (bóthar na smaointe). This activity fascinated me because it resonated with that of folklorists, linguists, and anthropologists like myself: the gathering of fragments to create ordered (if temporary) wholes. Before I began research there was already a set of expectations in place about myself and my research. I was expected to be interested in “old” things, like information about life in Connemara before the move to Ráth Cairn, and the move to Ráth Cairn itself. The older people would complain that they couldn’t remember things, but they did this when talking to each other also. This is the rationale for fragmentation, underlying which is the implicit assumption that there was or should be a whole, complete story. I would make short visits to people, and if I mentioned something it might come up again later, on another visit or in the pub or in a chance encounter on the road. I was invited to participate in a process of assembly which was thought of as a retrieval of the past. But this retrieval was at the same time an act of re-creation of Ráth Cairn as a community. The dissolution and disintegration alluded to in the epigraph to 35. Siar means both ‘back’ and ‘westward’. 75 this chapter is countered by these acts of remembering, which form the basis for collective political action. There is more to it, though, than an endless doomed effort to recreate a lost world. Fragments come to mind because they relate to here and now issues and have something to say to them. But these objects—memories, songs or bits of songs, proverbs, people, words, places, things—exist in their own right as well, having their own voices and their own histories. Their histories are only partially known or remembered, but are discoverable. They speak to the present allegorically, in the manner understood by Walter Benjamin (Buck-Morss 1997:228-29), as “the mode in which not the subject, but the objective world expresses meaning.” The original creation of Ráth Cairn was authorized by a narrative: when De Valera asked representatives of Muintir na Gaeltachta how he should explain the Ráth Cairn resettlement scheme to the people of Meath, Máirtín Ó Cofaigh answered “Abair leo, gur chuir Cromail siar muid agus anois go bhuil muid ag teacht aniar.” “Tell them that Cromwell sent us west (literally ‘set us back’) and that now we are returning (from the west).” As I show in Chapter 5, this narrative locates Ráth Cairn by superimposing an older spatial framework upon a “national” ideology of modernization. In the sociocultural framework encoded in the grammar of Irish, the west is both conceptually “back” and the place of ancestors in mythology—the land of the dead. In the national discourse of modernization, Ireland develops out of its Western, rural, traditional past 76 towards an urban future (usually assumed to be “European”).36 This discourse sees eastward movement as escape from a culturally and materially narrow past. The founding narrative of Ráth Cairn expresses this movement as one of repossession. The phrase “go bhfuil muid ag teacht aniar” represents motion from the West towards the East, taking the point of view of the Meath people (who are in the East). Teacht aniar also means ‘making a comeback’, and, understood as the nominalized form of the verb, means ‘recuperative power, stamina’ (Ó Dónaill 1977:1214). The phrase claims primacy for the Connemara people; in the words of the Connemara poet Seosamh Ó Donnchadha,37 “the Leinsterman” will understand “that it was they who were banished across the Shannon in the beginning/When Saxons were planted from Britain over the sea.” In this understanding, Connemara is only a temporary abode for its people, a refugee camp: It is time for us to awaken, the whistle is blowing, And the clear path is prepared for us eastward though the land, ‘Till we leave the hard wild lands of Connemara, To thorns, heather and trees again. But older people in Ráth Cairn are greatly saddened if they see their original home places38 left “to thorns, heather and trees again.” In their seanchas they 36. James Joyce was an articulate, if uneasy, exponent of this point of view, e.g., in his short story The Dead (Chapter 8). 37. in his 1934 poem Contae na Mí [County Meath] (Ó Donnchadha, 1983). 38. Migrants to Ráth Cairn had to turn over their holdings in Connemara to the Land Commission, which redistributed them among neighboring families. For this reason, old people could not be left behind in Connemara and had to be brought to Ráth Cairn. Hence their 77 preserve detailed memories of the customs and place-lore of Connemara, as well as accounts of life, customs, and people in County Meath—in a way, they inhabit the sensory landscape of both places. These stories are related to younger people with moral import, but also have a wider function, forming the basis of collective political action—the deliberate (re-)creation of Ráth Cairn as a community. Thus Máirtín Ó Cadhain, in what was possibly his only visit to Ráth Cairn after its founding, gave a long oration at the crossroads in front of the primary school during the agitation for Gaeltacht recognition in the mid-1960s. Various people have told me how a local man challenged Ó Cadhain’s authority to speak for Ráth Cairn, since he didn’t live there. The answer he got was, “maybe it’s not always the same people who cut the seaweed who bring it home.”39 (Mac Donncha 1986:133). Ó Cadhain’s speech greatly impressed the young Pádraig Mac Donncha, a native of Ráth Cairn who had moved to Dublin: “He told me where I was from, who we were, and what we should do;”40 Mac Donncha returned to help found Ráth Cairn’s cooperative. Most people in Ráth Cairn consider the campaign for recognition and the founding of the cooperative as a crucial turning point which “saved” the lamenting in Ó Donnchadha’s poem. 39. Bh’fhéidir nach iad na daoine a bhaineann an fheamainn a thugann abhaile i gcónaí í (quoted in Mac Donncha 1986:133). 40. Dinis sé dhomsa cé as mé, cé muid fhéin, agus céard ba chóir dhuinn a dhéanamh (Ó Méalóid and Mac Cóil 1997). 78 community. It is significant that this and other such events are remembered as marked by acts of narration—acts which averted the threat of dissolution. Personalism People narrate each other as well, living in each others’ talk. It was as if in Ráth Cairn I was surrounded by characters who were slightly larger than life, because these personalities included the quoted presence of others. Quotation and imitation are common in speech forms ranging from everyday gossip to the loftier reaches of verbal art. These mimetic practices reinforce the salience of personality in a variety of ways. Gossip, everyday humor, proverbs, and some types of topical songs reify their victims, making them tokens of social types. This type of consciousness “finalizes” (Bakhtin 1984; Pesmen 1998). It bears the ironic and cynical awareness of people as hidebound with habit, victims of their own “nature” (nádúr) or “heritage” (dúchas). Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s novel Cré na Cille is saturated with this typifying consciousness, and exemplifies its use in moral and political contexts (Chapter 7). Ó Cadhain self-consciously developed the discursive techniques of Irish to sharpen his writing’s satirical edge: 17th Century poetry […] taught me certain things about style: to make use of adjectives instead of nouns for example—the greedy instead of the greedy person, the lying, the envious, and so on. I 79 could have learned that [as well] from proverbs[41] in common speech... (Ó Cadhain 1969:16-17).42 Talk not only reduces or finalizes others; it also can open up or explore their personalities, or even express their inchoateness (Fernandez 1986, Ch. 9). Satirical verbal art makes persons stand in for political, social or moral positions. In talk, conversely, these issues can be apprehended concretely as embedded in personalities, as opposed to discussion of bare issues in the abstract. 43 Seeing issues as they are manifested in the real dilemmas of one’s neighbors or of characters in verbal art may contribute to the feeling that there are two sides to every story. In the Gaeltacht one is likely to encounter one’s neighbors and possibly even oneself as characters in verbal art. In spite of the decline in the language, local poet/song-makers are fairly ubiquitous (Denvir 1989, 1997). The threat of satire reinforces a strong egalitarian ethos, backed by what Schneider (1990) calls “equity consciousness” regarding cooperation and exchange. 41. An example of such a proverb would be: Is minic ciúin ciontach (Partridge [Partridge] 1978:4); “The silent [person] is often the guilty [one].” An example from Ó Cadhain himself (1967:256) is Ní airíonn an sach an seang — “The satisfied [person] does not notice the emaciated [one].” 42. Mhúin filíocht an 17ú céad déag […] rudaí áirid faoi stíl dhom, leas a bhaint as an aidiacht i leaba an ainmfhocail mar shompla, an santach in áit an duine santach, nó an santachán, an bréagach, an formadach agus mar sin. D'fhéadfainn é sin a fhoghlaim, cuir i gcás, ó sheanfhocla ar bhéal na ndaoine… . 43. Irvine (1990) discusses how stereotypic images of persons in Wolof society function schematically to ground the Wolof system of registers. Images of typical “Noble” or “Griot” persons combine a variety of behavioral, social and psychological attributes which are felt to be naturally expressed in their respective speech styles. These image-complexes are immediately available to speakers as concrete social “voices” in their own speech. 80 Dialogue is often directly represented in songs. Lyric song is almost always dialogic, consisting of the direct speech of one or more characters in a dramatic encounter (Chapters 4 and 8). Lúibíní, (the word derives from lúb, a loop or turn) are ironic or insulting extempore rhyming songs sung between two or more persons. Agallamh Beirte (“dialogue of two”) are often composed by individuals but represent dramatic encounters or debates and are more philosophical. Quite often the protagonists are the poet and a personage from the past. A well-known example was composed by the Connemara poet Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc (Ó Coisdealbha 1987). It represents an encounter and verbal contest between himself and Raiftearaí, the wandering early 19th Century Galway poet. These poems are life-changing dialogues in the sense that Attinasi and Friedrich (1995) explore, but often the protagonists come from different places, social positions or historical epochs. Their meetings invoke world transformations of one kind or another, as in the medieval Irish dialogues (acallam) between Oisín (a character from the Fenian story-cycle) and St. Patrick. These dialogues dramatically bring together the ancient pagan and new Christian worlds (Nagy 1983, 1989). An agallamh beirte, composed by Máirtín Mac Donncha, for example, is a debate between members of two generations in Ráth Cairn. Invoked in it are generational differences, the historical transformation of the Gaeltacht in the post 1940s period (sometimes called an t-athrú saoil, the “lifechange”), the difference between the Irish and English languages, and the difference between Ráth Cairn and Connemara as places. 81 As with Western Apache imitations of the Whiteman (Basso 1979), representations of others could serve to mark off an ironic or disapproving distance from them, using them as stereotypic embodiments of alien or obsolete ways of being in the world.44 Imitations of Meath men sometimes seemed to serve this function. Far more often, imitations (even of Meath men) were positive in intent and seemed to represent a claiming of the other, the construction of a polyphonic we-ness. The dead are especially present in discourse; they are mentioned and reanimated by the interjection of their words, phrases, or special ways of saying things into everyday talk. The kin universe When I arrived in Ráth Cairn, I was immediately given various nicknames. One of the funniest was an ainm baile, a ‘local’ or ‘home’ name––these are called “string names” in the anthropological literature (Fox 1963:153). String names consist of a person’s christian name (optionally followed by a nickname or epithet, i.e., Tom Rua, “Red [-haired] Tom”) followed by that of a parent, grandparent, or other close relative. This is most commonly the father, but any memorable or easily identifiable person can be used. The basic logic is to use a person’s first name qualified by another name which allows one to most easily 44. Gumperz (1982:34) mentions the work of Mitchell-Kernan on “mimicking, or marking” in Black communities, where a speaker takes on an exaggeratedly “black” speaking style, “acting out a stereotypical black role rather than being himself. By implication, then, the speaker is distancing himself from his own words...” 82 “place” that person. The second name is often itself a string name, so that string names lengthen over generations until the older parts wear off. My nickname was made of my first name in Irish (Stiofán) followed by the string name of an original inhabitant of the house I lived in, a formidable woman (and near-monoglot Irish speaker) who raised a dozen or so children in it. Her name was followed by that of her husband, making me “Stiofán Mháire Jim.” This name assimilated me into “the Jims,” the wider collectivity of Jim’s descendants. 45 Mockery aside, recent “blow-ins” like myself do not have string names, since new arrivals are not locatable in the local kinship universe. Their children often do, and are. String names are variable. One Ráth Cairn person is known away from home as “Máirtín Chóil Neaine Pháidín” (after his father, who was born in and well known in Connemara), but as “Máirtín Sheáinín” (after an uncle) inside Ráth Cairn. Young people’s local names seem to change as they enter adulthood; a child may be called after a parent, then later in life be called after the apical ancestor of that extended family. Use of surnames, i.e., “Máirtín Mac Donncha,” is limited mainly to dealings with the Church and officialdom. Such names are fairly useless for identifying individuals (there are several Máirtín Mac Donnchas in Ráth Cairn). The postal system gave numbers to houses in Ráth Cairn (a rare practice in rural Ireland) in an attempt to clear up confusions resulting from unrelated families 45. I was also known for a while as “Professor Jim.” 83 sharing surnames. Using string names on correspondence would have worked better, but I suppose this would have violated the spirit of officialdom as well as that of the names themselves. They index intimacy as well as functioning very well to “place” individuals in terms of both identity and location in the local kin universe. It is possible to use a string name along with a surname, i.e., “Máirtín Chóil Neaine Pháidín Mac Donncha,” which is occasionally done in formal Irishspeaking contexts. Some people are known locally by English or anglicized surnames (e.g., “John Chonraí”) 46 but on official documents by their full Irish names (“Seán Ó Conaire”). Ráth Cairn as a place I was struck first by the closed-in feeling of County Meath, where the roads and fields are surrounded by high lush hedges that limit one’s view. The landscape is essentially flat, with low hills one climbs gradually until, reaching the top, a view is afforded of fields (4-50 acres), more hills, sky. Otherwise the horizons are close. My house seemed to float on the thick soil and would shake if a heavy truck drove by. It took me a year to not feel sunk into this landscape, until my senses adjusted to the place and I began to appreciate its beauty. Ráth Cairn is physically undifferentiated from the surrounding community, except for some Irish-language signs on roads. One could pass 46. Ó is frequently dropped from surnames, which are then lenited. 84 through without ever realizing that one was in a community where the principal language was Irish rather than English. Houses are scattered along the roads rather than nucleated in any central ‘village’. There is, however, a recognizable focus for the community—the co-op, with its community hall, offices, a secondary school, church, pub, and shop. There is also a small industrial estate, built in the 1970s by Údarás na Gaeltachta. The main factory, Turmec Teo., is a metal fabrication plant which mostly hires English-speaking people from the surrounding communities. Other smaller companies come and go. Other than the occasional clanging sound or loudspeaker voices, the industrial estate makes little intrusion or impact on the rural landscape. In 1935 the newly-built houses were scattered among their holdings (22 acres originally). Around these houses new bungalow-type houses were built by descendants of the first families. This process has led to a nucleated settlement pattern as groups of related households cluster together. The original houses are “massed concrete” structures with a central kitchen, one large room behind the kitchen fireplace, and two small bedrooms on the other side of the kitchen.47 The kitchen has outside doors on either side. The conceptually “back” door leads out into the “street” (sráid) an area surrounded by outbuildings (chicken house, barn, and pig pen), while the “front” door may lead through a manicured front lawn to the road. Except on formal occasions, guests would typically enter though the 47. A few are two-story houses with the bedrooms upstairs. 85 “back” door, often without knocking. This is the classic rural Irish house layout where the kitchen is an extension of outer public space.48 Such houses and regimes of exchange were found all over rural Ireland among the lower classes, and contrast sharply with life in the towns and the life of rural elites. Towns49 were points of penetration of both the market economy and a “modernizing” mentality (including speaking English) that defined itself in opposition to the rural periphery. This spatial organization of linguistic and cultural difference is still very pervasive. Ráth Cairn people often told me they felt much closer to the rural poor of Meath than to townspeople; the rural poor were gaelach (“gaelic” or traditional), “were just like us,” and “had the same crack (fun) as us.” Conclusion In this chapter I have tried to show the problematic nature of boundaries for sociolinguistic theory, the nation-state, and for Irish-speakers. Boundaries between languages, people, situations, and spaces can be imposed from above or below; they can be flexible and dialogic or rigid and bureaucratic. They can act as sharp divisions or as sites of hybridization. I have suggested that understandings and practices in Gaeltacht culture imply conceptions of personhood, space, 48. Glassie (1982) documents the functional integration of the social and private spaces established in such houses with an entire regime of reciprocity involving the exchange of food, labor, talk, music and verbal art. 49. often a sráidbhaile (“street town”) with only one street. 86 locality, language, and history that are oblique to the ideologies and practices of the state. The remaining chapters explore in detail various ways of speaking Irish: song, satiric poetry, narrative, conversation, radio talk, and a novel. All of them function in various ways to negotiate cultural, personal, and linguistic boundaries, acts which Bakhtin (1990:274) maintains are at the heart of culture rather than on its margins: However, a domain of culture should not be thought of as some kind of spatial whole, possessing not only boundaries but an inner territory. A cultural domain has no inner territory. It is located entirely upon boundaries, boundaries intersect it everywhere, passing through each of its constituent features. [...] Every cultural act lives essentially on the boundaries, and it derives its seriousness and significance from this fact. We have seen how Ráth Cairn people constitute themselves as participants in local community life through a variety of speech practices. Many if not all of these are saturated with the consciousness of boundary that Bakhtin refers to above. As Silverstein (1998:404) argues, language communities such as the Irish Gaeltacht can only constitute themselves as “local” in opposition to wider-level processes such as national and transnational language communities: In relation to such global and national language communities, language communities are thus “local” only to the extent that within a group of communicating people there is a process that produces a contrastive and positive sense of their participation in their own language community. “Locality” of language community is only a relationally produced state in a cultural-ideological order. We have seen how the values and definitions of “the Gaeltacht” are dependent on its political construction as one kind of geographic territory as 87 opposed to others within the confines of the nation-state. But these are only oppositions between two different and interdependent types of geographical space. Running counter to this entire social construction, which projects geography onto language use, are other discourses, which see language and sociality as inextricably linked. From this locally grounded, oppositional point of view, spatial distance is not a limiting factor at all—commensal bonds extend over space to the maximal degree possible. From this point of view, “the Gaeltacht” may exist in Chicago, Dublin, or Manchester as much as it does in Ros Muc or Ráth Cairn. This opposition, between two very different ways of connecting language, identity, and social value, should give us pause when considering simplistic analyses of the “imagined” nature of national communities. Anderson’s (1983) influential work gathers much intriguing evidence of the “anthropological” nature and functioning of the nation-state as a sociocultural entity. Much of this evidence is vitiated, however, by a simplistic theory of collectivities which sees the nation-state as essentially a geographically-defined container for people, who then have to be hypnotized into a sense of belonging to each other through the use of literacy and modern media. The sense of nation-ness as Anderson imagines it, is ultimately founded on an imagined mechanical solidarity. As Errington (1998) and Silverstein (to appear) have shown, this ideology of nation–ness is founded on notions of the efficacy of standardized and regimented national languages to mechanically join human consciousnesses. As I 88 show (with tongue in cheek) in Chapter 6, the Irish language tragically lacks, from this point of view, not only regimentation, but also the word “regimentation.” And, as Chapters 4 and 5 suggest, the roots of Irish “nationality” are both older and more twisted than Anderson’s theory accounts for. In fact, the nation-state itself relies on other constructions of the relationship between language and identity, constructions that are closer to the way that Gaeltacht people habitually think about language. CHAPTER THREE THREE THINGS WHICH CANNOT BE LEARNED Dreoilín (Wren) A bell on the door! There was never a door bell in Limbo. That’s about the only comment I heard about a newly built bungalow on a road so named either for its formerly terrible mud and potholes or else as “the Irish for cul-de-sac.” Limbo is where Coil’s house is, the door to which is more open than most “always open doors.” Everyone’s house is underlyingly the same—front door, back door, kitchen, bedrooms. Complete hegemony of indoor toilets was achieved only a few years ago, but not before the President of Ireland had to go out the back like everyone else. The teacup he drank out of has a special place in that particular house—not that everyone else doesn't drink out of it too. The kitchen is public space entered through the back door. Knock on the front door, instead of just walking in the back like everybody else. Go ahead, turn the house into private space and yourself into some kind of big shot by knocking. It’s clear where this leads. The front door on the house where I live has completely atrophied, rotted into permanent closure, blocked up with junk on the inside and overgrowth outside. I never thought about its former identity until the police sergeant tried to use it one day. I had to go out and around to greet him. 89 90 The only other guest I had there was some animal that chewed its way in. I blocked that hole with a piece of board, carefully avoiding two hanging bare wires, possibly formerly connected to some kind of doorbell. There’s a sort of an entrance-way there, added along with the bathroom. Someone had stepped through the roof there, “from the inside,” said the landlord. Rain poured in until I threw plywood on top, but it still leaked. It leaked a wren one day, which got into the kitchen. A tiny bird that I chased into a closet. It fainted dramatically every time I shined a flashlight on it, hanging by one claw in some kind of victorian swoon until I shut off the light. I heard a story about the old days here, the wild days. A singer, famous, a real devil and crazy, was walking past a certain house where there was a party going on. The man who told me this story met him on the road and asked him if he was going in too. Well I don't know he said, the last time I went there I stabbed one of them. So what said the other man. They both went in and were welcome. I also heard that the same singer broke a leg once in a bicycle race, dressed in women’s clothing on St. Stephen’s day. This doesn’t happen any more, if it ever did. And most houses have door bells, front entrance hallways and everything. Doesn’t mean people use them. There are houses I never went in the front doors of. Except, oddly enough, on St. Stephen’s Day, and then only when accompanied by children and a wren. Well, not a real wren. Some kind of fake Christmas tree robin on a stick, fixed up with 91 shoe polish. “And a wire up its ass” said our ringleader. Last year this stick was carried by the Polka Girl. That’s what I called her when I first came here. She always carried a tin whistle, larger than herself almost, and played the same polka, first half only. The Limbo crowd are all fearless performers. An older brother had a dress on with two footballs inside, and a wig. Our leader had a hat made of straw rope, oddly Balinese-looking. The thing about going on the Wren is, Christmas night is every family by itself at home. Candles in the windows “to welcome Joseph and Mary,” but nobody goes around visiting. The roads are empty. Except for Mass. Same for Christmas Day. But Stephen’s Day every house is assaulted by the Wren people. At least, most houses. It should be every house. Some houses, the television keeps the upper hand even after everyone has burst through the front door into the kitchen or sitting room, playing music or dancing or singing or whatever. “God bless you, woman of the house!” Usually they’re delighted. Especially the old and young. We have a hunk of plywood for dancing on, stamped “Tara Mines.” It gets thrown onto wet concrete and stomped on, then at another house, right onto the sitting-room carpet. House after house. Old people. Dogs. Drinks. Homemade whiskey. Things start their slow dissolve. We move on to the town, try a few pubs, switch languages. Some people are old friends. Some are suspicious. In one pub there are Travellers. They listen to the music quietly, intently. Then we’re somehow back in our own pub. It continues—we have drawn people out from 92 the houses. What follows is a night, well, just like any other good night, except for the disintegrating costumes. The next day Once, a Ráth Cairn person asked me what I was studying for my dissertation. I usually said “the talk,” “the language,” “Ráth Cairn’s history,” and things like that. This time, I said that I was trying to find out if it made any difference that people spoke Irish instead of English here. She immediately responded that she didn’t think so, that it was the same life in either language. It was patently obvious that it didn’t make a difference, in the midst of daily life as we were at that moment—kids watching T.V., husband home from work, bills to pay, errands, shopping to do. And many if not most of these activities take involve dealing with people through English. Irish is for talking to the kids, neighbors (though not all the neighbors), most relatives, many friends and the occasional Irish speaking scholar like myself. No matter what language is spoken, everyday life in Ráth Cairn is very much like everyday life elsewhere in Co. Meath. Ráth Cairn people are Meath people after all. Practical conversations are practical conversations in either language. The differences are interesting to linguists, but hardly noticeable to the speakers. Children grow up speaking both languages. In houses frequented by an English speaking parent, relative or neighbor, the children seem to learn from the very start that certain kinds of talk attach to those people and other kinds of 93 talk attach to other people. Children grow up not thinking too much about when they speak Irish versus when they speak English. Even in houses where English isn’t spoken much at all, and where children rarely encounter English speakers, they seem to their amazed parents to effortlessly pick it up from the television. Language is an aspect of persons—who you’re talking to, who’s in the conversation. Even in the pub run by the Coop, five or six strategically placed English speakers can ensure that virtually all of the talk (except service calls to the bar) is in English. This can scandalize outsiders looking for the “true Gaeltacht” but it seems perfectly natural to the people themselves. People do get nervous sometimes that a critical mass of English speakers will build up, to the point that Irish retreats for good from this semi-public sphere, into a diminishing number of homes and the conversations of the elderly. In everyday life there is no boundary between Ráth Cairn and anywhere else, just networks of people, errands and transactions. But many of these personal contacts, errands and transactions would not be happening if Ráth Cairn was not Irish-speaking, and especially if it wasn’t an officially designated Gaeltacht community. Thus there is the local Coop (Comharchumann Ráth Cairn—cf. Chapter 2), its shop and pub, and the schools to which Englishspeaking children are bussed in from outside to reap the benefits of an Irishmedium education. Many houses put up gaeilgeoirí (Irish-learners)—usually children attending the secondary school or teenagers attending the summer Irish college. There are other economic advantages to living in the Gaeltacht, but these 94 are not that significant. A £10/year grant per Irish-speaking child made a big difference at one time, but it doesn’t any more in an economy where casual unskilled labor makes at least £4 an hour. The differences that make a difference seem to happen on two levels, performance and prejudice. Performance occasions weren’t always thought of as such by Ráth Cairn people. Sometimes after an spontaneous occasion, people would say that it was “a good night” or “there was great crack” (bhí an-chraic ann).1 Other occasions would be more or less planned and official, such as the two annual music festivals. In either case, a sense of collectivity was brought to the foreground. People would use first person plural forms to refer to Ráth Cairn and even to Irish-speakers in general. Heightened talk and verbal art in Irish would draw increasingly on deeper symbolic understandings and linguistic forms unique to Irish, making present a symbolic world, a history, and and allegorical texture that were not immediately present in either English-language talk or everyday Irish-language talk. On such occasions, people were obviously proud to have me there as a witness. Once I was asked if “the Cree have crack as good as we do!” Ráth Cairn might not be Irish speaking at all nowadays if it weren’t for the prejudice of many local Meath people in the 1930s. When the community was established there was a certain degree of resentment at “Galway people” getting 1. Craic (from the English word “crack”) means fun or heightened sociality—see Chapter 4. 95 good land instead of “Meath people.” Some threats were made, slogans painted on houses, fights happened in the pubs of Athboy. Although this hostility was limited, it contributed to the community’s isolation and the feeling of being a people apart. Ráth Cairn also had many friends in the surrounding community, but many of these friends and allies liked Ráth Cairn precisely because it was different, so their friendship tended to reinforce that difference. In the 1990s prejudice plays very little part in everyday life, and Ráth Cairn is fully integrated into the surrounding community. Prejudice against Ráth Cairn still exists, though, and I was astonished at what Meath people, even youths in their teens and twenties, were willing to say to me about Ráth Cairn people, calling them animals, savages, wild untamed people and so on. Older people, both inside and outside of Ráth Cairn, told me many tales about actual wildness and savagery in the old days (1930s-1950s), but those were wilder times all over Ireland—there was nothing particularly unique about Ráth Cairn. I did encounter something akin to feelings of superiority over Meath people, but only among the oldest generation in Ráth Cairn, and only in a form which seemed to me to be a reflection on the experience of being ostracized by Meath people in the early days (see Chapter 5). Younger people viewed themselves as being Meath people, so there was no room for prejudice. People of all ages were able to simultaneously see themselves as Galway and Meath people—due to family connections in Connemara. 96 Entrance to the field I arrived in Ráth Cairn in the summer of 1992, never having been there and knowing no one there. I had originally planned to do my research in the Connemara Gaeltacht and had done a fair amount of travel and preliminary research there, but I failed to get a major research grant that would enable me to support myself through long-term fieldwork. In response to this, I arranged to get some work in the Anthropology Department at St. Patrick’s College, Maynooth, 25 miles away from Ráth Cairn. Eileen Kane, the head of the department in Maynooth, suggested I do my research in Ráth Cairn instead of in Connemara. As it happened, word got out in Chicago in the spring of 1992 that I would be teaching in Maynooth the following autumn. I knew most of Chicago’s traditional Irish music community, since I was learning the Uilleann pipes (an Irish variety of bellows-blown bagpipe) and played at sessions in Chicago. A Chicago musician, James Keane, whose father was a sean-nós singer from Ráth Cairn (born in Tír an Fhia in Connemara) heard that I would be in Maynooth and approached me, offering to let me use a house in Ráth Cairn that he owned. His aunt lived next door, but the house was unoccupied, he said, and I was welcome to use it. This extremely generous offer, along with the generous help of my new neighbors, James Keane’s aunt and her family, was my introduction to Ráth Cairn. My entrance to “the field” was thus due to the overlap between Ráth Cairn’s overseas social networks and Chicago’s traditional Irish music networks. 97 It essentially gave me another identity over and apart from that of a researcher. Although I told everyone (ad nauseam) that I was in Ráth Cairn to do research, I always seemed to have another identity as a performer that probably seemed more real both to the other people (who pushed it on me), and to myself as well. In the end, the two identities seemed to converge, since performance of various kinds became my main field interest. Living on my own, effectively in charge of a household, gave me an almost equal status with other people in Ráth Cairn. Not having a wife or family, I seemed to be accepted as a “character”—a slightly eccentric male bachelor type. Being on my own also limited my experience as an ethnographer, since I didn’t live in a household with local people. Although I did spend quite a lot of time visiting, especially in my first year in Ráth Cairn, I had relatively less contact with the female, domestic realm of life, and the world of children. Thus, my research is abnormally male and adult oriented. My own research interests, and other people’s expectations of those interests, led me to focus my attention on older, retired, tradition-bearers, rather than younger people raising families, professionals, and farmers—people who wouldn’t have much time for an anthropologist at any rate. My research focus was also narrowed by the unique nature of Ráth Cairn as a community. It is internationally known as the unique example of an intentionally created Gaeltacht community. It is also quite small and intimate. There is no way I could follow the usual anthropological practice of changing the 98 names of the community and individuals in my writing. To do so would only be an insult, and couldn’t possibly protect anybody except perhaps myself. I have tried in this thesis to avoid writing about matters deemed by local people to be personal. I always made it clear what I wasn’t interested in, and in turn, people let me know what was and what was not an acceptable area of inquiry. What resulted is this study, which is not really a community study, but a study of Irishlanguage discourse in general, grounded in, but not confined to, my own experience in four years of life in a Gaeltacht community. I feel very lucky to have gotten to know the people of Ráth Cairn, the warmest and most generous people I’ve met anywhere in my life. In a way, they have the status of culture-heros. They deliberately created their own community in the 1930s, keeping it going and strengthening it ever since. In doing so, they broke several ideological molds formed by other people’s preconceptions about language, tradition, and community. This experience sets them apart from even their contemporaries in Connemara. Up the Galties! Almost immediately after arriving, I got to know the other musicians in Ráth Cairn, and they became my closest friends and associates. The Connemara musical tradition focuses on solo performance, but group sessions are the norm in County Meath. My arrival became part of a local effort to start regular sessions in Ráth Cairn, but it took a long time before we learned to play as a group. 99 Eventually a regular group did form with myself and three other people, and we even began playing “gigs” away from Ráth Cairn, as far away as Paris. Mostly, we provided the music for events in the local pub, and formed the musical core of more formal events and special occasions, such as when groups of performers from Ráth Cairn travelled to festivals in Connemara or elsewhere. Being a “performer” was not really a separate identity in Ráth Cairn, since most people “perform” in some way or another—singing, dancing, playing music, storytelling, and even artful conversation. My own ability to play music in a sense helped me to blend in rather than to stick out or be different. In some situations, like house parties or late night sessions performance of some kind is virtually mandatory for all present. Performance occasions, both impromptu and highly organized, were the difference that made a difference—the times when the separate identity of Ráth Cairn, and the symbolic universe of Irish language discourse became palpably obvious to all present. They became as obvious to all as their absence was obvious in the midst of day-to-day life. Everyday life and performance seem to be culturally opposed to one another in Ireland. Part of performance involves a show of reluctance to perform, and once achieved, there is a similar resistance to ending a performance occasion and returning to everyday life. These resistances dramatize the two realms as being in opposition, invoking different sets of cultural values. In Ráth Cairn, a small minority of people seemed to cast their lots entirely with one world or the other. Thus there were “characters” who were 100 permanently at odds with everyday life, as well as hard-headed realists and loners who worked all the time, kept to themselves, and didn’t seem to care for “the crack.” Performance was first and foremost for people’s own entertainment. But an important secondary function was to manifest Ráth Cairn’s cultural and social identity for the benefit of outsiders. The role of the Coop was crucial in this. The Coop was directly responsible for almost every public space in Ráth Cairn—the church, pub, and schools. As I showed in Chapter 2, the creation of these spaces made a huge difference for the prestige and value of the Irish language in Ráth Cairn. Even when the presence of English speakers meant that most conversation was in English on a given occasion (e.g., in the pub), the unspoken understanding of all was that Irish had the upper hand. Before the founding of the Coop, such understandings were much rarer. In keeping with its role as an interface between local people and wider collectivities, the Coop organized performances both in Ráth Cairn and elsewhere. One could seemingly be summoned to contribute to these events, sometimes with little advance notice. I was usually glad to do so, feeling that it was a way of giving something back to the community. The Coop ’s manager, Pádraig Mac Donncha, mentioned to me several times how important musicians and other performers were to Ráth Cairn. This is in keeping with a general feeling that Ráth Cairn needed all the resources it could get, especially new 101 people (who spoke Irish) coming in, and people who could represent the community in its relations with the wider world. For the people close to the Coop, Ráth Cairn was truly an intentional community, a “cause” that had to be upheld. Many other Ráth Cairn people didn’t see things this way, were cynical about the Coop, had personal or family issues with officers of the Coop, or else just weren’t interested. But almost everyone seemed to share at least a vague sense of the fragility of Ráth Cairn as a community, especially about the situation of Irish in so small a place.2 In the pubs in Athboy, performative occasions could lead to conflict with local Athboy people. If the mood was right (i.e., wrong), so I was told, one had only to shout “Up the Galtees!” in a crowded Athboy pub and generalized fighting would break out. “Galtees” was the nickname given by Meath people to Ráth Cairn people, based on Meath people’s “inability” to pronounce the word Gaeltacht.3 By the time I appeared in Ráth Cairn, the poison had gone out of this nickname (except in the memories of older people), and it was sometimes used proudly and humorously by Ráth Cairn people as a self-designation. Once, contemplating the survival of the language in Ráth Cairn, someone said to me that “it must have been because the Meath people called them (older Ráth Cairn people) Galtees for so long.” 2. The image of Ráth Cairn as an island came up several times; see Chapter 5. 3. Ráth Cairn people were also called “Gaelcocks.” 102 As it happened, the other members of our band decided to name it Na Galties, that is, “The Galtees” but “in Irish” (using the Irish definite article). This was an inspired bit of bricolage, taking the derogatory nickname and re-voicing it as a Ráth Cairn person’s utterance. My “training” My interest in talk and performance met with a sympathetic reaction from almost everyone in Ráth Cairn. But the things I was most interested in were not things that people were very able to verbalize, theorize, or talk about in the abstract. People were much more interested that I learn to do them myself. As Briggs (1984) discovered in his fieldwork with New Mexican wood-carvers, direct participation is often the only way to get access to the understandings of those members of a community who are “most traditional”—that is, least acculturated to a theoretical perspective in Bourdieu’s (1977) sense. A preference for the concrete extended to linguistic matters as well. I collected stories from a local man, Seán Ó Conaire (locally known as John Chonraí—see Chapter 5). In one story the hero meets a giant, who utters the words “And I don’t know what I’ll do with him, whether I’ll grind him up between my palms, or send him blowing up in the air.” 4 It was a fine summer day, and after talking in John’s kitchen for half an hour, mostly about the meaning of a few obscure words in the story, we strolled outside to inspect a 4. Agus níl a fhios agam céard a dhéanfas mé leis, mara meilfidh mé idir mo bhosa é nó é a chuir le seideadh thuas san aer. 103 field of ripening barley across the road. John took a few heads of ripe barley, ground them up in his palms, and blew the chaff into the air, repeating the Giant’s words from the story. A well-known proverb goes: “Three things that cannot be learned: a tune, hospitality, and poetry” (Trí nithe nach féidir a fhoghlaim: fonn, féile agus filíocht). I mentioned this to Máirtín Mac Donncha once during a discussion of step dancing, and he immediately retorted that there are things which can be learned, but can’t be taught. Then he explained that he began learning to dance by watching other dancers and picking up steps from them. In other words, one must learn immediately (in the full sense of the term), by imitation. 5 Lillis Ó Laoire, in his research on Tory Island (part of the Donegal Gaeltacht), noted that people made a distinction between “learning” something (rud a fhoghlaim) and “lifting” or “taking” something (rud a thógáil). This is a distinction between acquiring something conceptually, through effort and analysis, versus acquiring it through imitation, out of desire (Ó Laoire 1996). I was expected to learn by imitation, and to imitate perfectly, before moving on to produce something original. The practice of imitation did not contradict the deeply held view that all cultural forms “belong” to specific people or collectivities—imitation was a form of acknowledging that ownership, paying due respects. This created something of a problem for me, since I came to Ráth Cairn already knowing Irish, even if I didn’t have much experience using 5. Iconicity is immediate in Peirce’s semiotic schema (Peirce 4.447). 104 the language in day-to-day life. While people were very impressed that I came knowing the language, it meant that I already had my own “accent” and ways of speaking already, and it took me longer to pick up the local versions. Part of my problem, especially in my first year there, was ordinary learner’s mistakes—one man, introducing me to someone from Connemara, said “He has his own dialect” (Tá a chanúint fhéin aige)! In fact, a few different types of things happened. People began to accept my own “accent” as my own. Also I became much more fluent, and, in hundreds of hours of conversation, my speech became much closer to the general norm. And I became more aware of the variations in local ways of speaking. Much later, in the summer of 1998, I was struck by the way that a Ráth Cairn man, Micil Chonroí, “trained” a visiting scholar from France (Manon Capo) who spent the summer learning Irish in Ráth Cairn. Micil, who cannot read or write Irish very well, had spent more than 10 years tape-recording reminiscences of his life. These tapes were transcribed and edited by Conchúr Ó Giollagáin, forming the basis of a doctoral dissertation (Ó Giollagáin 1996). Micil kept a copy of the dissertation in his house, and although he couldn’t read it himself, he had Manon read it out loud to him for an hour a day, in the evenings. By the end of the summer Micil pronounced himself quite satisfied with Manon’s Irish! I was struck by the directness of the ventriloquism involved in this—the French scholar animating Micil’s voice, recalling to him the story of his own life. 105 My own “training” was mainly by Máirtín Mac Donncha, a poet, singer, dancer, and “character” in Ráth Cairn. We agreed early on that I would do my dissertation work with him, but any kind of formal research seemed impossible. Máirtín seemed too shy in front of a tape recorder, in great contrast to his demeanor while performing in company. I found it much more rewarding to just drop in for a chat in the afternoons, and to be present at evening sessions in the pub, and the occasional house party or special occasion. In the first year of my fieldwork especially, I travelled a fair bit with Ráth Cairn people to various festivals around Ireland, and spent a week in the Isle of Man at a celtic festival in the summer of 1993. On most of these occasions, I participated as a musician. Having a “natural” reason to be present helped me a lot to overcome shyness, nerves, and a general unwillingness to impose my presence on others. In a way, though, being involved as a participant lessened my abilities as an “observer.” Instead I suppose I gradually learned about performance from the inside. Although my main interest was in the song tradition, I soon gave up on trying to learn songs or sing in public, despite encouragement. I did spend many many hours at singing sessions, and had many conversations, with both singers and non-singers, about specific songs and about the styles of various other singers, including Joe Heaney. In Chapter 8 I try to give a schematic impression of how singing sessions develop. 106 Learning bilingualism Long before I came to Ráth Cairn, it was suggested to me that I must enter the field already fluent in Irish, or else people would be “on English” with me for the duration of my stay. This is due to the association, described in Chapter 2, between languages and persons. But in fact, Ráth Cairn turned out to be an ideal place to learn Irish—people were genuinely pleased to have learners around, and would speak Irish all the time to them once they became fluent—effectively treating them as members of the community. One thing I had never considered was the difficulty I would have learning to negotiate between the two languages. Initially I made several kinds of interesting mistakes. Since I didn’t know people, I often spoke Irish to nonspeakers or semi-speakers (Dorian 1981). Since the main way of signalling language preference is simply to initiate conversation in one language or another, I was effectively bullying these people into speaking the Irish. Eventually I got most people’s linguistic habitus sorted out and learned which language was appropriate to use with them. But the experience left a lasting impression on me, a sense of the difficulty of objectively researching something like language choice in a finely nuances sociolinguistic situation such as that found in the Irish Gaeltacht. My identity an outsider acquiring fluency in the language was enough to mark me as having a strong preference for Irish. But if I had entered the field not knowing Irish and had spent little effort learning the language, I would know 107 even less about the linguistic situation, since the presence of a monoglot Englishspeaker heavily influences interactions involving 3 to 6 people in the direction of English. Even after four years of continuous residence in Ráth Cairn, a tiny place where one could easily get to know most people, I would be reluctant to make generalizations about any ongoing language shift in the community. This has made me doubly suspicious of the impressionistic ethnographic data collected by Hindley (1990) to bolster his statistical analysis of the decline of Irish. Another strange phenomenon for me was learning how to use English loan-words in Irish. There were certain English words that everybody used in their Irish-language speech (Chapter 6). But it didn’t take me long to realize that if I were to do likewise, I had to use the “Irish” rather than the “American” forms of these loan-words if I were to have any hope of being understood. It seemed to me that I was learning two languages, Irish and “English.” All of this increased my own consciousness of the distinctions between codes, to the point where these distinctions were much more salient for me than they would have been to anyone else in the community. In my first year in Ráth Cairn I worked one day a week in Maynooth, basically speaking nothing but English. The rest of my time I spent in Ráth Cairn, speaking mostly Irish. To live like this, an hour’s drive from the city center of Dublin, seemed quite astonishing, not only to me, but to English speakers in Maynooth. 108 I was amazed at the invisibility of the language, outside of the Gaeltacht, in Ireland. I met many people in Maynooth who simply refused to believe that a community of Irish speakers was so close by, and that I lived there and spoke Irish most of the time. A few times, Ráth Cairn people told me similar stories. A young woman told me how she was talking to English speaking acquaintances in a town about 30 miles away from Ráth Cairn. She was telling these people about some hilarious episode that had happened at home, in Ráth Cairn, when one of the people stopped her, and in full seriousness, asked if people had been speaking Irish during the events she was describing to them. As she related to me, these people seemed to find it hard to believe that anyone could enjoy themselves or “have a laugh” in Irish. This shows something of the gap between the experiences of those who have Irish as their home language and those whose only experience of Irish is as a (hated) subject in school. All of these things combined to give me the overwhelming feeling, in my first year in Ireland, of living in two different worlds. It took a long time for me to learn to fluidly negotiate between these worlds, to stop even noticing when the medium of communication was one language versus another. When I started doing that I felt like I might have achieved something vaguely similar to a sense of a Ráth Cairn person’s point of view. CHAPTER FOUR THE POET: ELOQUENCE AND VIOLENCE A question of character The star stands in the center. Any consideration of a work of art, a story or a song, in Ballymenone leads you to an exceptional individual. Individuals lead through conversation to the human type he or she exemplifies, and artistic personalities lead from genre to genre, from bid to pant, from story to song, from item to culture. The District’s culture is not something apart from the particular individuals who are the force of its coherence, the reason for its existence. (Glassie, 1982:681) In April 1998 I heard an interview on Radio na Gaeltachta with Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc Ó Coisdealbha, a poet, actor, playwright, former blacksmith, and brilliant humorist from Cois Fhairrge in the Connemara Gaeltacht. He told a joke: a man without much English goes to a doctor without any Irish and she prescribes suppositories, instructing him to take a certain number per day and “to leave them in the back passage” (iad a fhagáil sa mback passage). He goes home and consults his wife, the problem being that their house doesn’t have such a structure. They decide to put them “under the table in the back kitchen” (sa mback kitchen faoin mbord). His health deteriorates until finally he goes and confronts the doctor: “Bheadh sé chomh maith agam iad a chur suas mo thóin!” (I might as well have stuck them up my ass!). This is an example of a more general 109 110 type of joke featuring confrontations between rustics and urban sophisticates (eg, Kerryman jokes). In his particular retelling, Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc added a linguistic element to the confrontation. Usually when Irish-speakers tell jokes like these, English-language speech is reported in English, but here the teller reports the doctor’s speech in Irish, effectively projecting us, the listeners, into the consciousness of the patient. Having little English, the patient hears the doctor in Irish. His language difficulties are only compounded by the (female) doctor’s circumlocution (“leave them in the back passage). In the punch line the patient shatters this surface of genteel respectability by rephrasing the doctor’s prescription in more direct terms. The patient in this story exemplifies a rural Irish “character”––a wellestablished and immediately recognizable type in Ireland, both a literary figure and a social role. In telling the story, Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc animates the patient’s voice, and by doing so, also reaffirms his own identity as a character. Characters seem to contain other characters; part of a character’s transformative power is the ability to summon up these voices, while the brilliance of his or her own performances ensures that they in turn will be talked about and quoted. Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc is also a poet. Especially in the Gaeltacht, this implies a social role that is wider and has deeper, more historically self-conscious roots than that of the “character.” This chapter explores the affinities and tensions between these two figures; local Gaeltacht poets are located somewhere 111 in between, and their ambiguous position may illuminate the similarly ambiguous position of the Gaeltacht and the Irish language as a whole. Taylor (1989:176) describes “the character” as a rural Irish social institution, “one of the critical communal roles open to a talented bachelor––a wildly amusing [person] whose exploits, real and apocryphal, [are] favorite topics of local talk.”1 Characters are especially endowed with an ability to transform ordinary social situations into performance situations. Grounded in loyalty (by necessity or choice) to the less modernizing strata and discourses of society, “[p]oets are poor because they are local farmers. ...Poets are also poor because they are too brilliant to attend closely to their work” (Glassie 1982:679). Such a gift is often understood in terms of “wildness;” because characters are less “civilized,” in Elias’ sense of the term, they stand at the center of––and thus can stand for––the occasions and styles of sociability not successfully contained and tamed by the middle class Catholicism of Church and proper household. [...] Perhaps ironically, it is a collectivity based on the celebration of peculiar individuality (Taylor 1989:184). Characters tend to be socially marginal and thus relatively immune to the force of “respectability” (Silverman 1989) which constrains expression in rural Ireland. Regardless of their social position, gifted performers––musicians, poets, wits––gain temporary poetic license (rationalized in terms of their “wildness”) and relative freedom from constraint. Performance suspends and brackets norms of respectability. Thus, I have heard the term “character” used to describe men 1. Saris (n.d.) discusses the role of characters in 1980s rural Sligo. Glassie (1982) studies the importance of local “stars” to rural communities in Fermanagh in the 1970s. 112 and women, single and married, from all walks of life (including judges, solicitors, and priests), but their interventions are circumscribed by their other responsibilities; the ideal type of the character is the male bachelor, for whom being a character can become a full time job. “The crack” “The crack” has become a general term in Ireland for a mode of sociability2 often claimed to be uniquely Irish, not be found elsewhere in Europe. Although most Irish-speakers seem to treat the term as a loan-word, the media, engaged in the manufacture of “Irish Identity” have taken more and more to using the term in Irish-language orthography, as craic. The English-speakers with whom Glassie (1982) worked in the 1970s in County Fermanagh used the term in a way that now at least is fairly general in Ireland, to indicate a progressive step–like transformation in everyday conversational communication as it reaches higher levels of intensity and more overtly takes on the character of performance. As Ó Crualaoich (1992:96) puts it, referring to Glassie’s study: Humor and keenness of intellect is the nature of this “crack” and as it is fully underway, the people themselves feel a transformation of the speech event, as evidence of an extra intensity in the communication, taking it to yet another level.3 2. “What’s the crack?” has the sense of “What’s happening?,” while “How’s the crack?” calls for an evaluation of the entertainment quality of the proceedings. 3. Greann agus géire intinne agus sarú is nádúr don chraic seo agus, le linn do seo a bheith faoi lánseol, áiríonn an mhuintir féin go dtarlaíonn casadh san ócáid urlabhra mar léiriú ar dhéine bhreise eile bheith tagtha sa chumarsáid a thógann go leibhéal eile fós é. 113 The talents of “characters” are primarily but not exclusively verbal. They produce memorable actions and statements—songs, poetry, jokes, repartee, “bids” (as Glassie’s informants called witticisms), in timely response to their interlocutors: A witticism [i.e., a ‘bid’] is an original crowning statement that is so artful and authoritative that it will live in the memory of the assembled company, and they will mention it the next day or at the next occasion of visiting they take part in (e.g., “Didn’t x put it well last night” [Nach maith mar a dúirt x aréir],...). A witticism is not a proverb or any formal ready-made statement but an artistically creative verbal summation that increases the life and intensity of the communication of which it is both the ornament and the temporary closure (Ó Crualaoich 1992:96-7).4 Witticisms represent and summarize stages in the development of the social interactions out of which they emerge. They are social in both inception and reception: they answer to immediate conversational needs and are ratified by being reproduced in the social group.5 At the same time, they are personal statements and are reproduced as such: “Didn’t x put it well last night?”—the image of x is reproduced along with x’s statement. Representing a collective process, witticisms are at the same time the most individual type of expression. As I discuss in Chapters 6 and 8, not only speech, but other types of performance 4. Is é an Carúl ann ná ráiteas bunúsúil mullaigh a mbeidh údáras agus ealaíonn ag baint leis ionas go bhfanfaidh sé beo i gcuimhne na ndaoine sa chomhluadar agus go mbeidh siad ag tagairt dó an lá dár gcionn nó sa chéad chumarsáid airneánach eile an mbeidh siad páirteach ann (e.g. “Nach maith mar a dúirt x aréir, ...”). Ní seanfhocal é an carúl ná aon chaint fhoirmiúil réamhdhéanta eile ach toradh cruthaitheach ealíonta urlabhra a spreagann beocht agus déine na cumarsáide ar a bhfuil sé féin mar ornáid agus mar clabhsúr sealadach. 5. An ironic story-ending formula used by Joe Heaney went “...and however well I told it tonight, may you not tell it half as well tomorrow night!” 114 are understood and transmitted this way. “Tradition,” on both a local and a national scale, is constituted by similar practices of entextualization (Bauman 1992; Silverstein and Urban 1996). Herzfeld (1985:10-11) refers to a poetics of social performance in rural Crete which foregrounds personal identity: A successful performance of personal identity concentrates the audience’s attention on the performance itself: the implicit claims are accepted because their very outrageousness carries a revelatory kind of conviction. It is in this self-allusiveness of performance, and in the concomitant backgrounding of everyday considerations, that we can discern a poetics of social interaction. The self is not presented within everyday life so much as in front of it. Wit is likewise poetic in that it calls attention to form––to the form of language and also to the form of social action. As in Jakobson’s (1987 [1960]:69) definition, the poetic function, the “set to the message,” foregrounds the form of the sign, which stands out from its context.6 This provisional separation of sign and context has various consequences. It makes a slice of verbal or other interaction more text-like, reportable, and transportable to other contexts.7 By distilling the gist of a particular social and personal situation, it “increases the life and intensity” of that situation, as in Ó Crualaoich’s formulation. As a poetic act, it is 6. “The poetic function is not the sole function of verbal art but only its dominant, determining function, whereas in all other verbal activities it acts as a subsidiary, accessory constituent” (ibid.) Poetry resembles a rhetorical argument, in Peirce’s scheme: “an Argument is a Sign which is understood to represent its Object in its character as Sign.” “[E]very fine argument is a poem and a symphony -- just as every true poem is a sound argument” (Peirce 1931-1958:2.252, 5.119; my emph.). 7. Redeployment in other contexts gives the possibility of linking the two contexts––cf. Chapter 8. 115 a reflection and comment on the situation, on language, and on the meanings of and possibilities for social action. 8 As wit in public performance, the crack is experienced as transgressive, breaking the surface of sociality. This is its paradox: that which most powerfully constitutes and defines sociality, its most powerful tool of mimesis, gets its redeeming social value from rupturing the very social relations from which it springs. Irish characters and “the Irish character” At the funeral of a noted Donegal character, Taylor (1989:178) observed: There seem to have been two distinct individuals involved––Conny the gap and Conal O’ Beirne––and more subtly, two quite different communities of both the living and the dead. In fact, the wake and funeral seem to some extent less like stages in the same rite of passage than separate rites dealing with different aspects of the deceased. This is perhaps what Herzfeld (1987) calls “disemia”: a tension between formalist and intimate readings of individual and event. Disemia is Herzfeld’s generalization of the concept of diglossia (Ferguson 1982 [1959]) to encompass culture as a whole; it is “a model of ideological tension” between “self-presentation and self-knowledge” (Herzfeld 1988:112). The 8. Poetry can also be deliberately created in maximum opposition to any kind of context or social situation, as form seemingly free from context, conveying general personal or human truths. Such poetry exists in its own genres, usually spoken rather than sung. In the Gaeltacht these poetic genres are less common and less valued; even maximally “general” poems are often transmitted with context. Joe Heaney (Chapter 8) valued songs which were more “general” as opposed to those which were confined to local issues, but still insisted that these songs have “stories” that must be remembered and learned with them. Here is perhaps the strongest difference between popular Irish-language poetry and modern academic European poetry, including much English-language poetry in Ireland. Ó Crualaoich (1986) has controversially argued that much of Irish-language academic poetry has been more indebted to English and European models than it is to older Irish ones––functioning as an Irish register within an Englishlanguage discourse. 116 character thus represents the heterogenous, shifty, “inner face”––the nonstandard side of cultural consciousness as opposed to official national culture. Herzfeld’s model takes into account the realities of cultural stratification and the self-consciousness of the actor (or the character). As Eckert (1980) has argued, however, when diglossia features two languages, i.e., a minority and a majority language in a modern nation-state, their relationship is much more one of outright political struggle than a question of formalism versus intimacy, or even of “power” versus “solidarity.”9 Ireland has two more or less official cultures and languages, each of which has its relatively formal and informal registers. Although performance is transformative, arguably because of its links to the transcendent, in Ireland the “other worlds” invoked by performance are often different and non-congruent histories, political systems, languages, or even modes of production. Arguably this is what gives Irish crack its critical edge. Part of why it might be difficult for outsiders to get clear on the nature of the crack, of characters and poets, is that this critical edge is founded on the incongruity of different cultures of speaking— different ways of construing the nature of speech as social action. Irish ethnography has tended to follow Anglo-Irish literature (the work of William Carleton [1830] for example) in portraying the character’s incongruity or ex–centricity in terms of an opposition between intimacy and formality, Eliasian 9. An opposition originally theorized by Brown and Gilman (1982 [1960]) for differing styles of pronomial address. 117 wildness and civilization, organic peasant community and modern alienation, and so on. These terms are ideologically loaded, and arguably represent the point of view from the center much more than that from the periphery, failing to do justice to the consciousness of the character himself. Leerssen (1996:164) identifies these terms with Tönnies’ opposition between Gemeinschaft and Gesellschaft––organic “community” versus bureaucratic “society.” In Ireland it was a conservative Romanticism which portrayed the peasantry exclusively as a Gemeinschaft, lovingly erasing its history, politics, and self-consciousness. The stage-Irish “character” comes from such a community, just down the road from the “pleasant peasant”––the quaint character of the pastoral idyll (Leerssen 1996:170). Seen from a historically Anglo-Irish point of view, both Irish history and “the Irish character” had a formless quality, a quality which existed mainly in the eye of the beholder. Not being able to discern the codes by which the “native Irish” operated, it was assumed that they operated by no codes at all.10 Conservative nationalism took up the celebration of unreflective peasantness in its folklorization of the Gaeltacht, as if (in Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s parody) “the only learning is the learning of an old man without learning” (Ó Cadhain, 1990 10. Kiberd (1995:115-29) argues that Oscar Wilde, John M. Synge and W. B. Yeats found in this “formlessness” the possibility of inventing a “new man” and hence a “new nation.” Such creation was to happen on the terrain of “form,” i.e., personal and artistic style. Rather than being created ex nihilo, however, style emerged, in Synge’s words, “out of the shock of new material” (quoted in Kiberd 1995:120). In Synge’s case this confrontation came out of his immersion in the life and discourse of the western Gaeltacht, i.e., his discovery of and dialogue with the codes of the “native Irish.” This dialogue crossed class, ethnic, religious, linguistic and regional boundaries. Thus, certain strands of Irish literary and political nationalism have been grounded in more complex social and cultural relationships than that described in Anderson’s (1983) model of the imagined community (cf., Bourke 1995; Kiberd 1993; Lloyd 1993). 118 [1950]:138; cf. Chapters 5 and 7). But reflexivity is built into the character’s role; as Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc and his story show, the joke is on the outsider. As Taylor (n.d.) points out, “self-irony” slides into critical scrutiny of the other: “the ‘self’ being treated to ironic definition may be not only Irish, but (in some measure) British and, laterally, American.” The character’s trickster-like informality may be a mask provided by his enemy, which serves to hide his rejection of an alien system. This is not to deny the element of what Herzfeld (1997) calls “rueful self-recognition” in our laughter. As Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc said in the same radio program, if Ireland were Irish-speaking, “we’d be millionaires.” Do something old For Gaeltacht people, the word sean (“old”), used in terms like sean-nós (“old-style”) connotes not just “the way it was done in the past” as “the way we do it”—the natural, unregulated, “gaelic” (gaelach) way.11 The term “sean-nós dancing” brings to mind older people in the West of Ireland, especially in the Gaeltacht, dancing loosely with the upper body relaxed, to live traditional music in pubs and at house parties. It is unregulated step dancing, supposedly representing the form of dancing before it was appropriated by rules, competitions, and Dancing Commissions.. The term itself 11. Sean- is also used for the best, the strongest, or the healthiest human action or condition. 119 is new (based on the similarly new term for traditional singing; see Chapter 8). It dates from the 1970s, when Gaeltacht activists staged an “alternative” stepdancing competition at the annual Irish-language cultural festival, An tOireachtas. Now sean-nós dancing is recognized as a performance genre, with an official slot at the Oireachtas. Máirtín Mac Donncha and others from Ráth Cairn have often won this competition. A Ráth Cairn man, introducing children who are going to do some solo step dancing, said “This is sean-nós, that's something that comes from your heart. From the heart down to the legs.” 12 By using the term sean-nós, he identified the performance as something other than the institutionalized form of Irish dance that his audience would have been familiar with—step dancing as taught to school children in dancing academies and strictly regulated by a national organization which sponsors competitions.13 The other point of comparison was the newly fashionable (in the mid-1990s) commercial dance extravaganza, combining traditional, jazz, tap dance, and european “ethnic” elements, popularized by the touring production, Riverdance. Both of these forms inhabit the national arena, in a way that sean-nós dancing does not. National commentators hailed the Riverdance phenomenon as “making traditional culture 12. We were performing in a nearby village. 13. Much has been made by outsiders of the “stiffness” of this variety of Irish dancing as reflecting sexual repression. Officialized step-dancing seems to me to be more a relic of regimentation than repression, the victim of the bureaucratic zeal of its regulatory organizations. The argument that “The Irish” are sexually repressed is most famously advanced by anthropologists Messinger (1969) and Scheper-Hughes (1982); one hilarious rebuttal is Pádraig Standún’s (1993) Irish-language novel, Na hAnthropologicals. 120 sexy again”—opposing it to formalized step dancing and ignoring sean-nós dancing, which had never stopped being sexy. The term sean-nós is generally used in public performance or when talking to outsiders. Otherwise generic terms like “step” or “damhsa” (for dancing) or “amhrán” (for singing) are used. This use of the term sean-nós when performing for outsiders looks like an example of Herzfeld’s disemia, a distinction between self-representation and self-knowledge. There is more to it than that; calling it “old” amounts to a claim of priority, undercutting the dichotomy of national dancing styles (traditional, rigid, and boring versus modern, commercial and sexy). More importantly, the term captures one of the most important things about sean-nós dancing for insiders, the fact that it is a local tradition based on transmission and quotation, just as verbal art is. Dance steps are aspects of persons, just as language is (Chapters 6 and 8). The oldness of sean-nós thus relates to a different kind of community and time than that of the nation-state as described by Anderson (1983). I have made this detour into dancing because Gaeltacht poetry has the same qualities, both of looking back (an tsúil siar—“the backwards look;” cf. Denvir 1998), and as a way that people live in other people’s talk and actions. The historical role of poets and poetry Speech has always been regarded as a type of action in Irish-language traditions, and poetic speech as the most powerful type of speech. In the Lebor Gabála or “Book of Invasions,” the first poet, Aimhirgin, setting foot on the 121 island for the first time, utters verses which effectively speak the land into being; in them, he claims identity with, and hence control over, the forces of nature (Ó hÓgáin 1982:378). In what Ó Buachalla (1996:470) terms a political charter myth, the Sons of Míl encounter three supernatural women: Éire, Banba, and Fódla. Éire announces that the island is destined to belong forever to the Milesians. In return, Aimhirgin gives the island all three of their names, with Éire as its main name. Medieval court poets mediated between nobles and the sacred landscape. In the ideology of sacral kingship, the concept of “truth” characterized the relationship between a just ruler and the cosmos. Under a just ruler, it was believed, the earth would prosper. The poet’s social role was to mediate the union between the king and the land, personified as a sovereignty goddess.14 In an ancient poetic topos (Carney 1967), praise-poetry made the king beautiful in the eyes of the goddess of sovereignty, who embodied the physical landscape and controlled its fertility. Praise-poetry accomplished this both directly through its magical efficacy, and indirectly by inspiring the king to right behavior and bravery in battle. Good kings were symbolically wed to the landscape through the mediation of praise-poetry, their reigns marked by fertility and prosperity. 14. Simms (1987) points out that the nature of kingly power and legitimation had been evolving toward a more typically European model even before the Norman conquest in the twelfth century. By the seventeenth century, “although the concept of inauguration as marriage with the goddess of sovereignty continued to be set forth by the bardic poets in a surprisingly detailed and articulate form ... it had long since become a mere poetic conceit” (Simms 1987:32). Ó Buachalla’s (1996) work shows, however, that the ideas underlying this “mere poetic conceit” had tremendous political and intellectual consequences in Irish society into the eighteenth century. 122 Substantial payments to poets reflected the ideology of honor and exchange with the sacred realm which underpinned the Gaelic political system. Satire was believed to have the power to blemish the king physically, “burning” and raising blisters on his face. Poets were morally obliged to satirize unjust kings, breaking their union with Sovereignty. Poetic satires were felt to be dangerous, able to kill or disfigure their victims directly. In the type of satire known as “Glám Díchenn” (Breathnach 1988:14), poets could perform a ritual and utter verses upon which, if the poets were guilty of falsehood the earth would swallow them, whereas if the king was guilty, he would be swallowed, along with his wife, son, horse, weapons, clothing and hound! The power of poetry was associated with the earth, perhaps due to the poet’s role in mediating society’s relationship with Sovereignty. Thus, annals for the year 1024 describe how, in a “poetic wonder” (firt filed), a chief poet’s murderers rotted within an hour of his death (Ó hÓgáin 1982:344). Medieval Irish antiquarianism: constructing a tradition In medieval Ireland, within the newly literate monastic regime, older narrative, poetic, and legal traditions were reinterpreted under the influence of Latin learning and christian doctrine. “Pagan” court poets and “christian” monks were on intimate terms in medieval Ireland, often members of the same families; occasionally they were even the same people (McCone 1990). The chthonic power of poets coexisted with that of the clergy, which derived from God and 123 the saints, as well as from the practice of literacy and the textual authority of the Bible. Monastic textual traditions were seen as inherently power-laden. One basis of textual power was the inscription of poetic voice. Manuscript sagas featured passages of what are commonly called “rhetorics”—the direct poetic speech of characters in an archaic lexical and metrical style. Both retoiric and rosc were used as labels for this type of speech.15 The term rosc is apparently a lexicalization of a quotation frame, ro-seched “it was pronounced” (“used of a judge, physician, etc”—Thurneysen 1980:472). Rosc is thus “an extremely apt expression for a rhetorical speech within a narrative context” (Mac Cana 1966:72). The reinterpretation of rosc as a genre or type of poetic speech reflects a tendency to extrapolate from function onto form, locating essential rhetorical power in the formal properties of certain types of speech. Watkins (1970) notes that several Indo-European traditions share similar notions of the nature of poetic language as being the “language of the gods” in contrast to the ordinary “language of men.” Medieval Irish linguistic theory made a general distinction between gnáthbérla (ordinary language) and bérla na filed (language of the poets), This latter is exemplified in the language of the “rhetorics” in Old Irish sagas, passages of verse or rhythmical prose clearly valued for precisely their obscurantism and their bold contrast with the surrounding and transparent prose narrative. Bérla na filed relied for its effect partly on poetic devices 15. Scholars have debated which term is original—rosc or retoiric (Mac Cana 1966, McCone 1990, Corthals 1996). 124 like alliteration, partly on perturbations of normal Irish word order, but mostly on obscure lexical items that were otherwise lost in the ordinary language; in other words, archaisms. [...] Thus the most highly marked form of discourse in Irish is that which is archaic, uniquely poetic, and obscure: precisely the characteristic of the socalled “rhetorics” in Irish saga (Watkins 1970:14-15). Passages of directly quoted poetic speech were occasionally marked with marginal .r. in manuscripts. “[S]uch passages ... tended to preserve or to imitate traditional models ... which, at least in part, had sprung from the [poet] in his capacity as seer rather than as man of learning” (Mac Cana 1966:74). The formula Co cloth ni (“it was heard”), sometimes used to frame mantic utterance, presents it as if it emanates from speaker’s body; here the poet is only a vehicle for a Otherworldly voice. The use of retoiric as a metalinguistic term reflects a process where older notions of the effectiveness of poetic speech were reinterpreted in the light of the linguistic ideologies, terminology and some of the forms of late antique Latin poetry (Corthals 1996). Christian doctrine required that the older ritual basis of poetic power be de-emphasized; the focus seems to have shifted to the forms of poetic speech itself. Thus, terms which appear to have originally denoted types of (ritualized) speech acts are later “treated as titles of distinctive poetical forms or metres, though we may suspect that this development is due in some measure to the schematization of Christian antiquarian learning” (Chadwick 1935:110). Carey (1997) maintains that these medieval antiquarians exaggerated the mantic, ritual aspects of pagan culture, for the purpose of emphasizing the differences between them and the newer Christian culture. 125 Parallel to this is a shift in emphasis from the chthonic, bodily basis of poetic power to a foundation in divine grace. An example of this transformation is found in the saga Aided Chonchobuir. The christian author/compiler of this text “composed [a] difficult, obscure, and archaic-seeming rhetoric which Conchobar was supposed to have uttered when he heard of the Crucifixion” (Carney 1955, quoted in McCone 1990:43). In Corthals’ (1989:41-42) summary of the event: ... Conchobar, king of Ulster, was slain twice. The account of his first slaying, told in the fashion of a typical Ulster story, relates how he was struck by Mess Gegra’s brain which, having been hardened by an admixture of lime, was treacherously thrown at him by Cet mac Mágach from the Connachta, so that it entered his head. It was stitched over, and Conchobar was kept alive -- on the condition, however, that he avoided any kind of agitation. The second and final slaying of Conchobar was a consequence both of his first slaying and of Christ’s death. On hearing about the crucifixion of Christ he got excited to such a degree that Mess Gegra’s brain sprang forth from his head. He bled to death and subsequently went to heaven. [...] The poem is spoken by Conchobar as he becomes enraged because of the death of Christ. This is an example of poetic rage, which represents for speech what the battlefrenzy of the hero represents for action.16 Aided Chonchobuir transforms such notions in a deliberately christianizing framework: The hero, Conchobur, utters his poem in a spasm of anger brought on by the inability to act to prevent Christ’s crucifixion. In his poem he laments that his words are likewise ineffective. Ultimately he accepts divine providence as the basis for both his words and actions. 16. Máirtín Ó Cadhain used the term for Cú Chulainn’s battle- “contortion” (riastara, from Old Irish ríastartha, “contorted”) to describe the public rage that came over him during his political interventions (Mac Aonghusa 1978:87). Cf. Chapter 7. 126 The power and authority of medieval writing was thus founded in part on its framing of archaic “oral” voices in Christian/literate texts. This functioned in part to preserve the bases of pagan power within a Christian context—in this case, offering a prospective charter for Christianity. There is a parallel here to the glossing activity of medieval scribes, in which archaic forms are presented with marginal or interlinear expansion. Such glossing also takes place within sagas themselves as narrator/witness figures explain passages of obscure speech (Sayers 1992:128). Such activity reflexively enacts Irish-language discourse as a tradition, one designed to be read through to arrive at an originary voice. These principles also guide the collection and use of folklore by the modern Irish state (McLean 1999, Moore-Quinn 1998), and, as I show in Chapter 8, performers’ understandings of the sean-nós song tradition as well. The preponderance of direct discourse in the poetic and narrative traditions indexically projects the listener into the “I” of characters who are culturally as well as temporally quite distant.17 One of the main quasi-ritual aspects of poetry in the tradition is its connection to visionary powers, especially the ability to see and enter the Otherworld and understand and speak to its inhabitants. Many stories tell how hero-figures, especially Finn Mac Cumhail, receive the gift of poetry, vision and prophecy in the form of imbas forosnai, “knowledge which illuminates” (Quin 17. Urban (1989) examines the variable uses of direct discourse in native South American ritual. 127 1990:381). Imbas is portrayed as both a ritual practice and as a supernatural ability, in which the subject may go into a trance-like state, speaking in poetic “rhetorics” upon emerging. Medieval Irish literature took the idea of the hero’s “visionary voice” (Ó hÓgáin 1979) as a revelatory medium and transformed it to act as a charter myth for the literary transcription and recovery of an “oral” tradition which has/is being “lost.” In Acallam na Senórach (The Colloquy of the Sages), Saint Patrick meets up with Cailte and Oisín, the last surviving members of Finn’s band of warriors. They set out on a series of adventures together as the pagan warriors relate tales of their past adventures to the Christian saint, who, along with his assistants, commits them to writing. Patrick’s two guardian angels, Aibelán and Solusbreathach, came to him there, and he asked them whether it was alright with the King of Heaven and Earth that he, Patrick, was listening to stories of the fían The angels responded with equal vehemence: “Dear holy cleric! No more than a third of their stories are these old clerics able to tell you, because of their forgetfulness and senility. Record them on the tablets of poets and in the words of arch-poets [i támlorguibh filed i mbriathraibh ollamhan], for listening to these stories will gladden throngs and nobles for the rest of time” (quoted in Nagy 1983:133). In this genre, as Joseph Nagy (1983:134-35) shows, the christian saint is the “translating medium” between two different space-times: the oral, pagan otherworld and literate, christian historical time: The stories that they tell Patrick and company (who are eagerly asking for them) are stories of the heroes’ personal experiences of an otherworld incongruous with or at least irrelevant to the christian otherworlds (Nagy 1983:134). 128 Eloquence and violence Medieval Ireland was a highly stratified society in which knowledge, including knowledge of various types of poetic form and the ability to use them, was the property of certain social classes and lineages. A text, “The Cauldron of Poesy” (Breatnach 1981) compares poetic ability to a series of cauldrons, from which knowledge and fine speech overflow. These containers are either upside down, lying on their sides or right side up, depending on a person’s social position and training.18 The text states, however, that the cauldron of poesy can be turned right side up by sorrow or joy. Emotion is felt literally to increase one’s capacity to produce poetry. In a theme that continues through modern folklore as well, poetry is felt to be simultaneously the product of birth, knowledge, craft, and strong emotion. Medieval saga literature is full of both representations of and discussions of the nature of verbal discourse. In the saga Tochmarc Emire (The Wooing of Emer), both Emer and Cú Chulainn “test each other and promote themselves through the arts of speech, and by comment on the relation of speech acts to other deeds and on the record of such deeds in the speech and song of others (Sayers 1992:126). Heroic speech was considered coterminous with action. In a “word—deed—word continuum,” intentions are announced and then a memorable deed is done, which increases the hero’s fame—other people’s future 18. Cauldrons represented culture and the culturing process; chieftains were said to be cauldrons which “cook together every raw thing” (McCone 1990:174). 129 talk about his actions. Thus, the hero Cú Chulainn vows that his deeds will be praised (Sayers 1992:129). This directly parallels the activity of the court poet, whose praise and satire both incites and judges the actions of the king. Medieval eloquence was “the ability to encode information, even personal history, in traditional riddling fashion through allusions to both mythological and historical lore.” Powerful utterance contained sedimented narratives. This knowledge was partially encoded in the landscape itself in the form of dindshenchas— “indexical circumlocutions, synopses of stories which determined the names of prominent landmarks” (Sayers 1992:128-9). Movement through the landscape was a type of poetic action as characters related stories associated with particular places, sometimes encountering the stories’ otherworldly protagonists. The landscape was often a character in its own right, engaged in riddling dialogue with the hero. Court poets were carriers of legal, historical and genealogical knowledge, and advised kings both directly and allegorically, through the medium of historical narratives which drew analogies to the present situation. Poetic praise compared the chieftain or king to legendary kings of the past and to those prophesied to come in the future (Ó Buachalla 1989, 1996). Poets took an active political and even military role; one seventeenth century poet styled himself “the prime minister of Fermanagh” (Carney 1967). The rhetorical skills of the medieval Irish court poet were based in the great genealogical, mythical, historical, linguistic and poetic knowledge which he 130 brought to bear on current political issues in the form of allegorical fables and or condensed symbols. Poetic texts were objects of value, composed “orally,” then written down, often in the form of letters to distant chieftains (Carney 1967; Ó Cuív 1973), ultimately collected in poem-books. These books were the state papers of Gaelic Ireland. In the colonial era poets were a focus of conflict between the Irishspeaking and English-speaking worlds (Leerssen 1996; Caball 1992; Ó Buachalla 1996). Early colonists blamed poets for stirring up resistance among local chieftains and their armed followers. In the words of Edmund Spenser (1596), whomesoever they finde to bee most lycentious of lief, most bolde and lawles in his doinges, most daungerous and desperate in all partes of disobedience and rebellious disposicon, him they sett up and glorifie in their rymes, him they prayse to the people, and to younge men make an example to followe. Poets could apparently also strike directly. Annals for the year 1414 record that the Viceroy of Ireland, Sir John Stanley, was killed by a satire uttered by the poet Nial Ó hUiginn: John Stanley, the Deputy of the King of England, arrived in Ireland, a man who gave neither mercy nor protection to clergy, laity, or men of science, but subjected as many of them as he came upon to cold, hardship, and famine. It was he who plundered Niall, the son of Hugh O'Higgin, at Uisneach, in Meath. Henry Dalton, however, plundered James Tuite and the King's people, and gave the O'Higgins out of the preys then acquired a cow for each and every cow taken from them, and afterwards escorted them to Connaught. The O'Higgins, with Niall, then satirized John Stanley, who lived after this satire but five weeks, for he died of the virulence of the lampoons [neimh na naor]. This was the second poetical miracle performed by this Niall O'Higgin, the first being the discomfiture of the Clann-Conway the night they plundered Niall at Cladann; 131 and the second, the death of John Stanley. (O’ Donovan 1990; cf. Ó hÓgáin 1982:344-45). 19 Ó hUiginn’s “poetical miracle” [fiort filidh]—the killing of Henry V’s Viceroy of Ireland—is justified in the manuscript in the same terms that would justify a poet’s satirizing a native ruler. The satire is also revenge for Stanley’s “plundering” of Ó hUiginn. Modern poetic ideology Under the Gaelic political system, several types of “poets” were ranked according to their function, degree of learning, and the social level of their noble patrons. Contractual relationships of poets and patrons were carefully defined in the legal system. In the modern Gaeltacht, the forms of poetry (genres, meters) have changed, and the legal status of poets has disappeared. While many Gaeltacht poets are respected and even feared by their neighbors, they do not occupy a higher social and class level––the reverse is more often true. What has remained, to some extent, are certain fundamental cultural notions about the nature of poetic language and the way it functions. As Ó hÓgáin (1982) shows, in spite of the destruction of the native political order at the beginning of the 17th 19. Text (quoted in Ó hÓgáin 1982:344): John Zanlae .i. fear ionaid righ Saxan, do theacht i nÉrinn, fear na tucc cadhus nó tearmann, do thuaith, ná d’eacclais, ná d’ealadhain an mhéd gus a ráinicc acht a ccur fri fuacht, faighdhe, occus gorta. A sé ro airg Niall mac Aodha Uí Uigind i nUisneach Midhe, ocus ro hairgeadh Semus Diúit ocus muintir an righ la hAinri Dalatún, ocus tucc bó sa mboin dona hoirgnibh sin do mhuintir Uiginn, ocus ro iodhlaic i cConnachtaibh iad airsin. Ro aorsat iaramh muintir Uiginn im Niall John Zanlae, ocus ní raibhe beó iar sin san aoír sin acht cúicc seachtmhaine namá an tan fuair bás do neimh na naor, ocus asé sin an dara fiort filidh do ronadh for Niall Ua nUiginn .i. clann Conmhaigh do lethadh aidhche creiche Néill hÍ Cladaind. ocus John Zanlae do écc. [Annála Ríoga Éireann IV (ed. John O’ Donovan), 819] 132 Century, the decline of Irish-language learning, and the transformation of almost every aspect of Irish life and culture in the last few hundred years, there is a great deal of continuity between ancient and modern views of the nature and power of poets and poetic speech. An example of this is the definition of poetry, from the earliest texts to modern times, as consisting of “praise and blame” (moladh agus cáineadh). This reflects its fundamentally moral, religious and social orientation (including much “love poetry”). Modern folklore is replete with lore about poets, often in the form of stories which accompany and frame quoted poetic texts. Supernatural aspects of poetry which were quite possibly taken as figurative tropes in medieval Ireland are often represented as literally true in twentieth-century folklore. Folklore portrays poetry and poets as being a bit Otherworldly, the result of a supernatural gift or even of a physical difference in the poet’s body. One of the most enduring legends of poetic power has it that a hazel tree at the well of Segais, the source of the river Boyne, dropped nuts into the river, which were eaten by salmon; anyone eating the Salmon of Knowledge would receive inspiration, knowledge, and poetic ability (Chadwick 1935, Carey 1997, Patton 1992:96-7). This legend is related to other legends about supernatural cows (connected with the name of the river Boyne) which have Indo-European roots (Mac Cana 1983; Leavitt 1998). There is a version of this legend, known to virtually every Irish person, telling how the hero Finn Mac Cumhail got inspiration by accidentally burning his thumb while cooking this Salmon. It is 133 paralleled by modern folk stories of the legendary poet-hero, Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh. Ó Dalaigh was a typical good-for-nothing until he accidentally tasted the first milk of a cow which had been impregnated by a magical bull that emerged out of a rock. Upon tasting the milk, he was overwhelmed by knowledge, and henceforth became a skilled smith, shoemaker, mason, and mastered “whatever trade he put his hand to.”20 A tradition going back to the mythical poet Aimirgin (Ó hÓgáin 1982:30-32) compares smiths and poets, both makers of durable and valuable objects. Although these stories highlight the seemingly accidental nature of inspiration, there is an element of predestination as well—it is no accident that these particular people are chosen by the Otherworld as the recipients of wisdom. In both literary and folk traditions, poets mirror and stand in for (super)nature, in a moral relationship that echoes their (former) role in the institution of sacral kingship. Poets are portrayed as knowing the languages of nature; they enter into dialogue with the landscape (see below) and can control the behavior of rats,21 waves, wind, schools of fish, etc. (Ó hÓgáin 1982). The stories about Finn and Cearbhall Ó Dálaigh emphasize how the supernatural gift of poetry transforms the poet physically. Folklore portrays 20. Joe Heaney told me a version of this story in 1983; c.f. also Ó hÓgáin 1985. 21. “Plagues of rats could be banished by poets who wrote a charm on a piece of paper that was then laid at the entrance to the hole where the rats lived. Soon after, according to the many stories about it, the leader of the rats emerged from the hole, bearing the paper in its mouth, followed by all the other rats, and all made their way to the location indicated on the paper—usually the farm of somebody against whom the poet had a grudge. This custom was also known in the United States...” (Ó Súilleabháin 1966:279). 134 poets as uncannily fluent speakers; poetic wit is produced “without thinking,” as a direct bodily emanation. Poetry is felt to be physically different than ordinary speech. Poets were sometimes said to have a special “vein of poetry” (féith na filíochta) which produced verse when agitated.22 Voice and history: poetry as oppositional discourse in the Gaeltacht Throughout Irish history, poetic voice has been construed as a conduit to an immanent “past” which functions as an otherworld, active in and on the present. Poets and poetic speech bring into dialogue “pagan” and “Christian,” “oral” and “literate” worlds (cf. Nagy 1983, 1989). During the defeat of the Gaelic political order in the 17th and 18th Centuries, Irish-language poets began to identify their loyalties on a religious, cultural and linguistic basis rather than with particular individual nobles (Leerssen 1996, Ó Buachalla 1996, Caball 1998). Poets then represented the Gaelic order in conflict with the anglicizing sectors of society. From the 17th century to the present, the political, cultural, and economic transformation of Ireland strongly coincided with linguistic conflict and change as Irish was abandoned in most areas. In Ireland, as in European bilingual situations generally (Gal 1984, 1987; Martin-Jones 1989), there has been a high degree of consciousness of the political and economic grounds of language choice. In the linguistic culture of the 22. The term is also used non-literally to say someone has a talent for poetry (Ó Dónaill 1977:535), just as one says in English that someone “has a flair for poetry.” In Irish, however, the etymology is much more apparent. 135 Gaeltacht, verbal art, especially poetry and folklore, is partially grounded in the cultural system of the vanished Gaelic political order. Its symbolic universe lives on in those aspects of society which are grounded in the exchange economy, the sacred landscape, the “occasions and styles of sociability not successfully contained and tamed” by self-consciously “modernizing” classes (Taylor 1989:184). The ideology of modernization, grounded in the Andersonian perspective of linear time, would relegate these various Otherworlds, embodied in poetic discourse, to an absolute temporal past. Within the modern nation-state the conflict is thus, not between the past and the future, but between two opposing and incompatible senses of time. In Jameson’s (1981:74) theory, “the ideology of form” of a literary tradition consists of “the symbolic messages transmitted to us by the coexistence of various sign systems which are themselves traces or anticipations of modes of production.” In Irish-language tradition, discursive form itself embodies these contradictions, and is thus a site of resistance to the linear time of modernity. This seems to explain a lot about the nature of rural “characters” as well—performance itself threatens to dredge up elements of the past which threaten the respectable order. Ó hÓgáin (1982) gives many examples from folklore of “duels” or confrontations between filí and priests. Keening women (mná caointe) are similarly remembered in folklore, not surprisingly given both their verbal gifts and the Church’s unceasing opposition to their trade (Partridge [Bourke] 1980, 136 1983, Bourke 1993). Women are also “characters” (although the term is not often used for women), as well as poets. Priests themselves, however, have often played the role of file or “character.” They are almost always so remembered in contexts involving either the oppressed Church under colonial rule, or as charismatic “fallen” or disgraced priests23 who play an oppositional role viz-aviz civil Church and society (Taylor 1995, Ch. 5). In general, the Irish-language tradition has carried with it a point of view that is different from that of the English-language traditions in Ireland. One example of this is that older Irish-speakers in the 1990s possess traditional knowledge of the names and histories, not only of their own districts, but often of others which have been English-speaking for one or several generations. They thus have the point of view and authority to, when necessary (or convenient), see all of modern English-speaking Ireland as, fundamentally, a recent and shallow imposition. Such a point of view has been tremendously encouraged by the nationalist project which portrayed Irish and the Gaeltacht as the most “real” Ireland. As I argue throughout this dissertation, however, the linguistic culture of the Gaeltacht has been problematic for, and largely inassimilable to, the nationalist project as well. While “characters” in English-speaking parts of Ireland tend to be socially marginal, the linguistic and cultural marginality of Gaeltacht poets gives wider scope for their subversions. 23. One of the most famous such priests in the Irish-language tradition is Tomás Ó Caiside of Co. Mayo (born around 1700), who abandoned his vows for love and authored an autobiography in Irish as well as the fine song, An Caisideach Bán (Kenny 1993). 137 Máirtín Mac Donncha I first met Máirtín Mac Donncha in 1992, at a concert in the local hall in Ráth Cairn, soon after I arrived to do my field work. I had seen so-called sean-nós dancing before in Connemara, but nothing like Máirtín’s, which seemed infinitely fluid as he moved from one “step” to another. This fluidity is present in Máirtín’s poetry, singing, dancing, and artful conversation,24 in contrast with his demeanor at other times, which is fairly quiet and reserved. Máirtín is one of the most skilled tellers of “yarns”25 I have met, a frequent and skilled imitator of others, a character’s character. But calling Máirtín a “character”, while true, is hardly sufficient––he is also a renowned dancer, singer, actor and poet or songmaker. In his mid fifties, married and separated with two grown sons, he is not a bachelor but occupies a similar social position. Both his father, Cóil Neaine Pháidín Mac Donncha (cf. Mac Donncha 1993) and sons showed the same talents, however, suggesting a more permanent and inheritable talent and social role. His social role and self-identification is best compared to the role of the file (poet) in the Gaeltacht.26 The file has a fairly well-defined role in Irish-speaking society, 24. His ideolect is discussed by Stenson (1986-7) in her dialectal survey of “The Irish of Ráth Cairn.” 25. The english term ( ) is often used in Irish as is scéilín (“story”[dim.]). 26. There are of course many English-speaking “folk” poets and balladeers who play very similar roles in the Galltacht.Their works are enthusiastically learned and performed by Gaeltacht poets and singers. 138 and furthermore there is widespread awareness of the ancientness of this role, and traditional knowledge of the identities, compositions, lives and personalities of poets going back a few hundred years (not counting more mythical heroic figures). At the same time, people are all too aware that their language and culture has been increasingly marginalized in modern Ireland. Modern Gaeltacht poets have neither the social power nor the education and linguistic resources of their ancient counterparts. Most local Gaeltacht poets seem to deny the title file (poet) out of modesty. In Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s words, Gaeltacht poets, if they are worthy of the name, must have “a public and a function” (see below). Máirtín Mac Donncha has these, and it is interesting to see to what degree it is in terms of “character” that he “functions” for his public. A perusal of Ó hÓgáin’s (1982) survey of the folklore of poets and poetry in the Gaeltacht shows a similar fascination by the public with the personality of the poet. Stories about poets often take the form of small dramas, describing confrontations between poets or between poets and others, framing their (directly reported) utterances (see Chapters 6 and 8 ). These framing stories are not very different than the reporting of witticisms in everyday “crack.” What is the point of reporting “context” along with speech? As I argue throughout this dissertation, this very common Irish discourse form, in addition to making reported speech intelligible, functions to interpret (or as the current jargon goes, to “construct”) the power of speech as social action. It does this by 139 presenting examples of speech along with narrative descriptions of situations to which the speech is a response and descriptions of the effects of these utterances. It carries exemplary images of persons, which model the relation of personality, the emotions, etc. to utterance. Framing stories associated with poetry (Ó hÓgáin 1979, 1982) comment on the nature and power of poetic utterance. Máirtín has told me many of these, both in the form of anecdotes and as more formal introductions to poetry and songs. 27 An example is this story Máirtín told me to illustrate a point he was making about the power of poetry: TEXT: “Oíche Chiún Cheobranach”28 {MMD] Ah, seod é an chaoí a chuala mise ná bean, agus bhí an fear pósta an darna huair ag an mbean seo an dtuigeann tú. Agus bhí mac aige leis an gcéad bhean. Agus ansin, an leasmhathair, ní raibh sí ag breathnú in a dhiaidh ceart agus, bh’fhéidir go dtarlíonn sé go minic, ní raibh an meas céanna agus a bheadh aice roimh a mhac fhéin. Agus, ní raibh sí ach ag tabhairt cúil buí––bhí molt [wether] maraithe acub. Ní thuigim fhéin cén áit a raibh an fheoil chúil bui, is dóigh thart ar an muineál an, an molt, nó feóil bhán a bhí ann, nó, drochfheóil, mar a déarfá. Agus, ní mhaith leis an gasúr, bh’fhéidir nar raibh sé ach naoi nó deich de bhlianta, níor mhaith leis tada a inseacht dhá athair. Ach, uh. dúirt an t-athair leis an oíche seo, “go amach agus breathnú céardós oíche amuigh í, féach céardós oíche amuigh í.” Agus chuaidh sé amach ar an tsráid agus thánaig sé isteach agus dúirt sé, “Cén sort oíche amuigh í” a dúirt sé “a mhac?” Agus dúirt sé 27. Most Irish-language poetry is sung, although song texts are sometimes recited. The use of the term filíocht to refer to spoken poetry as opposed to singing (amhránaíocht) may be a recent phenomenon (cf. Ó Madagáin 1985). The “recitation” is a popular English-language genre in Ráth Cairn as well as in Co. Meath in general. I have heard the (English-language) term “recitation” used for spoken poetry in Irish as well. “Recitations” seem to tend to be dramatic monologues with narrative content, as opposed to the more strictly dialogical agallamh beirte (see below). See Chapter 8 for the relation of music to speech in sean-nós song. 28. All quotations from Máirtín Mac Donncha were recorded in an interview in July, 1997, in Ráth Cairn. He first told me this story in 1994. 140 [MMD]: Ah, the way I heard it was a woman, and her husband was married for the second time to this woman you understand. And he had a son by the first wife. And then, the stepmother, she wasn’t looking after him properly and, maybe this happens often, she didn’t have the same respect for him that she would have for her own son. And she would only give him “cúil buí”––they had slaughtered a wether [a castrated ram]. I don’t understand myself where the “cúil buí” meat was, probably around the neck of the wether, or the fat that was there, or poor meat, as you’d say. And the child didn’t want, maybe he was only around nine or ten years old, he didn’t want to say anything to his father. And, eh, the father said this night “Go out and see what kind of night it is outside, see what kind of night it is outside.” And he went out on the “street” [the paved area in front of a house] and he came back in and he [the father] said, “What sort of night is it out there,” he said “son?”29 And he [the son] said: “Oíche chiun cheobranach, stoirm réaltógach, gaoith aneas, braon as, agus é ag sioc. An gheallach ar aon taobh agus í ag goil soir.” “A quiet misty night, a starry storm, a south wind, a drop from it [raining] and frost. The moon on one side [?] and going [to the] East.” Agus dúirt an t-athair “ní fhéadfadh sé sin tarladh.” “Bhuel, bheadh sé chomh cóirthe dhó ag tarlachtáil” a deir sé, “leis an molt a mharadh tú an tseachtain seo chaite, agus gan ann ach cúl buí uilig.” Agus bhí a fhios ag an athair ansin, chuimreadh sé air. Níor inis sé díreach ar a leasmhathair, ach, ... And the father said “that couldn’t happen!” “Well, it would be just as likely [lit. “proper”] for that to happen” he [the son] said, “as the wether you slaughtered last week, to be nothing but cúl buí.” And the father understood then, he realized it. He didn’t tell on his stepmother directly, but ... [SC] B’fhearr mar sin ná é a rá... 29. Double framing of directly quoted speech is a common feature of storytelling. 141 [SC]: It was better that way then... [MMD] B’fhearr mar sin é. Agus, by God, rinne an t-athair siúireáilte go bhfaighfeadh sé a dhinnear ceart uaidh sin amach. Ach, nach iontach an chaoí a raibh sé, go raibh sé curtha le chéile aige? Clisteacht, an dtuigeann tú. An clistíocht. [MMD]: It was better that way. And by God, the father made sure that he’d get the right dinner from then on. But wasn’t it wonderful [iontach––“strange, amazing”] the way it was, the way he had put it together? Cleverness, do you understand. The cleverness of it. There are many similar stories illustrating the first poetic utterances of children, when their “gift” (bua) is revealed.30 In this story the child gets himself out of a difficult situation by constructing an enigmatic utterance that the father must decode himself. Rather than directly confronting the stepmother or father, which would be inappropriate for a young child, his utterance edifies by puzzlement (Fernandez 1986, ch. 7). The child gives a series of impossible images of disordered nature, weather at once hot and cold, wet and dry, quiet and violent. The incredulous father challenges the child and in response is given the frightening image of the slaughtered animal being nothing but cúl buí. In the manner of riddles in general (as Fernandez observes), natural and human (dis-) orders are brought into contiguity, the natural order standing for the human. It is up to the father, when given the enigmatic description of the night outside, to make the connection to the disordered and unjust state of social relations in his own household. When he fails to do this, the child presents him with the final 30. Ó hÓgáin (1982:137-38) reports a nearly identical story from Co. Kerry, in which the child is a girl. In this case the father is a poet and the child’s utterance confirms for him that she is his own offspring. The appearance of feith na filíochta in a girl meant that the “gift” of poetry would pass out of the family’s lineage (Nic Eoin 1998). 142 image in which the mutual product of human labor and nurture proves on the inside to be false and sterile. Arguably this represents a natural sanction against the human order--nature becomes disordered and infertile, withdrawing its support from the human community. The ultimate power of poetic satire (aor) in the Irish tradition is the magical revelation (and perhaps the facilitation thereby) of a natural sanction against the human.31 Hard talk: an old word about a half word Like the Western Apache (Basso 1990), Irish-speakers value enigmatic and allusive speaking. Proverbs are seanfhocail––”old words.” In structure they are miniature poems, and they function like the “crowning statements” Ó Crualaoich mentions (see above), that originate as “artistically creative verbal summations”of social truths and predicaments. Proverbs are valued because of their conciseness: the ability to condense a great deal of experience, knowledge, emotion or opinion into as economical a form as possible.32 In the words of a common proverb, Tuigeann fear léinn leathfhocal––”A learned man understands a hint [literally, a half-word]”. In the linguistic culture 31. Compare Blake's “Oh Rose, thou art sick...” 32. Characters in a novel , Connemara emigrants, meet in London: “How are things back in the west [thiar, ie, at home in Connemara]?” he said. “In a mess,” I say. “You’ve said it all in one word [Tá lán do bhéil ráite agat, lit. “you’ve said the full of your mouth”],” he said. “They’ll never change.” “It’s a little too late” I say (Ó Ceallaigh 1990:35; my translation). 143 of the Gaeltacht, poetic utterance creates an incomplete scene or set of images which the recipient must complete for himself in a way that connects the world evoked in the utterance with the real world in which he or she lives. Much of the effectiveness of poetry derives from its ability to coordinate points of view. Máirtín mentioned that the songs of Tom an tSeoige, a Connemara poet, greatly impressed an older local man; tears came to his eyes when he heard “Ar Bord an Princess Maude” (On Board the Princess Maude). The same things were in the song that this man saw himself on the Princes Maude––as a young man he often made the crossing to England. The process of filling in a picture is the same for singers as well as listeners. Joe Heaney described ornamentation in these terms, and mentioned that listeners could see the events of songs about the Passion of Christ, because they had lived through sadness in their own lives (Chapter 8). Incompleteness or allusiveness in a song invites imaginative participation. Hidden reference also accomplishes this in allegorical songs which “they used to compose ... in such a way that they (the authorities and the English) wouldn’t know what the song was about.”33 In Máirtín’s story of the stepchild, the fact that such an utterance came from a young child, and the spontaneousness of its composition made it “wonderful.” “The way he put it together”––the poetic form of the child’s utterance––also makes it memorable. Alliteration, end-rhyme, internal rhyme, 33. Máirtín said this of the allusive and clever song “Ócam an Phríosúin” [“The Prison Oakum”], composed by Tom Neaine Choilm Ó Lochlainn from An Trá Bháin, who was jailed for making poitín (illegal whiskey). Máirtín has this song from his father, who met Tom Neaine Choilm when he was a child. 144 poetic meter, the choice of unexpected, “old”, rare or difficult words, are valued aspects of poetry as well as of the speech of artful conversation. Such speech is “hard” (cruachaint––“hard speech”), in the sense of being difficult as well as physically enduring. 34 In the preface to his edition of the poems of Seosamh Ó Donnchadha35 (who was known as “The Poet of Baile na mBroghach”), Peadar Mac an Iomaire writes: There is no doubt that the Poet believed that poetry was more important if listened to than if left aside written on paper. He never wrote any of his poems down, but the cruachaint that was in them caused people to learn them by heart from him, and they would not easily forget them (Mac an Iomaire 1983:28).36 The formal “hardness” of poetry is here felt to contribute to its endurance in social memory, which is the most powerful attribute of poetry. This same poet ended a satire on an unpopular road-building foreman with the words “And as long as the [Irish] language remains among the Gaels of Connemara/ there will be talk in every house of this sport” (Ó Donnchadha 1983:102; cf Denvir 1989).37 Poetry is thought of as a craft like smithy or masonry. These traditional crafts are believed to require inherited skills which are slightly supernatural in 34. Seán Ó Conaire said of a highly alliterative, ornamented story that it had cruachaint in it and was “like poetry.” The prefix sean- (old-) is also used to describe such speech. 35. His poem about Ráth Cairn was discussed in Chapter 2. 36. Níl aon aimhreas nár chreid an Filí gur tábhachtaí an fhilíocht le n-éisteacht léí ná í a bheith fágtha ar leataomh ar pháipéar. Níor scríobh sé aon cheann dá dhánta riamh ach chuir an chruachaint a bhí iontu daoine á bhfoglaim de ghlanmheabhair uaidh le nach ndéanfaí dearmad orthu go héasca. 37. Is an fhad is seasfas an teanga i measc Gaeil Chonamara,/Beidh trácht i ngach teaghlach faoin spóirt seo. 145 origin. People do not lightly identify themselves as poets, and when they do, they often justify their claim by mentioning ancestors or other relations who were recognized as poets. Máirtín Mac Donncha rarely if ever calls himself a poet, as opposed to a person who composes songs or verses (duine a bhíonns ag cumadh amhráin nó véarsaí). In the interview, when Máirtín had to refer to his own talents, he did so while referring to relatives whose talents had been recognized in their communities: SC: is dóigh gur b’shin an rud atá i gceist i bhfilíocht ar fad, rud a rá ar bhealach eile... SC: That must be what all poetry is about, to say something in another manner... MMD: Bhuel ‘sé. Ach tá go leor [...] clistíocht ag baint leis an dtuigeann tú. Níl chuile dhuine atá in ann é a dhéanamh. A deir siad. Tá rhythm ag baint leis, tá gach eile líne an dtuigeann tú, chaon dárna líne, go mbéarfadh an chéad líne––agus go mbéarfaidh an tríú líne ansin ar an gcéad líne. Ach sin é an dtuigeann tú, a deir siad, b’fhéidir, b’fhéidir é, níl mé ag rá go bhfuil mise go maith ag cumadh ach dúirt duine eicínt—Ó bhí Bríd [unclear] ann anocht, “nach bhfuil gaol a’d le Tom Neaine Choilm?” Agus tá. An bhfuil a fhios a’d. Muintir na Trá Báine, an dtuigeann tú. Jóín Sheáin Taim bhíodh sé ag cumadh amhráin––col ceathrar do m’athair. Agus Tom Neaine Choilm bhíodh gaol aige le m’athair––sean-uncail nó rud eicínt mar sin. MMD: Well, it is. But there is a lot of ... cleverness involved do you understand. Not everyone can do it. So they say. There is a rhythm to it, every other line do you understand, that every second line would catch the first line—and that the third line would catch the first line. And that’s it you understand, [that’s what] they say; maybe, maybe so— I’m not saying I’m good at composing but someone said—Ó, Bríd [unclear] was there tonight, “aren’t you related to Tom Neaine Choilm?” And I am, you know. The Trá Bán [a place in Connemara] people, you understand. Jóín Sheain Taim used to compose songs—my father’s cousin. And Tom Neaine Choilm was related to my father—a great uncle or something like that. 146 Máirtín Ó Cadhain criticized the practice of Irish-language literary poetry (Ó Cadhain 1969; see Chapter _) because, being based on the pragmatics of English language high literature, it was divorced from its immediate social context. Anybody could be a “poet” by sitting down and occasionally writing a few insubstantial verses describing their private inner states.38 In Irish-speaking society, however, being a “poet” (file) has always meant assuming a public social role which is ascribed, a responsibility not taken lightly. As Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc Ó Coisdealbha said (1987:9), “There are people these days who call themselves poets, but it was other people who called me a poet”39 He may have been referring to Máirtín Ó Cadhain (1969), who had said of him: there is one poet––if you allow me to call him by that name––who has a function and a public, Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc, or Seán Ó Coisdealbha. He has them, like poets have always had in the Irish language.40 The vocation of poetry earned Seosamh Ó Donnchadha fear as well as respect from his neighbors: There are people who believe that the Poet has [supernatural] knowledge because of some of the things he has mentioned in his poems. Others believe that he has some kind of supernatural power 38. Joe Heaney was scathing in his condemnation of song-makers who made up their subject matter instead of telling “true stories” (Chapter 8). 39. Tá daoine ann inniu a thugann file orthu fhéin, ach is daoine eile a thugann ormsa é. 40. Tá file amháin--má cheadaíonn sibh dhom chor ar bith an t-ainm a thabhairt air--a bhfuil pobal agus feidhm aige, Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc, nó Seán Ó Coistealbha. Tá, ar an gcaoi a raibh sé ag filí ariamh sa nGaeilge. 147 owing to the way he is able to put together the talk in his poems. Anyone of his kind would be treated with respect, and so is the Poet. [A]nd, although Joe would be seen as a very good neighbor—as an obliging person—as a poet, he would be as feared as a parish priest or a wise woman would be (Mac an Iomaire 1983:9).41 The formal properties of poetic speech, the mythological charter for the social standing of poets, and stories of poetry’s supernatural origins all contribute to the respect people feel for poets and their compositions. Perhaps the most powerful aspect of poetry is its quality as visionary medium. From the earliest times poets functioned as seers, and prophecy is an important aspect of poetry to this day. Gaeltacht people emphasize that verbal art makes people see things (Chapter 8); the visual immediacy of poetry contributes to its effect as much as its sonic texture. Gaeltacht poets actively seek knowledge of current events and local and national, as well as mythological, history. In communities where literacy was not common, 42 poets were an important part of the network of oral transmission of written knowledge. The Galway poet Antaine Raiftearaí (1779-1835), blinded by smallpox as a child, nonetheless mentions written sources in his long historical poem, “Seanchas na Sceiche” (The Lore of the Bush). In this poem, Raiftearaí, 41. Tá daoine ann a chreideann go bhfuil fios ag an bhFilí de bharr cuid de na rudaí atá luaite aige ina chuid dánta. Ceapann tuilleadh go bhfuil cumhacht osnádúrtha éigin aige de bharr an chaoi a bhfuil sé in ann an chaint atá sna dánta a chur i ndiaidh chéile. Duine ar bith dá leithéid, bheadh ómós dó agus tá ómós don Fhilí agus, freisin, cé go bhféachfaí ar Joe mar chomharsa an mhaith—mar dhuine oibleagáideach—ach mar fhile, bheadh an scéin chéanna roimhe agus a bheadh roimh shagart paróiste nó roimh bhean feasa. 42. Literacy in Irish is still fairly rare among older Gaeltacht people. 148 taking shelter from a rainstorm under a decrepit bush, curses the bush for leaking rain on him, whereupon the bush answers him. The poem consists of a dialogue (agallamh beirte) in which the bush relates the history of Ireland from the Flood to the seventeenth century (Ó Coigligh 1987:15-16, 137-48). Seosamh Ó Donnchadha, believing in the 1930s that war was imminent, composed a long poem, “Lá na Fola” (The Day of Blood) graphically describing the coming war. This prophetic poem included detailed descriptions of the use and effects of modern weaponry, based on the poet’s own research (Ó Donnchadha 1983:22-25; 67-71).43 The perceived power of poetic speech as a representational medium may have something to do with the widespread belief in the modern Gaeltacht that it is unlucky to be named in a poem, even if the poem is in one’s praise. It was believed that a woman praised by Raiftearaí died young as a result (Ó Coigligh 1987:21). Symbolic violence Poetry is dangerous because of its endurance as memorable utterance. Poetic satire dramatizes both a natural and a social sanction against wrongdoers. Believed to cause physical harm to its victims, satire more obviously destroys their social standing by “putting a name” on them. Satire is often called cáineadh 43. He later composed another poem, “An Treas Cogadh Domhanda” (The Third World War). 149 (censure) or sciolladh (scolding or abuse). Máirtín Mac Donncha believed that there was more satire than praise in the old days: SC: Meas tú b’in faoi dhaoine is mó a bhí déanamh rudaí mícheart, nó a bhí aisteach ar bhealach, atá... SC: Do you think it was mostly about people who were doing wrong, or were strange in some way [that poetry is composed?] MMD: ba ‘ea, agus ar ndóigh, déanadh amhráin ag moladh daoine freisin. [...] Cumadh ar an dá thaobh iad. [...] Ba mhó cáineadh a déanadh fadó. MMD: It was, and of course, songs were made in praise of people also. They were composed in both ways.44 ...There was more satire [than praise] long ago. As an example of satire, we can look at a song/poem and its accompanying narrative story as told by Máirtín Mac Donncha. It is a mocking satire that the Connemara poet, Colm de Bhailís (1796-1906; cf Denvir 1996) composed against one of his neighbors, Beairtlín Dhomhnaill. The accused had inverted community norms of neighborly cooperation and exchange by allegedly stealing seaweed (used for fertilizer) from the poet’s own strand. 120 miles away from and 80 years after De Bhailís’ death, Máirtín recited the poem to me, telling me when and where it was composed, and described how De Bhailís first performed it at a house party, in the presence of the unfortunate Beairtlín. 44. Literally, “on both sides.” This calls to mind a saying that poets had two sides to their tongues, a rough side and a smooth side. 150 TEXT: Beairtlín An Gadaí (Beairtlín the Thief) 45 [MMD] yeah, bhuel, faoí Choilm de Bhailís. An bhfuil sé ag imeacht a’d? Yeah, about Colm de Bhailís. Do you have it going [the tape recorder]? [SC] Tá, anois. Yes, now. [MMD] Ó, sea. Bhuel, mair sé céad agus deich mbliana, bhí sé dhá mhí gann as céad agus deich. Sin é atá scríobhta sios. ‘S rugadh é seacht déag naocha sé, agus fuair sé bás naoi déag agus a sé. Chuaigh sé thríd an Ocht Céad Déag ar fad. Thrí aimsir an ghorta. Oh yes. Well, he lived a hundred and ten years, he was two months short of a hundred and ten. That is what is written down. And he was born in 1796, and he died in 1906. He lived through the entire eighteenth century. Through the Famine. Agus file a bhí ann agus saor cloch a bhí ann a deir siad, agus bhíodh sé , ag goil ó áit go háit, ag obair, agus chum sé go leor amhrain–chum sé píosa faoi, faoi, Beairtlín Ó Domhnaill, Beairtlín an Gádaí a thugadh air. Bhíodh sé goid––ní goid, ní goid uasach tabhachtach a bhí ann ná an-dona a bhí ann mar a déarfá ní coir an-mhór, ní raibh sé ach goid feamainne an dtuigeann tú. Agus rinne sé píosa spraoí ansin. Oíche a raibh... bhí ceol i dteach. Seod é a chuala mise m’athair a rá. Agus, bhí Beairtlín ann agus bhí a fhios aige gurb’é a bhí ag goid an fheamainn. Agus, thosaigh sé. Agus, Tá seans gurb’é [an choí?] ar dhúirt sé [na linnte?], an dtuigeann tú? And he was a poet, and a stone mason, they say, and he used to [pause] go from place to place, working, and he made a lot of songs––he made a piece about, about Beairtlín Ó Domhnaill, Beairtlín the thief they called him. He used to steal––it wasn’t that important of a theft, or very bad as you’d say. It wasn’t a very great crime, he was only stealing seaweed, do you understand. And he [de Bhailís] made a bit of fun then. One night there was music in a house [i.e., a party]. This is what I heard my father saying. And Beairtlín was there and he knew that it was him that was stealing 45. Recorded 7/97; Máirtín speaks the words to the song rather than sings them here; there is a transcription of this song from Máirtín’s singing in Denvir 1996: 77-79. 151 the seaweed. And he started. And, maybe this is how he said the lines [? unclear] do you understand? [SC] Uh huh [MMD] Agus dúirt sé, eh, And he said, eh, I Scéal atá mé a aithrist i dtír is i dtalamh A story I am relating to country and to land [ie, everywhere] Dhá inseacht do lag is do láidir Telling it to weak and strong Dhá chuir ag an sagart, ‘is as sin go dtí an easpaig, sending it to the priest, and from there to the bishop Agus é sin dhá scríobh ag an bPápa. And he is writing it to the Pope. II Salm na mallacht dhá léamh ar an altóir To read a cursing psalm [anathematize] from the altar Ar aon duine a dhéanfadh coir náireach On anyone who would commit a shameful crime ‘Sé Beairtlín an gadaí is ciontach ar fad leis It is Beairtlín the thief who is to completely blame for it Nuair a robáil sé Bhailís gan ábhar. Since he robbed Bhailís without cause. III Chuaigh sé lá Sathairn ag Colm ag baint chreathnaí He went on Saturday to Colm [‘s place] picking dulse Is ag dul siar dhó ag theach (?) Pheadair Mháirtín And as he was going back to Peadar Mháirtín’s house Bhíodar dhá dhearcadh is dhá thabhairt faoi deara 152 They were watching and noticing him Agus ceaptar gur fear a bhí i mbád é. And they thought it was a man in a boat. IV Ansin labhair Micil Thomáis is dúirt sé le Peadair Then Micil Thomáis spoke and he said to Peadar Gur cosúil le fear é gan náire That he seemed like a man without shame Fagaim ar mo shláinte nach ligfidh mé isteach é ‘I declare by my health that I won’t let him in Mara bhfaighfinnse teagasc níos fearr air. Unless I hear better of him.’ V hÁrdaíodh an fiach roimh is taobh thiar, The hunt was raised before and behind him ‘Is caitheadh é anuas le fána And he/it was thrown downwards ‘Sé a deir Pádraic Ó Bia, ‘Nár fheice mé Dia What Pádraig Ó Bia said: ‘May I not see God Má ligim thar Chuigéal go brách é.’ If I ever let him past Cuigéal again.’ VI ‘Sé a deir mac rua Sheáin Bhreathnach, nuair a d’éirigh sé ar maidin What Seán Bhreathnach’s red-haired son said when he arose in the morning Is dúirt sé le mac Bheairtlín Phádhraic And he said it to Pádhraic Bheairtlín’s son Gur olc an rud gádaí a bheith i measc daoine cneasta 153 That it was an evil thing for a thief to be among honest people Nó titim i bpeaca mar gheall air. Or falling into sin because of it/him VII ‘Sé a deir Páidín Sheáin Bhreathnach ná é a cheangal den tairseach What Páidín Sheáin Bhreathnach said was to tie him to the threshold ‘Is é a choinneáil ansin go dtí amárach And to keep him there until tomorrow Go dtagach muintir Chamais, Ros Muc is Ghlinn Chatha Until the people of Camas, Ros Muc and Gleann Catha come Is nach mbeadh a fhios cé chuirfeadh [chun] báis é. And it wouldn’t be known who would kill him. VIII ‘Sé a deir Caitlín Úna, na beir air ‘s é a phlúchadh What Caitlín Úna said was to catch him and suffocate him Nó é a thabhairt ag an gCrumpán is é a bháthadh Or to take him down to the Crumpán and drown him ‘Ach breathnaigí romhaibh, beidh an costas an-trom ‘Look out, the cost will be very great Is ní íocfaidh an dúiche go brách é.’ And the estate will never pay it.’ IX Bhí Pat Ó Conghaile amuigh ag faire na hoíche Pat Ó Conghaile was out keeping watch all night Go bhfaighfeadh sé aon aifric amháin air So he would get [even] one look at him Ach tá mé ríbhuíoch go Mháirtín Chaitríona 154 But I am very grateful to Máirtín Chaitríona Gur chuir an diabhal críoch is a bhathadh é. That he finished off the devil and drowned him. MMD: [Agus dúirt sé ansin:] MMD:[And then he said:] X Dhá ngéilfeá don teagasc a d’ordaigh Naomh Peadair If you would obey the teaching that Saint Peter ordained Ní bheifeá chomh bradach is atá tú You wouldn’t be as thieving as you are Ghabhfá ar an altóir ‘is ghéillfeá don tsagart You would go up to the altar and submit to the priest Is b’fhéidir go gcuirfeadh Dia an t-ádh ort. And perhaps God would give you prosperity/luck. XI Ach bhí do dhá shúil ag dearcadh ‘s iad ag faire ar Bhailis But your two eyes were looking and watching Bhailís Is muintir an bhaile a bheith trácht ort And [even though] the people of the locality [were] discussing you Scread mhaidne ar an bhfeamainn a ghoid tú ó Bhailis A curse [lit. a morning scream] on the seaweed you stole from Bhailís ‘Sí a d’fhág Beairtlín Gadaí go brach ort. It has left [the name] “Beairtlín the Thief” on you forever. Ach bhí sé ráite an dtuigeann tú, nuair a thánaig sé chomh fada le Beairtlín Dhomnaill an dtuigeann tú sa darna véarsa, gur, gur sheas sé suas agus shiúil sé amach. [laughing] Agus, bhí sé ag tabhairt an scéil, ag inseacht an scéil air fhéin an dtuigeann tú. Dhá bhfánfadh sé ina shuí, bhí Colm de Bhailís chomh cliste an dtuigeann tú agus, agus níor lig sé air 155 fhéin cé a bhí ag togáil an fheamainne an dtuigeann tú? Nuair a luadh ainm, eh, ‘Sé Bheairtlín Ghádaí go brach ort’––shiúil sé amach. Ach níl ansin ach rud beag. But it was said, do you understand, when he got as far as “Beairtlín Dhomnaill” you understand in the second verse, that, that he stood up and walked out (laughing). And, he was giving the sign, telling the story on himself, do you understand. If he stayed seated—Colm de Bhailís was so clever do you understand, and, he never let on [that he knew] who was stealing the seaweed, do you understand? When he said [the] name, eh, “It’s Beairtlín Gadaí on you forever”—he walked out. But that is only a small thing. [SC] But he was able to, he was certainly able to give him a bad name. [MMD] Oh he was, and he put it fairly civilized compared to other things. He wasn’t the worst—they say that Raifterí [‘s satire] was more biting. Discussion of the text Although Máirtín tells a framing story, the song itself frames itself in a complex way, with frames inside frames. In the first verse, the poet, speaking in direct voice, identifies his utterance as a “story” (scéal) which he is projecting out to all the land, and up the ecclesiastical hierarchy all the way to the Pope. The poet explicitly bases the power of his satire on its transmissibility and endurance as a memorable utterance. The utterance is to take the form of writing in the future, returning to the locality as an episcopal letter to be “read from the altar,” pronouncing the guilt of “Beairtlín the Thief.” According to Máirtín’s explanation, it is at this point that Beairtlín stands and walks out of the house where de Bhailís is singing the poem. 156 Verse III begins the embedded “story” proper, shifting into the past tense. This long section presents the imaginary judgment, pursuit, and destruction of Beairtlín. It is this section that establishes the genre of the poem as a whole: the type of satire known as the “hunt” (fiach). The term fiach sometimes appears in titles, e.g. Fiach Sheáin Bhradaigh (The Hunting of Thieving Seán), a satire composed by Raiftearaí against the poet Seán de Búrca (Ó Coigligh 1987:122-28; Denvir 1997:295-96). In this and many similar folk satires, the landscape itself participates in the destruction of the accused, who is “hunted” through various named local places and finally killed. Use of the past tense establishes the “obliqueness” (Mannheim 1987) of this embedded “story” as a virtual scene being shown to the poet’s audience. This audience presumably consists of the poet’s (and Beairtlín’s) neighbors, the very people whose words and actions are represented in the “story.” In it, collective action is mobilized through the spoken judgments of these neighbors; motion through the landscape is represented by a succession of their voices. The poet’s “I” reappears at the end of verse IX to announce Beairtlín’s death by drowning.46 It marks the end of the embedded “story.” Máirtín Mac Donncha’s narration breaks in at this point: “Agus dúirt sé ansin” (“And then he said”). This marks a pragmatic break and transition to the narrated “present” of the poem’s original performance situation. In these last two verses the figure of the poet speaks directly to Beairtlín. 46. These lines could alternatively represent the words of Pat Ó Conghaile. 157 In verse X, the poet speaks to Beairtlín in the counterfactual conditional: if he had “obeyed the teaching that St. Peter ordained” he wouldn’t have committed his crime. The last verse, while still addressed to Beairtlín, refers to “Bhailís” in the third person. One effect of this is suggest that these words project the inner voice of Beairtlín himself, addressing himself and cursing “the seaweed you stole from Bhailís. /It has left ‘Beairtlín the Thief’ on you forever.” In the poem Beairtlín is named as a thief (gadaí) by the clergy, by his own community, and finally by nature, in the form of the seaweed. The seaweed stands for both Beairtlín’s action in stealing it and de Bhailís’ action in satirizing Beairtlín. Satirical poetry lexicalizes its victims. A hundred years later, the Seán Bradach of Raiftearaí’s poem lives on in the speech of Connemara as a byword for banishment or eviction: “I warned them... that she’d put Fiach Sheáin Bhrádaí on them out to the bog” (D’fhuagair mé oru ... go gcuireach sí fiach Sheán Bhradaí oru gon phortach; De Bhaldraithe 1985:194). As Mannheim (1987) demonstrates, poetic form in popular song can be structured in part by regular changes in footing—the alignment, set or projected self of speakers and other parties to interaction (Goffman 1981). In Beairtlín an Gadaí, the last two lines of most verses are relatively voiced compared to the first two lines.47 The first lines are narrative introductions which describe the scene and introduce the speaker(s) of the last lines. This is in keeping with Irish 47. Verses IV, VII, and VIII progress from narrative through indirect and then direct speech. 158 language discourse as a whole, where direct discourse is embedded in narrative, and typically functions as its relatively marked punch line.48 Relative voicing of lines is thus a constitutive principle for the verse organization of the text. Changes in footing are also changes in the functional orientation of language.49 Through such changes, a series of different discourses, situations and interpretive frames are embedded within a single work (Mannheim 1987:268-69). Thus Beairtlín an Gadaí takes the listener through a series of subjective orientations, shifts in point of view. Added to this are the additional layers of discourse in the performance situation, in this case a conversation between Máirtín Mac Donncha and myself. Table 4.1 diagrams shifts in the identity of the projected “I”—just one aspect of the changes in footing in this speech event. 48. This is probably a common discourse phenomenon cross-culturally; Hill (1995) finds that relatively voiced utterances mark dramatic peaks in individual episodes of a Mexicano narrative. 49. E.g., Jakobson’s (1987 [1960]) distinction between the referential, poetic, expressive, conative, metalinguistic and phatic functions of language, in which the dominant focus is towards, respectively, the narrated events, message form, the speaker, the addressee, the code, or the channel of communication (see Mannheim 1987:268). 159 TABLE 4.1: Projected “I” in Beairtlín An Gadaí ‘I’ = MMD, SC: conversation [I] ‘I’ = Colm de Bhailís addresses gathering in the house. [II] impersonal clerical voice; refers to de Bhailís in the third person. [III] beginning of narrative (“scéal”). [IV] ‘I’ = Micil Thomáis [V] ‘I’ = Pádraic Ó Bia [VI] ‘I’ = mac Sheáin Bhreathnach [VII] ‘I’ = Páidín Sheáin Bhreathnach [VIII] ‘I’ = Caitlín Úna [IX] ‘I’ = Colm de Bhailís or possibly Pat Ó Conghaile; refers to de Bhailís in the third person. (end of “scéal”) ‘I’ = MMD “Agus dúirt sé ansin:” (reframing the utterance) [X] ‘I’ = Colm de Bhailís (addresses Beartlín Dhomhnaill) [XI] ‘I’ = Colm de Bhailís (or possibly inner speech of Beartlín Dhomhnaill) ‘I’ = MMD, SC: conversation Lability of the subject, shiftiness of pronouns (Fernandez 1986), has been a feature of Irish-language discourse from medieval bardic poetry to modern novels (Ó Baoill 1990; Ní Annracháin 1994). Although local satirical songs like 160 “Beairtlín an Gadaí” are notable for actually naming speakers within the songtext itself, the more lyrical genres often leave their protagonists completely unnamed. Identities of speakers and their interlocutors, if known at all, are established by accompanying narratives rather than within the songs themselves, leaving much room for allegorical projection of identities (Chapter 8). Songs are sometimes composed by several people. Since a line’s authorship and its speaking voice need not coincide, there is room for great complication of voice within these relatively simple songs. Irish-speakers regularly associate this quality of old songs with the fact that they were composed under the colonial regime when identities and true topics of talk had to be concealed. But this quality in fact predates the colonial era and seems to always have been highly valued. Such poetry creates virtual worlds; in Peirce’s terminology, they are symbolic, and it is up to the listener to make the (indexical) connection to their “true” referents. Some satire works like this; in the case of Beairtlín Dhomhnaill, his own walking out of the performance showed that he had made such a connection, condemning himself. In both medieval and modern poetic traditions, there is a strong relationship between notions of the power of poetic speech and strategies for framing and transmitting poetic voice. Poems are embedded in narratives, and narratives are embedded in poems. This relationship still holds. In performing the poem for me, Máirtín Mac Donncha’s discourse quotes both the voice of the 19th Century poet, De Bhailís, and the voices quoted by De Bhailís. The poem is 161 an object of value not least because it acts as a model and charter for the power of Mac Donncha’s own poetic compositions. Poets are full of other people’s words and voices, and have the power to project these voices into the past and future. The Cat Local satire works by reification, as I discussed in Chapter Two. Objects stand in for persons, as the seaweed stood for de Bhailís in “Beairtlín an Gadaí.” Usually they substitute for the victim rather than the author of a satire. Máirtín Mac Donncha’s best loved composition in Ráth Cairn is a satire on a local man whose cat went missing. The song details the fantastic journey of this cat throughout the country. The cat’s owner had grandiosely claimed it was a “hunting cat” (he used the phrase in English), and Máirtín’s satire exaggerated this quality to the point of absurdity. The cat escapes after breaking its chains in the quarry where it is tethered, the police are sent for, and so on. People love the song not the least because it represents them to themselves. Local people are mentioned and quoted; local places are named. The cat’s journey maps out many of the places a typical Ráth Cairn person would go: Dublin, Navan, Galway, as well as places in Ráth Cairn itself. The intrepid cat is a bit like a Ráth Cairn Everyman, except that its absurdly exaggerated powers are antisocial—it goes joyriding in Navan rather than shopping, for example. This is where the song’s satirical bite comes in, since these qualities of the cat 162 indirectly index those of its owner, who was also a bit antisocial; he seemed to many people to regard himself as being a bit above his neighbors.50 Poetry as high register In France in the summer of 1997, a group of musicians from Ráth Cairn were being treated to a traditional Parisian dinner. We filled ourselves with what we assumed was the main course, only to find that another course followed, and another, and so on, until we were ready to burst. Surely this latest wave of food must be the last. We made an extra effort to show our appreciation of the fine hospitality, the wine and the cooking. Then the first series of desserts appeared. We had been entertaining them all weekend, so it was only fair that they return the favor. The singing started. Eventually one of the hosts, a school teacher by trade, began to occupy center stage. He sang Brel, Piaf, bits of comic opera, and humorous songs he had composed about his friends and colleagues. As we reeled under the assault of food and alcohol, X---- incited our other Parisian hosts to join in a tremendous evening of merriment. Our limited knowledge of French began to fail us. Finally, one of the Ráth Cairn people leaned over to me and said, “I reckon that man has excellent French!” (Tá mé ag ceapadh go bhfuil togha na 50. The song text itself seems quite innocuous to an outsider, but out of respect for the man’s privacy, Máirtín did not want me to name him or include the song text in this dissertation. In fact, the man in question claimed to like the song. His discovery of the song coincided with a remarkable change in his personality and attitude towards others in the community. This transformation may have been caused by certain other factors not related to having been satirized. 163 Fraincise ag an bhfear sin). We laughed, not least because this was such an idiosyncratically Irish notion of “good speech” which includes competence in much more than is usually thought of as “language.” Our hosts predictably failed to comprehend this observation when we translated it to them. Were we complementing X’s grammar? His accent? His command of Standard French? Another reason why we laughed is that My friend’s crack about “excellent French” was “something Máirtín Sheáinín would say” (rud a déarfadh Máirtín Sheáinín). Máirtín Mac Donncha, Ráth Cairn’s poet, would surely have recognized X as a fellow virtuoso. In Irish-speaking communities, poets are said to have “the best Irish” (togha na Gaeilge), an all-encompassing if not supernatural knowledge of the Irish language. In contrast to the Chomskian notion of the ideal speaker-hearer as the embodiment an abstract system of formal grammar, one of the main measures of this knowledge is a poet’s rhetorical ability to create and transform communal social relations in performance, as X was doing for us in Paris that night. Poetry emerges out of everyday speech through a series of gradual transitions. The classical and Celtic scholar George Thompson wrote that on the Great Blasket Island off the coast of Kerry, “and likewise throughout the fíorGhaeltacht,” poetry was spun into the people’s speech. There were three levels of speech—everyday speech, poetic speech and poetry per se. Prose poems [in the literature written by Blasket people] are examples of poetic speech. They used to move from everyday speech to poetic speech without effort or reflection. They wouldn’t often go so far as to compose a new extempore poem, although they did so, if they 164 were moved to do so; and of course, some were better speakers than others (Mac Tomáis 1977:14; my translation). Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s novel Cré na Cille contains many representations of such “poetic speech” (Chapter 7). Ó Madagáin (1985) gives several examples of what he maintains is a formerly widespread practice whereby, with increasing emotion, speech becomes more rhythmic and melodic, taking the form of extempore song in extreme cases. A variety of techniques are used to give poetic texture to speech. Proverbs, widely known and used in everyday speech (Ó Máille 1948; Bourke [Partridge] 1978), are often miniature poems and embody many qualities which are valued in poetry—compression, irony, alliteration, rhyme, etc. Many originated as lines of poetry (de hÍde n.d.) and in turn are quoted in poems. Similar are the variety of everyday formulaic greetings, prayers blessings and charms (Ó Fínneadha 1993), and so on, along with children’s verbal games and riddles. At a simpler linguistic level are alliterative, rhyming, or onomatopoeic couplets which are often metaphorical. An example is the phrase fite fuaite,51 meaning “woven into;” phrases like this are themselves woven into speech. More basic is the expressive lexicon which includes many locally coined words as well as common words with additional local meanings (Ó Máille 1974). Poetic epithets, like “Ráth Cairn Glas na Mí,” are also common in heightened speech. The phrase “Ráth Cairn Glas na Mí” comes from a song composed by the Connemara broadcaster, Ciarán 51. f’it’∂ fu∂t’∂, literally “woven-bound.” 165 Ó Fátharta (Ó Conghaile, 1987:46), and is almost untranslatable, meaning something like “Ráth Cairn, the green [i.e., the pride, secret, most precious part] of County Meath.” During heightened social occasions in the Gaeltacht I have often heard, and haltingly participated in, a style of conversation in which both the poetic element and a certain agonistic impulse develops among the participants. This style is sometimes called cruachomhrá (“hard conversation,” based on the term cruachaint). It develops from individually heightened expression to the direct answering with rhyming comebacks or witty summations of the other’s words. The next step is the exchange of insult poetry, usually in the form of lúibíní (the term means small turns or loops). Verses have fixed, repeated lines, sometimes of “nonsense” (raiméis) syllables, which frame one or more unique, improvised lines. Much of this poetry is associated with women in the tradition, originating as improvised work-songs with the fixed lines sung in chorus (Nic Eoin 1998). Singers can direct verses at innocent bystanders, attempting to draw them in to the fray: Agus óró a mhíle grá, nach bhfeiceann tú an fear sa gclúid agus ribín ar a cheann. Agus óró mhíle mhíle grá is óró a mhíle grá. And oh, my thousand loves, Don’t you see the man by the fire with a ribbon on his head. And oh, my thaousand thousand loves and oh my thousand loves. This was from a performance occasion in Dublin and referred to a man wearing a ponytail. 166 Often these verses have salacious or obscene lyrics. An entire series of them was composed, over a few months’ time in Ráth Cairn, about the Bishop of Galway, after he admitted in 1992 to having an illegitimate son as a result of a long-term affair with an American woman. á baba bú agus á baba búna, bhí bod Éamon Casey chomh mór le fód móna is á baba bú agus á baba búna. á baba bú agus á baba búna, Éamon Casey’s prick was as large as a sod of turf is á baba bú agus á baba búna. á baba bú agus á baba búna, Rith sé ina diaidh thar timpeall an seomra is á baba bú agus á baba búna. á baba bú agus á baba búna, He ran after her around the room is á baba bú agus á baba búna. The most developed form of poetic duel involves an exchange of entire poems—a process that could be extended over days or even years. Famous examples of this were the very nasty satires exchanged by Raiftearaí and his rivals, the Ó Callanáin brothers (Ó Coigligh 1987). Máirtín Mac Donncha maintained that even though they were far harsher than modern satires, most of them were nothing more than harmless “pastimes:” MMD: Bhuel is dóigh gur caitheamh aimsire a bhí ann, an dtuigeann tú. Agus ag freagairt a chéile. Níos mó ná tada eile. An dtuigeann tú. Bheadh amhrán––deir siad go raibh na Callanáin, Peatsaí Ó Callanán agus Raiftearaí, go mbíodh siad ag sciolladh ar a chéile. Agus ag cumadh amhráin faoina chéile. Chumadh tusa cupla vearsa fúmsa inniu, agus ag sciolladh ormsa faoi rud ecínt, agus chumainnse an tseachtain seo chugainn píosa fút arís, rud ecínt a chuala mé fút agus, “go mbítheá ag 167 dul thart agus do mhála ar do dhroim” nó rud ar bith, an dtuigeann tú, a d’fhéadfá a rá fút an dtuigeann tú... go mbítheá ag goid bainbh, nó rud a bhfaighfeá, deis ar bith an dtuigeann tú. Ach, bhí sé go maith mar sin fhéin. MMD: Well it was probably just a pastime, do you understand. And answering one another. More than anything else. There would be a song—they said that the Callanáins, Peatsaí Ó Callanáin and Raiftearaí, that they used to berate each other. And compose songs about each other. You would make a few verses about m e today, scolding me about something, and I’d compose something about you next week, something I heard about you and, that you used to go around with your pack on your back or anything, do you understand, I could say about you you understand... that you were stealing piglets or anything I could get [on you], any chance at all do you understand. But, it was good all the same. Máirtín often told me that it was important in performance was to connect to people in the audience, to look around and see who’s there and make reference to them in some way, to draw them in. In this bit of conversation he uses mention of “going around with a pack” as an example of something a poet could use in a satirical poem. One of Raiftearaí’s satires, “Fiach Sheáin Bhradaigh” (Ó Coigligh 1987:122), used exactly this image, which connotes poverty, rootlessness and suspect morals, e.g., Níl maith á cheilt ná ag déanamh rúin air ós caint í a dúradh is a chuaigh i gcosard, gach ní dá ngoidtear ó Áth Cinn go Tuamhain go bhfaighfeá a thuairisc in ualach Sheáin . There’s no use hiding it or making it a secret since it is talk that was spoken openly everything that is stolen from Headford to Tuam you’d discover its tidings in Seán’s load. 168 “Going around with a pack” is exactly what I was known for doing, since I carried my set of Uilleann pipes in a decrepit backpack, much to the amusement of people in Ráth Cairn. By mentioning this, Máirtín was both making reference to the tradition and picking up on a readily accessible bit of my own public image. Irish satire works very much like Asturian satire as described by Fernandez (1986:85): through “what we might call ‘metonymic misrepresentation’—by moving to take the part of the person for the whole.” Related to the exchange of satirical poems is the highly regarded genre of verse-dialogue, the agallamh beirte. Raiftearaí’s dialogue with the bush and indeed Oisín’s poetic conversation with Saint Patrick (based on the medieval text, Acallam na Senórach, mentioned above) live on in the tradition. In these works the personal, agonistic impulse is often transcended in the course of the poetic conversation, making them “life-changing dialogues” (Attinasi and Friedrich 1995) on high philosophical, historical and religious topics. They can also take the form of humorous sketches representing encounters between stereotypically portrayed local characters. The image of two persons conversing or arguing in verse lies behind the agallamh beirte genre. It is often said of legendary poets that “they only spoke in verse” (Ó hÓgáin 1982). This reflects a belief in their supernatural powers of speech, and also a feeling that poetry is the highest form of discourse. Lyric songs, even monologues, are commonly represented in the tradition as having been composed extemporaneously (Ó Madagáin 1985). The association of verse- 169 forms with the highest registers of speech is still very strong among Irishspeakers. Poetic texts function as high register not only in their composition, but also in their remembrance and performance. Ó Coigligh (1987:35) mentions two intriguing comments about Raiftearaí, made by people in the poet’s locale, that demonstrate this: There used to be great talk of the Fianna; and everyone had the poems about them till Raftery came, and he put them out. For when the people got Raftery’s songs in their heads, they could think of nothing else: his songs put out everything else. This is very high praise, since the poems and stories of the Fiannaíocht were typically a storyteller’s most prized possessions (Delargy 1945). Not just texts but poets themselves are living examples of valued forms of speech. Local people credited poets like Raiftearaí with maintaining the prestige of the Irish language: [Ba ‘é Raiftearaí] an fear ab fhearr a bhí sa tír seo a choinnigh an Ghaeilge ar fáil i gcónaí riamh agus ó shoin. Is iomaí sin duine a gcloisfeá caint aige i dtaobh Raiftearaí agus i dtaobh an chaint a bhí aige ag gabháil thart na bóithre. Bhí an chaint go maith aige agus bhí an chaint go holc aige agus bhí se go barrúil. [Raiftearaí was] the best man ever in this country for keeping Irish going. You would hear many people talking about Raiftearaí and about the talk that he had, going along the roads. He had the good talk and he had the bad talk and he was witty (Quoted in Ó Coigligh 1987:35). Here, Raiftearaí is thought of as the complete speaker of Irish, having both “good” and “bad” talk (praise and satire). Not only did he “have” the talk but he knew how to use it socially; Raiftearaí was witty (barrúil). Irish speakers seem to 170 concur with linguists and anthropologists (Jakobson 1987, Friedrich 1979, 1986; Mannheim 1986; Sherzer 1987) who locate the social life of grammar in verbal art, rather than seeing verbal art as an extension or distortion of grammar. Irish speakers also locate both grammar and verbal art in persons. And grammar (i.e., language in its canonical and normative form), being embodied in specific works of specific persons, is felt to survive those persons as a living presence in the talk of today’s speakers. As we have seen, the poetic tradition as well as the composition of poetic texts themselves encode situations and points of view. The tradition transmits culturally valued forms embedded in culturally salient social contexts. Two songs by Máirtín Mac Donncha It is commonly said that songs have údair—stories, reasons and occasions for their composition (see Chapter 8). Gaeltacht poets often compose in response to what the Russian poet Mayakovsky (1985:29) described as “[t]he presence in society of a problem which can only conceivably be solved through a work of poetry. A social command.” Satires like “Beairtlín an Gadaí” or Máirtín’s own song about the cat are both responses to trivial events which had non-trivial implications for the local communities in question. They use humor and irony to foreground and exaggerate the triviality of the events, and also create an image of the community itself. 171 Poetry is also socially required on occasions of death and commemoration. Two of Máirtín’s poems are responses to such occasions. Darach Ó Catháin was a well-loved sean-nós singer, one of the original founders of Ráth Cairn who emigrated to Leeds. He became nationally prominent through his performances with Seán Ó Riada, a classically-trained composer who used traditional musicians and musical forms. Ó Riada’s band, Ceoltóirí Chualann, led the revival of traditional Irish music in the 1960s. Máirtín regards “Caoineadh Dharach Uí Chatháin” (Lament for Darach Ó Catháin) as a “sean-nós” song, because of its style: a poetic elegy sung slowly with ornamentation to a traditional air. The same air is used in Ráth Cairn to sing Raiftearaí’s lament for Tomás Ó Dálaigh (Ó Coigligh 1987:130-32); a line of Máirtín’s song echoes a line of this earlier song. Caoineadh Dharach Uí Chatháin52 I Is a Dharach Uí Chatháin, tá tú imithe ag ligean do scíth’. Bhí meas i chuile áit ort, i Ráth Cairn, in Éirinn, is i Leeds, Thú fhéin is an Riadach thug sibh ceol dúinn a chroch suas ár gcroí, Ach anois, táimid brónach ó síneadh do chnámha sa gcill. Darach Ó Catháin, you are gone to your repose, You were respected everywhere, in Ráth Cairn, in Ireland, in Leeds, You and Ó Riada, you gave us music that lifted our hearts, But now we are sorrowful since your bones were laid in the graveyard. 52. Text published in Ó Conghaile 1990:148; my translation. 172 II Nach muid a bhí cráite an lá ar tháinig an scéal sin as Leeds, Mar choinnigh tú ag caint linn cén chás ach bhí tú an-tinn, Anois tá tú in éineacht le na hAingle i bhFlaitheas na Naomh, I gcathair na ngrásta i lár Pharthais go mbeidh tú i do shuan. Didn’t we grieve the day that story came to us from Leeds For you kept talking to us even though you were very ill, Now you are together with the angels in the saints’ heaven, in the city of graces in the middle of paradise where you will rest. III Is má tá sean-nós sna flaithis beidh coróin ort is tú a bheas i do Rí, Beidh na hAingle i do thimpeall, Naomh Peadar, Naomh Pádraig, ‘s Naomh Bríd, Casfaidh tú stéibh dóibh go hálainn amach ó do chroí, Is dá mbeadh Corn Uí Riada ann, is tú an chéad duine a gheobhfadh as braon. And if there is sean-nós in heaven you’ll wear the crown and be the king, The angels will surround you, Saint Peter, Saint Patrick and Saint Bríd, You’ll sing them a verse beautifully from your heart, And if Corn Uí Riada were there, you would be the first to get a drop from it. IV Agus bíonn mise ag smaoineamh ar an saol a bhíodh againn fadó, Mar shásódh tú daoine nuair a shiúilfá isteach i dteach ceoil, Chas tú go binn agus tugadh an chluas do do ghlór, Is nach dtabharfaí anois mílte dá bhfanfá ar an saol. And I am thinking about the life we had long ago, For you would stand people [a drink] when you walked into a music house [a session], You sang sweetly and your voice was listened to [an ear was given to your voice], And wouldn’t they give thousands if you would stay in this world. 173 V Is nach aisteach an saol seo is nach mairg nach mbaineann as spóirt, Ní mhaireann éinne ach píosa is dúirt Darach é go minic go leor, Mar b’fhearr leis fhéin oíche ag siamsaíoch, casadh amhrán is ceol, Ná saibhreas na Ríthe, ná málaí a bheadh lán suas le hór. And isn’t this life strange and isn’t it a shame it isn’t enjoyed, Nobody lives but a while and Darach said that very often, For he would rather have a night of entertainment, song and music, Than the wealth of the Kingdoms, the sacks that would be full up with gold. VI Anois críochnóidh mé an caoineadh, tá sé brónach is tá Darach faoin bhfód, Dhá bhean is dhá chlann dhílis ó lasadh tú soilse go leor, Nuair a thiocfas an lá cairde beidh muide in éineacht leat fós, Cuirfidh tú romhainn míle fáilte agus imeoidh an t-uaigneas ‘s an brón. Now I will finish the lament, it is sad with Darach under the sod, To his wife and his faithful family, oh you would light many lights, When the day of reckoning comes we will still be with you yet, You will give us a thousand welcomes and the loneliness and sadness will go. In this very affecting lament Máirtín uses shifts of voicing to make statements that are both immediately personal and represent a general community point of view. He frequently shifts between first person singular and plural pronouns and between directly addressing Darach Ó Catháin and speaking of him in the third person, especially in verse VI. In the first three verses the poet speaks for Ráth Cairn as a whole, very formally praising him and announcing our sorrow at his death. Verse I contrasts the image of Darach lifting our hearts with song with that of his bones being stretched in the grave. This 174 juxtaposition of vivid images of life and death is typical of laments in Ireland and in Europe in general (cf. Seremetakis 1991). Verse II praises Ó Catháin for keeping in touch in spite of emigration, fame, and illness. This establishes Ó Catháin as a true member of the community in Ráth Cairn. The last line of verse directly echoes a line in Raiftearaí’s lament for Tomás Ó Dálaigh. Although such phraseology appears in many poetic laments, the fact that the air is the same and that both songs lament musicians seems to indicate a real connection to the older poem. Such echoes are a valued feature of the poetic tradition. At this point the scene shifts to Ó Catháin’s new community in Heaven with the saints and angels. In verse III Máirtín adds a personal touch to the standard invocations of a place in heaven after death, by imagining Darach leading singing sessions there! This continues the trope of parallels between Ráth Cairn and heaven. In the next two verses the song shifts into the first person to address the philosophy of life behind the sean-nós tradition. Generosity with drink and performance, and especially with one’s own time are the guiding principles of this philosophy. Verse IV sharpens the contrast between such a life and worldly concerns into a matter of principle—the comparative value of (heavenly) sociality versus the mundane worth of this world. It is here that Máirtín first mentions Darach Ó Catháin in the third person, implicitly changing his footing to address his here and now audience, the people of Ráth Cairn for whom he has composed 175 the song. The terms of the lament are widened; now Máirtín laments that even worldly life is not enjoyed as it should be. Verse VI begins with a variation on a conventional poetic ending, where the poet addresses the audience and complains that the song would be longer or better if he or she was younger, more knowledgeable, a better poet, “more able with a pen,” and so on. In Máirtín’s case, he must finish because, with Darach freshly buried, the song is too sad. This sadness by now stands both for the loss of Darach and for the painful fissure between this world, which people do not know how enjoy, and the otherworld, where Darach waits to greet us and lift our spirits on the Day of Reckoning. Amhrán Ráth Cairn (The Song of Ráth Cairn)53 I Beidh clú is cáil is caint go brách ar Ghaeilgeoirí na Mí, Nuair a osclaíodh an t-Áras istigh san áit agus séipéal lena thaobh, Bhí an beár go breá is na piontaí lán is na leads dhá scaoileadh síos, Bhí an ceol go hálainn ag fliúit ‘s ag cairdín, Jimmy Nana ag daimhsiú ríl. There will be fame and talk forever on the Irish-speakers of Meath, When the Hall was opened there in the place and the church by its side, The bar was fine and the pints were full and the lads were drinking them down, The music of flute and accordion was beautiful, Jimmy Nan was dancing a reel. 53. Published in Ó Conghaile 1990:150; my translation. 176 II ‘S anois ó tháthar caoga bliain san áit an taobh eile seo den tír, Tá an talamh an-bhreá is d’fheicfeá an féar ag fás, níl raithneach ann ná fraoch, Níl caint ar asail ná ar chapaill, slabhraí nó aon ní, Tá an t-earrach déanta in aon lá amháin le tractor is machine. And now that they are fifty years in the place on this other side of the country, The land is very fine and you can see the grass grow, there are no ferns there or heather, There is no talk of asses or horses, harnesses or anything, The sowing is done in just one day with a tractor and a machine. III Is nach mór an spórt le cloisteáil fós an Ghaeilge ann go binn, Ag sean is óg ag beag is mór, ag catach, rua is maol, Thuas i bhflaitheas Dé tá go leor den té a choinnigh an Ghaeilge beo ina gcroí, Is ní daoine móra ná lucht eolais Airí Gaeltacht’ ná T.D.’s. And isn’t it great to still hear the Irish spoken sweetly, By old and young, by small and large, by curly-haired, red-haired and bald, Up in God’s heaven are a lot of the people who kept Irish alive in their hearts, And they aren’t famous people or the learned, Ministers of the Gaeltacht or T.D.’s. IV Tá uisce go leor imithe le sruth ó thánadar don Mhí, Aniar na bóithrí ar lorries móra agus busanna thar maoil, Bhíodar ann as chuile cheard, ón Spidéal go Tír an Fhia, Tá duine amháin fágtha fós den seandream ann, sin í Máire Jim Mhicí. A lot of time has gone by [lit, a lot of water has gone down stream] since they came to Meath, From the west on the roads in great lorries and overflowing buses, They were there from everywhere from Spidéal to Tír an Fhia, There is one of them still left of the old crowd, Máire Jim Mhicí. 177 V Is dá bhfaighinnse am ‘s spás ón mbás ó chuirfinn orthu síos, D’inseoinn scéalta agus chumfainn véarsaí faoi Ghaeltacht bheag na Mí, Tá súil le Mac Dé ag ceiliúr an chéid go mbeidh an tír seo ar fad saor, Is go mbeidh an té tá Gallda, imithe thar sáile, is í fágtha ag na Gaeil. And if I had the time and the place from death [if I lived long enough] I would describe them, I would tell tales and compose verses about Meath’s small Gaeltacht, I hope to God’s Son at the celebration of the hundredth [anniversary] that this country will be completely free, That the person who is Gallda [foreign] will have left across the ocean, and it [the country] will be left to the Gaels. This song was composed for Ráth Cairn’s 50th anniversary celebrations in 1985.54 The poet assumes a narrator role and celebrates the achievements of Ráth Cairn’s people and the fine life “this other side of the country.” Máirtín’s poem goes beyond conventional celebration of place, though, taking pointed issue with the self-congratulatory rhetoric of government officialdom which is a standard feature of official commemoration. He focuses on the people’s celebration instead, pointing out that the people who kept the language alive weren’t “famous people or the learned, Ministers of the Gaeltacht or T.D.’s (Teachtaí Dála, members of the Dáil, the Irish parliament).” The last line of the poem refers most immediately to the ending of British rule in Northern Ireland, but there are other references as well. The phrase “na Gaill” is used in most Gaeltacht areas to refer to Protestants, but “gallda” functions as the opposite of “gaelach,” and 54. Raidió na Gaeltachta held a competition for the best song commemorating Ráth Cairn’s anniversary. 178 refers to those who are not Irish speaking or sympathetic to traditional or Irishspeaking ways. Thus “an té atá gallda” can also refer to English speakers—to the same “famous people or the learned, Ministers of the Gaeltacht or T.D.’s” mentioned earlier as not keeping the language alive. Máirtín’s song is a fairly pointed response to the general milieu of Ráth Cairn’s 50th anniversary celebrations. This is in keeping with an observation I heard expressed fairly often in Ráth Cairn, that it was the people themselves—the members of Muintir na Gaeltachta, who agitated for the project, and those who gave up their places in Connemara to move East—who created Ráth Cairn. Both of these songs do what Irish poetry has always done, to hold the actual up to the ideal. This comparison is not a Platonic one, but comes out of a sense of time and history (Hanssen 1998:44). The ideal is manifested in a social order which existed and will exist again. Elements of it can be discovered in the here-and-now, revealing themselves in signs, in moments of high sociality and in exceptional individuals. Máirtín’s song for Ráth Cairn shows these elements revealing themselves in images of harmony between people, nature and technology, and then very pointedly reminds us that these elements, enjoyable as they are, pertain to a future society that has not yet been achieved. The lament for Darach Ó Catháin both describes and embodies the social and emotional order of sean-nós (Chapter 8). In its poetics of loss, we are stranded in history between past and future reunions, and “as Darach often said,” our emotional duty is to come together and “get enjoyment out of life” 179 (spraoí a bhaint as an saol). Máirtín’s song itself acts to recreate the image of Darach and the sociality that Darach helped create, because it will be sung in future gatherings, along with the sad songs of loss that Darach himself sang. Conclusion In this chapter I have tried to show the historical complexity of Irish ways of construing the effectiveness of poetic speech as social action. I have suggested that these ideologies are intimately related to practices involving the construction of voice, first as an archaized “oral” stratum in the medieval manuscript tradition, then as embedded direct speech in the compositions of nineteenth and twentieth century Gaeltacht poets. The Irish poetic tradition is constituted as such through the construction of particular personal voices. As is demonstrated by (among others) Bauman (1992), Friedrich (1986, 1996, 1997), Hanks (1996), and the writings in Silverstein and Urban’s (1996) collection, the use of direct voice is a typical constitutive principle, not just of poetry but of textuality in general. On the most mundane level, this amounts to saying little more than that “texts” are typically associated with “authors.” But particular cultures go far beyond this in their elaborations of specific practices and beliefs about authorship and textual authority in general. As I show in Chapter 8, these practices and beliefs about authorship have their counterparts in practices and beliefs involving the performance of poetic texts. As a whole, these textual practices engage with a felt sense of the material or substantial nature of 180 language as constitutive of human sociality (Jakobson 1987). This dissertation thus contributes, in a small way, to a better understanding of the historical development of what Jameson (1981) termed “the ideology of form” in Irishspeaking culture. Such a felt sense of the essential nature of human speech is coordinate with what Friedrich (1986:39) identifies as the master trope of poetry: the creation of “felt consubstantiality between music, language and myth.” In Irish-language poetry, these elements are strongly identified with particular voices which function as sound-images of persons. We should consider this in the context of practices of quotation and imitation (Chapter 6) and beliefs about the corporeal origins of poetic speech and its power as a visionary medium. As I show in Chapter 8, participants in Irish performance traditions thus feel themselves in the immediate presence of a series of other selves who are otherwise removed in space and time from the occasion of performance. Study of Irish performance traditions should thus help answer Fogelson’s (1982) call for the systematic crosscultural examination of ethno-theories of the self and personality. CHAPTER FIVE REPOSSESSION Now my ancestors was born living in Meath, in the richest part of Ireland, when Cromwell came. And because they wouldn’t give in to his whims, he said “to Hell or Connacht.” That means, at that time he thought that anybody who went to Connacht would die of starvation. So instead of killing them, he reckoned he could give them a slow death, while sending them to Connacht. So they put all their belongings on their back—that’s all they were allowed to take—and made their way to Connacht and built their houses near the sea, because their only hope was the sea and fishing. (Joe Heaney, 78-15.1) Ur-history Throughout its many historical transformations, the Irish sovereignty myth has had aesthetic, historical/political, and ritual functions. It had a great influence on modern Irish nationalism through the works of Synge, Yeats, Pádraig Pearse and many others in the years immediately prior to the Easter Rising of 1916. Originally associated with the discourse of court poets, it lives on in the popular imagination of Irish-speaking communities. Independently of the long-dead institutions of kingship, it animates rituals of community reproduction and imaginative correspondences between images of ideal sociality and images of the otherworld. The agitation for land and the move to Ráth Cairn in the 1930s reanimated many of these images. As we saw in Chapter 4, they continue to recur in the poetry of Ráth Cairn. 181 182 In Walter Benjamin’s philosophy of history, popular consciousness weds such images to hopes for the future: “In the dream in which every epoch sees in images the epoch that follows, the latter appears wedded to elements of urhistory, that is, of a classless society” (quoted in Buck-Morss 1989:114). Popular consciousness is thus engaged dialectically with the ideological uses of these same images for the legitimation of domination. The ideology of sacral kingship in medieval Ireland, as expressed in the sovereignty myth and elsewhere, created idealized images of hierarchy rather than of equality, an imagined social order which was justified and made sacred by its resemblance to and harmony with the otherworld (síd). We have no direct access to popular (non-elite) consciousness under the Gaelic political regime, and thus no real way of knowing to what extent images of the otherworld may have allowed these classes to imagine a life free from domination. In the modern folklore that we do have access to, there is plenty of evidence that the otherworld performs such functions for the Irish rural subaltern classes (Bourke 1997). Benjamin traced the life of utopian “wish-images” in popular consciousness in modernity. He saw in the popular consciousness of urbanity a continuation and revival of medieval and folk consciousness. In Ireland it is not wise to artificially separate rural from urban life, or “folk” from “modern” consciousness. For a long time, Gaeltacht people have moved between these 183 worlds fairly freely.1 An example is the great storyteller from Carna (in the Connemara Gaeltacht), Éamon a Búrc (1866-1942), who spent time in Minnesota as a teenager, returning after breaking his leg while hopping a freight train. His experiences were refracted in his telling of traditional tales, including one where he “aims sly digs at city people, their credulity, dependence on money, and standards of hygiene” (Bourke 1998:89-91). The creative imagination of Gaeltacht people belies the role assigned to them in the discourses of the Irish nation-state, as people living in the past, as the embodiment of Ireland’s heritage rather than its future. In the Irish Gaeltacht, an allegorical aesthetic analogous to that of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century European Baroque collided headlong with the modern phenomena of colonialism, political economy and the nation-state. The aesthetics of Irishspeaking discourse lives on, not as a holdover from a less developed past, but as an alternative way of imagining and confronting European modernism, a different mode of “imagining” the social order. In this chapter, I trace the social life of utopian imagery in popular images of Ráth Cairn and in Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s political oratory. Ó Cadhain’s rhetoric turned this imagery in on itself, developing a critique of the discourse of the nation-state that was rooted in his experience as an Irish speaker from the Gaeltacht. 1. In 1954 Máirtín Ó Cadhain (1998:133) maintained that due to a hundred years of continual migration, the people of the Gaeltacht were far more “modern” than those of any other rural community in Ireland. 184 Poetry, prophecy and history As we saw in Chapter 4, poetry in Ireland has historically expressed what Ó Buachalla (1996:461) calls a “native ideology of kingship” based on the ideas “that the prosperity of the land and its people depended on the institution of kingship and that there was a direct correlation between public welfare and the person of the king himself.”2 This ideology is grounded in myths of a golden age of right rule, and in messianic prophecies of savior-kings who will restore the social and natural order of Ireland. The reign of the mythical king Cormac Mac Airt is portrayed in poetry and folklore as a golden age which is immanent in the present, felt by man and nature as a lack, the presence of an absence: ...there was no king of Ireland like him before or since, and there won’t be again until the country is free and gaelach like it was when the man I am going to tell this story about was alive... When a cow lies down she always sighs. They say the reason that she sighs is that she is lamenting the life led by cows in Cormac’s time... When people here say that life is good, they say, ‘It’s the life of Cormac’ (quoted in Ó Buachalla 1996:467).3 The ideal order of Mac Airt’s reign “replicated the paradisal bliss of the síd/otherworld” (Ó Buachalla 1989:214). The cosmologically immanent Irish otherworld was equated in medieval thought with the biblical Promised Land 2. My translation. 3. agus ní raibh a leithéid de rí ar Éirinn roimhe ná ina dhiaidh agus ní bheidh arís go mbeidh an tír saor Gaelach mar do bhí sí nuair a bhí an fear a bhfuil mé chun an scéilín seo a inseacht faoi beo... Nuair a luíonns an bhó i gcónaí ligeann sí osna. Deir siad gurb é an t-ábhar a ligeann sí an osna ag caoineadh an tsaoil a bhíodh ag ba in aimsir Chormaic... Nuair atá muintir na háite seo ag rá go bhfuil an saol maith ann, ‘tá saol Chormaic ann’, aderid. 185 (Tír Tairngire). A whole range of prophecies developed, as Irish fortunes declined, about future savior-kings such as Aodh Eanghach, a figure who appears in Irish literature from the tenth to the seventeenth centuries (Ó Buachalla 1989:200). Court poets used prophecy to glorify their kings, discovering signs linking them to prophesied hero-kings. Thus, “bardic poetry from the thirteenth to the seventeenth century repeatedly and continuously identified different personages as Aodh Eanghach” (Ó Buachalla 1989:220). The course of the siege of Limerick in the late seventeenth century was altered by the appearance of Aodh “Ball Dearg” Ó Domhnaill, a military leader who was popularly believed to be the incarnation of a prophesied hero-king, Ball Dearg, identified by a red mark on his body. On the basis of this belief he accumulated thousands of followers. As Ó Buachalla (1989:223) observes, in this case the myth of the savior-king had an immediate political as well as an aesthetic import: In the totality of sources pertaining to Ball Dearg (contemporaneous reports, state papers, contemporary poetry, folklore), myth and history, literature and politics, mesh indistinguishably. We are no longer dealing with a mythological topos or a literary conceit but with myth being actualized as history, with the prophetic ‘word’ becoming flesh and dwelling among the chosen people. In him past history, present reality, and future hopes conjoined as he transcended the present and invoked the past to lead his followers to a new dispensation. The historical Aodh “Ball Dearg” Ó Domhnaill failed to live up to the prophecy and died in Spain in 1904 after selling out to the Williamite forces. But popular 186 tradition has it that he didn’t die at all, but remains sleeping in a cave, and when he wakes from his sleep he will free Ireland once and for all (Ó Buachalla 1996:451-52). Prophetic longing for the hero-king was complemented by poetic visions of the goddess of Sovereignty, the other half of the sacred union. Such visions were the staple of the political aisling (dream-vision) genre, which flourished in the 18th Century and was associated with the Jacobite movement. Typically in these poems the poet gives a first-person account of meeting a woman from the otherworld. He meets her while wandering in a lonely place and/or while dreaming. He describes her beauty and reports a conversation with her in which he tries to guess her name. She reveals to him her true identity, i.e., Ireland (Éire), lamenting her distressed condition at the hands of foreigners and in the absence of her true king. Finally she prophesies his coming, or the arrival of relief for Ireland from overseas (Ó Buachalla 1996:528-30). The aisling genre is very important to this day in Irish-speaking discourse. Not only are many of the songs still sung in the Gaeltacht, but the genre is fundamental to singers’ understandings of the song tradition as a whole (Chapter 9). On the other hand, although Gaeltacht poets still occasionally compose within the framework of the aisling genre, other ways of imagining the ideal social order seem to be more vital. Rather than summoning hero or goddess figures as embodiments of idealized sociality, poetry and heightened discourse come up with images of the community as an otherworld, or with otherworldly 187 qualities. In a sense this reflects the democratization of utopian hopes in the framework of the Irish nation-state. In Benjamin’s view, changes in imaginative images of the ideal social order are motivated by changes in political and technological history. Thus the decline of the native aristocracy, colonization, processes of “modernization,” and the achievement of an independent nationstate were all analyzed (and sometimes anticipated) in the imagery of popular culture. Throughout its changes such imagery has consistently drawn on tropes of the native Irish otherworld (síd). This chapter will explore a dialectical tension between popular consciousness and dominant ideologies in modern Ireland—a tension that is played out in popular political movements. Return from the West On the afternoon of Good Friday 1934, more than a dozen men from Connemara in the west of Ireland set off on bicycles towards the east. Traveling at night to avoid interception by the police, they headed for Dublin, where they demanded to meet with the Taoiseach, Eamon De Valera. The cyclists, members of Muintir na Gaeltachta,4 presented a set of demands, one of which was that good land in the wealthy eastern part of the newly created Irish state be given to poor Irish-speaking inhabitants of the Connemara Gaeltacht. This demand was eventually met, in part. Connemara people were allocated land as part an ongoing redistribution in which large estates were divided among the rural poor. 4. The Connemara-based radical political organization—see Chapter 2. 188 Ráth Cairn in County Meath became the first and most successful of three Gaeltacht “colonies” created by the Land Commission in the 1930s. From the Government’s point of view, Ráth Cairn was part of a national effort to revive the Irish language, which, although spoken only by a small minority of Irish citizens, was widely regarded as a foundation stone of Irish national identity. The cyclists on Good Friday, however, saw things differently. According to a story that is often mentioned in Ráth Cairn (Mac Donncha 1986), when De Valera asked representatives of Muintir na Gaeltachta how he should explain the Ráth Cairn resettlement scheme to the people of Meath, Máirtín Ó Cofaigh answered “Tell them that Cromwell sent us west and that now we are returning.”5 They were claiming a right to the place as descendants of the original inhabitants of the east, driven west across the Shannon by Cromwell’s plantations in the 17th Century. Although they traveled only about 150 miles, the settlers of Ráth Cairn found themselves in an entirely different world. Many had not been further east than Galway city and some, from offshore islands, had never set foot on the mainland. They traded one kind of isolation for another, for the new community was surrounded by English-speakers. One old woman is said to have been worried that after she died she wouldn’t have enough English to be able to speak to her fellow corpses in the Athboy churchyard. A few families chose to return almost immediately. Each household was given a house, outbuildings, stock, and 5. Abair leo, gur chuir Cromail siar muid agus anois go bhuil muid ag teacht aniar. 189 22 acres of some of the best farmland in Ireland, this in place of a few acres of rocky ground in Connemara. This apparent richness proved illusory, however. In the economy of the 1930s, 22 acres was not enough to support a medium-sized family. Soon many of the children of Ráth Cairn began to emigrate to England, and later, America. The irony of this situation, of the ultimate relativity of wealth and poverty in a market economy, underlies discussions that took place in a radio show recorded in Irish for Radio na Gaeltachta during Christmas week 1992.6 Raidió na Gaeltachta The conversation was taped as part of a series of holiday broadcasts on Raidió na Gaeltachta (R. na G.). Every year at Christmas, the station creates programs that transpose local holiday rituals into the broadcast medium. Producers travel to various Gaeltacht localities, and to gatherings of Irishspeaking emigres abroad, and record conversational reminiscences of the old people, along with music, song (even dance!), and storytelling from young and old alike. The atmosphere created in these programs directly recreates that of the usual pre- and post-Christmas gatherings in pubs, parish halls, and houses. Christmas is when members of extended families reunite, returning from other parts of Ireland and further afield. R. na G.’s programs sometimes metaphorically extend these gatherings by broadcasting live telephone 6. Broadcast on Raidió na Gaeltachta on January 5th 1993. 190 conversations with friends and family unable to come home for the holidays. The station thus participates in an annual ritual reunification of various social segments: individual family groups, extended families,7 local communities, and the nation itself. Raidió na Gaeltachta thus represents these collectivities to themselves in the manner described by Anderson (1983). For Anderson, print media in particular (the newspaper, the novel) create a sense of the simultaneous occupation of a shared national space, an imagined community. There are some important and interesting differences between R. na G. and Anderson’s model, however. As we saw in Chapter 2, it is a matter of dispute exactly what “community” R. na G. serves—the Gaeltacht or the nation as a whole. Gaeltacht activists often work as if the “nation” they serve is the greater community of Irish-speakers, a subset of the Irish nation as a whole. “The Gaeltacht,” in the sense of the collectivity of Irish-speakers, is not territorially contiguous. R. na G., through its network of local studios, respects this specificity of locale (as far as limited budgets allow). Listeners anywhere in Ireland thus hear “local” news, talk, and “crack” from various specific places, spoken in the local accents of these places. Everything from the sublime to the ridiculous is included. Sitting in Maynooth writing a chapter of my dissertation, I hear on the radio that one Ráth 7. This level of social organization corresponds to the overlapping collectivities identified by the names of apical ancestors, surnames (when they are unique in the community) or the oldest segments of string names in Ráth Cairn, e.g., the “Jims,” the “Cofaighs,” the “Seáiníní” and so on. See Chapter 2. 191 Cairn person has acquired a mobile phone and that another composed satirical verses on the topic. A deliberate effect of R. na G.’s organization as a network of local studios is that people everywhere are exposed to all the local dialects of Irish, and are now much more able to understand them than people were when the station began broadcasting in 1972. In this sense R. na G. functions in the opposite way to how Andersonian “print-capitalism” is supposed to function. Rather than creating a standard register to symbolically unite an imagined community, “assembling” a unitary “national language” from a variety of local dialects, R. na G. presents only “local” dialects. People continue to speak their local dialects rather than subordinating them to other dialects or a standard register.8 Since R. na G. encourages listeners to phone in and speak and perform live on the air, listeners become familiar with the talk and personalities of a wide range of ordinary people. R. na G. thus projects an imagined community, but an imagined community of discrete local communities, and of persons whose voices are immediately recognizable. Rather than projecting an abstract “national” community, R. na G. projects a community of local voices. Much of its programming is dedicated to broadcasting traditional verbal performance in a relatively unaltered state, allowing listeners to overhear local intimacies. 8. Bliss (1981:82) mentions this phenomenon in support of his argument against standardizing Irish (see Chapter 6). 192 West and East In the radio conversation under discussion, speakers make use of what Hanks (1990:303) terms a “sociocultural frame space,” “a greater ‘map’ that is not all currently engaged on any given occasion but that is nevertheless the source and necessary horizon of the more limited frames that are engaged.” I will sketch out some of the salient aspects of this space for speakers of Connemara Irish. I omit terms relative to north and south since they are not salient in this conversation. Of terms relating to East and West, the westerly terms are more marked and carry additional connotations. Non-deictic geographical terms include An t-Iarthar (The West [of Ireland]) and An t-Oirthear The East [of Ireland]). The referents of these terms are geographical areas and thus relatively independent of the context of speaking. Spatial deictics of direction include thiar, “in the west” and shoir, “in the east.” Thiar is also used in the relational sense of “back” (i.e., taobh thiar, “back side”). Motion is classified according to cardinal directions as well as towards or away from the indexical ground.9 Thus siar denotes “movement westward, away from the conversational locus;” it also denotes movement “back.” Aniar refers to movement from the west towards the locus of speech. It is also useed in the sense of “coming back.” Thus the noun phrase teacht aniar, “come–back” is used in the sense of “stamina, recuperative power” (Ó Dónaill 1977:1214). Soir means 9. Hanks’ (1990:39) term for “the utterance framework in which... reference is produced.” Indexical grounds can be transposed, as in reported speech. 193 “movement eastward away from speaker,” while anoir means “movement towards speaker from the east.” The -IAR series is used for orientation in corporeal space: “Bhí mo bhéal iompaithe SIAR ar mo mhuineál, agus [...] cúl mo chionn ANIAR.”—“My mouth was turned BACK on my neck and [...] the back of my head turned FORWARD.”10 This provides the ground for using the -IAR series in the senses of both “back” and “in the west,” which allows various metaphorical extensions of cardinal terms. In general, the West of Ireland carries cultural connotations of “backwardness” in the sense of poverty, but also of simplicity, purity, nádúr (essential human “nature”), and dúchas (heredity, tradition). These connotations are based partially in the formal properties of deictic usage, as I describe here, but are also highly motivated by relations between East and West in Irish history. The colonial-era expulsion of non-loyal Catholics to the West (expressed in Cromwell’s legendary phrase, “to Hell or Connacht”), the role of the East as a zone of colonial transformation, and the roles assigned to the West in the various strands of nationalism (both Romantic and “modernizing”), all contributed to the construction of the cognitive map of Ireland as a highly differentiated spatiotemporal frame space in Hanks’ terms. As with Mexico (Lomnitz-Adler 1992), Indonesia (Errington 1998), and elsewhere (Fabian 1983), social dynamics in the Irish nation-state reinforce a legacy of ethnic, class, linguistic and regional 10. Spoken by a character in a story who mistakenly put his head on backwards. 194 stratification which is mapped onto the temporal framework of “progress.” Irish speakers are aware of these dynamics and respond to them creatively when using deictic terms like the –IAR series. The radio conversation plays on the various senses of –IAR to create a framework (an emergent formation; Hanks 1990:79) in which cultural values associated with the West and the East of Ireland are brought into play. Such a framework is already implicit in the sociocultural space encoded in Irish language deixis. It was the basis for the political rhetoric of Muintir na Gaeltachta. Thus Máirtín Ó Cofaigh’s 1934 statement to De Valera, quoted above, that “Cromwell sent us SIAR, but now we are coming ANIAR.” carries the additional message that “we have been set back but now we are making a comeback.” Participants in the radio conversation use this framework to develop an argument of images (Fernandez 1986) based on the basic opposition set up by the show’s host, Máirtín Ó Fátharta (MJS) between an áit thiar (the place in the West, i.e., Connemara) and anseo, the locus of the conversation. At a crucial point in the conversation, the reference of anseo is shifted from the relatively unmarked sense of “here in this place in County Meath” (as opposed to back in Connemara) to the marked sense of “Ráth Cairn (as a community)” as opposed to County Meath (as another type of community). MJS also refers to Connemara as sa mbaile (at home), reinforcing the idea that the people of Ráth Cairn are essentially Connemara people and share the 195 same nature. One of the main tasks for participants seems to have been shifting the various connotations of thiar (the West) from their negative to their positive senses. By demonstrating that physical poverty is not the main issue, the conversation implicitly shifts its focus to questions of customs, habits, and essential “nature.” It thus becomes a formal working out of differences between the essential nature of the “Ráth Cairn Man” versus that of the “Meath Man.” This “Meath Man” occupies a problematic position in this conversation: proletarian, having his own traditions, a descendant of both Cromwellian conquerors and their dispossessed conquered. The upper classes of Co. Meath, both ascendancy and the “500 acre farmer,” are taken for granted as not belonging to the same world. Interestingly, the conversation does not focus on or even explicitly mention linguistic difference. By the end of this conversation, the underlying argument has become quite explicit, and the topic returns to that of “poverty.” However, this poverty is now to be understood in a different light, as more than just physical poverty. “a ring lit out on the ocean” The show consists of the host, MJS, conversing with several of the surviving original colonists, who were in their teens when they came to Ráth Cairn in 1935. I was asked to come to the taping to play music (music and song were recorded in addition to talk). During the taping of the spoken segment, the 196 speakers sat around a large table in the offices of the local cooperative (Comharchumann Ráth Cairn). The show begins with the segment I analyze here, where MJS converses with Seán Ó Conaire (SÓC) and Cóilín Phádraic Choilmín Ó Conghaile (CPC); they came to Ráth Cairn as young men with their families. In the opening sentence, MJS addresses the radio audience. He has come from Connemara to Ráth Cairn to make this program, and in this first sentence he moves the listeners, and the center of the discourse, aniar, “from the west,” anseo—“here,” i.e. to Ráth Cairn, County Meath. He describes the interviewees to the audience, then changes footing and initiates conversation with SÓC.11 (MJS): Sciorramid aniar go Ráth Cairn anois, ach fanfaimid ag cuimhreadh ar an áit thiar. Cúigear den chéad dream a tháinig aniar anseo atá os cionn leathchéad bliain ó shin. Agus tá mé cinnte go bhfuil cuimhre mhaith acub—siad atá go maith ag caint bail ó Dhía orthu agus iad roinnte go breá a'inne idir fhir agus mhná. A SÓC, is dóigh go bhfuil cuimhre mhaith a'dsa ar an difríocht a bhí idir Ráth Cairn agus an Máimín den Chéad Nollaig úd í. (MJS) We’ll scoot back [from the West] to Ráth Cairn now, but we’ll keep the place [in the] West in mind. Five of the first people who came here more than fifty years ago. And I’m certain that they remember it well, they’re good at talking, God bless them, and we have them nicely divided here, the men and women. SÓC, surely you remember well the difference between Ráth Cairn and An Máimín on that first Christmas. (S.O.C.): Ó, tá, bhuel, cuimhrím maith go leor, mar a déarfá. Bhí mé óg go maith ag an ám. Bhí mé ag tarraingt idir, idir, aon bhliain deag ‘s dhá bhliana déag, nuair a thán’ mé anseo, ach, ∂, cuimhrím, an dtuigeann tú, an chéad Nollaig. Tháinig muid aniar an dtuigeann tú, an dóú lá deag 11. Goffman (1981:234-35) calls this “three-way” announcing, where an interviewer sets up the radio audience as ratified participants in an ongoing conversation. 197 d’Aibreáin, agus bhí muid anseo mar a déarfá ar fad na blíana amach go Nollaig . Ach ansin mar a déarfá faoin Nollaig, ∂, bhí muid ∂, na gasúir mar a déarfá ag iarraidh a bheith ‘goil thart agus, ‘breith ar an dreóilín. Ach chaitheadh an dreóilín a bheith ag chuile dhuine, an dtuigeann tú, b’in a n-iarradh chuile dhuine ach chaithfeadh an dreóilín a bheith ‘ad mar a déarfá le haghaidh goil thart Lá Stiofáin an dtuigeann tú, le haghaidh a bháilliú. Agus caithfeadh an dreóilein a bheith beo. Agus bhí muid ag ceapadh an dtuigeann tú go raibh sé ar nós, mar a déarfá, thiar i gConamara, b’fhéidir go raibh sé sach deacair a’ bhreith ar an dreóilín, in áit ar bith. Ach bhí sé seacht n-uaire níos measa a bhreith air i gcondae na Mí. Mar, ∂, bhí na, na claíochaí seo, na sceach, agus chuile short an dtuigeann tú agus a bhíodh an dreóilín agus |12 (SÓC) Oh, well, I remember it alright, as you’d say. I was young at the time, going on around, around eleven or twelve years old when we came here, but, uh, I remember, you understand, the first Christmas. We came east, you understand, the twelfth of April, and we were here as you’d say the whole year until Christmas. But then as you’d say at christmas time, uh, we were, uh, the children were as you’d say, going around and trying to catch the wren. But everyone had to have the wren, you understand, they all said you have to have the wren do you understand, in order to go around on St. Stephen’s Day you understand, and collect the pennies (?). And the wren had to be alive. And we thought, as you’d say, that it would be like, as you’d say, back in Connemara, maybe it was hard enough (just as hard?) to catch the wren anyplace. But it was seven times as hard to catch him in Co. Meath. Because, these hedges, the bushes, and everything you understand where the wren was and | (MJS) | Ní raibh portach ar bith anseo an raibh? (MJS) There wasn’t any bog here was there? (SÓC) eh, bhuel, bhí portach ann ach ní raibh sé chomh gearr dhuinn, mar a déarfá, bhí sé, an portach, bhí sé trí mhíle uainn amuigh ar an Ráth Mór | (SÓC) Well, there was a bog but it wasn’t that close to us, as you’d say, it was, the bog, it was three miles away out in Ráth Mór | (MJS) Ní raibh aon tithe ceann tuí anseo, ní raibh? 12. The symbol | indicates latching between speakers. 198 (MJS) | There weren’t any thatched houses here, were there? SÓC begins by attempting to describe the differences in Christmas customs—the parading of the wren on St. Stephen’s Day in Connemara versus the “strawboys” in Co. Meath. But he mentions that although it was hard to catch a wren in Connemara, it was seven times harder in County Meath. But before he can explain this, MJS interrupts to ask if there were thatched houses or bogs in Co. Meath, good places to catch a wren but also associated with poverty and the west. SÓC reacts by inverting this argument: (SÓC) Ó bhí. An bhuil a fhios a’d cén chaoi an bhfhuil sé anois mar a déarfá, tá muid ag caint anseo ar rudaí, ach, nuair a tháinig muid i gcondaé na Mí, bhí muid ag ceapadh go raibh muid féin bocht i gConamara. Ach bhí tithe i gCondae na Mí seacht n-uaire deag ‘is fiche níos boichte, agus daoine i gCondae na Mí níos boichte ná a bhí i gConamara. (SÓC) Oh there were. Do you know how it is now as you’d say, we’re talking here about things, but when we came east to County Meath, we thought that we ourselves were poor in Connemara. But there were houses in County Meath that were thirty-seven times poorer, and people who were poorer than anyone in Connemara. There were. (MJS) muise (MJS) really. (SÓC) Bhí. Sin í an fhirinne. Bhí tithe ceann tuí ann, agus, ∂, an teach thiar i gConamara, an dtuigeann tú, bhí balla breá cloch faoí. Ach na tithe i gcondae na Mí, bhíodar déanta as créafóg. Agus, ∂, | (SÓC) That’s the truth.there were thatched houses there, and the house (back) in Connemara, you understand, had fine stone walls. But the houses in county Meath, they were made of sod. And, uh | 199 Whereas thatched houses in Connemara had fine stone walls, in Meath they were made of sod. Here poverty becomes the idiom in which MJS suggests that Meath people couldn’t have the same fun or spend as much at Christmas time as people in Connemara, thus explicitly marking the comparison as being between Meath people and Connemara people (as they were in Ráth Cairn). SÓC backpedals but then tells a story about the difference between the gifts given by shopkeepers to customers in the two places: in Connemara they gave a sack of flour, but in Co. Meath they only gave a small sweet-cake or a calendar. This praise for a Connemara shopkeeper introduces the basic issue of this conversation: Connemara is poorer than Co. Meath, but more generous, at least at Christmas time: (MJS) | ‘Bhfuil tú á rá go raibh sé níos measa as ∂ | (MJS) | Are you saying that they were worse off, eh, | (SÓC) | I bhfád Éire níos measa as. (SÓC) very much [literally, “the distance of Ireland] worse off. (MJS) Agus nach raibh siad in ann an oiread spraoí na caitheamh a dhéanamh aimsir na Nollaig agus a dhéanfaí sa mbaile. (MJS) And that they weren’t able to have the same fun or spend as much at Christmas time that they would at home [i.e. back in Connemara]. (SÓC) Bhuel, níl mé anois á rá tada mar gheall air sin an dtuigeann tú, ach an taobh anois mar a déarfá, ∂, an chéad Nollaig an dtuigeann tú, agus, mar a déarfá, mo mháthair, go ndeana trócaire uirthi, agus, m’athair 200 agus, i gConamara thiar, an dtuigeann tú, cuimhre liom uair amháin anois, b’fhéidir don Nollaig sula tháinig [?] muid anseo, nó an Nollaig roimhe sin, fuair muid mala plúir ó Dick, de bhronntanas, agus b’uafasach an rud é sin, mar a déarfá i naoí déag tríocha cuig nó tríocha ceathair, mala plúir mar bhronntanas ó siopadóir. Ach ansin i gCo. na Mí, a.d.t., b’fhéidir nach bhfaighfeá, b’féidir go bhfaighfeá cáca beag milis, agus calendar. Sin a raibh le fáil air. (?) le siopadóireacht ann ar feadh na blíana uilig. (SÓC) Well, I’m not saying anything now about that you understand, but, as far as the first Christmas is concerned, you understand, and, as you’d say, my mother, may God have mercy on her, and, my father and, back in Connemara, you understand, I remember once now, maybe for the Christmas before we came here or the christmas before that, we got a bag of flour from Dick, as a present, and that was an awful lot, you understand, in nineteenthirty five or thirty-four, a bag of flour as a gift from a shopkeeper. And then in County Meath, maybe you wouldn’t get, maybe you’d get a little sweet cake, and a calendar. That was all it was worth [unclear] to be shopping there for the whole year. (MJS)Bhí an gnás sin anseo? go dtabharfaí beagán eicínt? (MJS) Was that custom here (also)? That they’d give little something? (SÓC) Ó bhí. Gheóbhfá rud ecínt beag ecínt mar sin mar a déarfá, calendar, agus is dóigh go raibhadar le fáil [?] gan tada, an dtuigeann tú? Agus b’féidir go bhfaighfeá an cáca beag a dtabhairfidis brack air no rud ecint mar sin an dtuigeann tú. Ach, ∂, bhí diofraíocht mór idir é féin agus Conamara i dtaobh bronntanais. | Ach i dtaobh an dreóilín agus i dtaobh an obair sin an dtuigeann tú, ach ansin mar a déarfá ní raibh caint ar bith ar an dreoilín seo i gcondaé na Mí an dtuigeann tú, ach theagadh na daoine thart agus iad gléasta mar a déarfá bhíodh, bhídís peinteáilte suas an dtuigeann tú agus éadaí diofráilte orthu agus ragannaí agus /ro:s/ an dtuigeann tú ag bailiú airgid agus ag gabhail fhoinn | (SÓC) Oh, it was. You’d get some little thing like that, as you’d say, a calendar, and probably they didn’t cost anything, do you understand? And maybe you’d get the little cake they call brack, or something like that you understand. But there was a big difference between that and Connemara as far as presents are concerned. But about the wren and that business, do you understand, but then as you’d say there was no talk about the wren here in county Meath 201 do you understand, but the people used to go around dressed up, you understand, they’d be painted up do you understand and wearing different clothes, and rags and (?) do you understand, collecting money and singing songs | (CPC) |ag casadh ceoil | (CPC) |playing music | (SÓC) |ag casadh ceoil, agus rudaí den tsort sin, an dtuigeann tú? (SÓC) playing music, and things like that, do you understand? (MJS) Sin iad na strawboys is dóigh. (MJS) Those were the strawboys, surely. At this point SÓC returns to the topic of the wren and brings up the Meath custom of “strawboys.” CPC breaks in to the conversation, and SÓC yields the floor to him. When CPC gets his chance to talk about the difference between his native Inis Treabhair, a small island in Connemara, and Ráth Cairn, he has a bit of playful banter with the other two, then enthusiastically contributes to the ongoing argument, building on the theme of generosity and spending at Christmas: (SÓC) Sin iad na strawboys. Agus, ∂, sin é an chaoi a raibh sé. Bhuel, a CPC, b’fhéidir go raibh | (SÓC) Those were the strawboys. And, eh, that’s the way it was. Well, CPC, maybe | (MJS) | Tá mé cinnte go bhfuil cuimhre mhaith ag CPC ar an diofraíocht a bhí idir Inis Trabhair (ar a thaobh?) agus an taobh seo nuair a | 202 (MJS) | I’m sure that CPC remembers well the difference between Inis Treabhair on his side and this side when | (CPC) | Ó tá cuimhre mhaith agam air mar a raibh. (CPC) Oh, I remember well how it was. (MJS) Cén aoís a bhí tusa a CPC, nuair a, nuair a| (MJS) How old were you CPC when, when | (CPC) | Bhí mé seacht mbliana déag, i m’fhear óg, nó, bhí mé a’ déanamh fear óg dhom péin ar chuma ar bith! Bhí mé déanamh fear óg dhom péin ar aon bhliain deag. (CPC) I was seventeen years old, a young man, or I was making a young man of myself anyway! I was making a young man of myself at eleven years of age. (MJS) Bhí tú tosaithe ag goil amach an raibh? (MJS) You’d started to go out, had you? (CPC) Bhuel, sin an chaoi a raibh sé an bhfuil a fhios a’d, chaithfeadh tú á dhéanamh i gConamara i d’fhear óg mar, mar a bhi muid thiar ar an oileán. Bhí sclábhaíocht go leor | (CPC) Well, that’s the way it was, do you know, you had to do it in Connemara as a young man, the way we were back on the island. there was plenty of hard work | (SÓC?) | Tá tú déanamh d’fhear óg i gcónaí | (SÓC?) | you’re still playing the young man | (CPC) |Bhí sclábhaíocht go leor ar an oileán. Agus chaithfeadh tú, do, ...shreang a tharraingt ar an oileán an bhfuil a fhios a’d, mar, ní hionnan é fhéin agus anseo, bhí inneal anseo, nó bhi capall ag déanamh an obair ach chaithfeadh tú é a dhéanamh le do lamha thiar. Ach bhí an t-oileán go hálainn faoin Nollaig, nuair a ngeobhfadh tú anois thar Eanach Mheáin soir go dtí Ros Muc go d’feicfidh tú an t-oileán lasta uilig le coinnle. B’íontach an radharc é istigh i lar na farraige mar a déarfá. An rud céanna a tharla anseo anois. Nuair a imigh muid aniar anseo i dtosach, chaithfeadh chuile dhuine bheith istigh oíche Nollaig. Sin uimhir a h-aon. 203 Uimhir a dó, chaithfeadh na fataí a bheith a’d ag a sé a chlog tRáthnóna, agus breac. Agus an doras a fhagáil oscailte go mbeadh sé in a dó dhéag san oíche. Sin í an gnás. (CPC) |There was plenty of hard work back on the island. And you had to, ... pull your own weight on the island you know, not like here, there was a tractor here, or there was a horse doing the work but you had to do it by hand there. But the island was beautiful at Christmas time, when you’d go out by Eanach Mheáin to the east to Ros Muc you’d see the whole island alight with candles. It was a wonderful scene out in the middle of the sea. The same thing happened here now. When we came here from the west at first, everyone had to be in on Christmas eve. That’s number one. Number two, you had to have the potatoes at six o’clock in the evening, and fish. And to leave the door open until twelve o’clock at night. That was the custom. (MJS) anseo? (MJS) Here? CPC’s narrative about hard work and Christmas customs is a fairly traditional didactic pastime, describing the old ways for the benefit of the young. He portrays life on Inis Treabhair as being very difficult compared to life “here” where there is farm machinery to help with the work.13 He alludes to the lighting of candles in the windows of houses on Christmas Eve, and the beautiful image of the island lit up “in the middle of the sea.” This image becomes the master trope of the conversation, an otherworldly image created by human sociality. “The same thing happened here”—in Ráth Cairn—when Connemara people moved to the new community. In what could 13. Later in the show another man contradicts this assertion by recalling how as a young man he had to work for £1 a day breaking rocks after coming with his family to County Meath. But this point only reinforces the general argument made in this conversation, that in the 1930s and 40s, wage labor in Meath amounted to worse slavery than working the land in Connemara. 204 be termed a reported ritual, CPC describes Christmas Eve customs, at which point MJS breaks in with Anseo? (“Here?”)—“here” in Ráth Cairn as opposed to Connemara. This is the point where anseo begins to be used in the restricted sense of “Ráth Cairn” as opposed to “County Meath.” Differences in customs caused Ráth Cairn to appear as an otherworldly apparition to the Meath men on that first Christmas in 1935: (CPC) Anseo. Agus, rud eile, ní raibh a fhios ag muintir an chondae seo, an bhfuil a fhios a’d, faoi na coinnle a bheith lasta ins... insna fuinneóigí ar chor ar bith. Ach, nuair a bhíonn na soilse lasta uilig, na coinnle i chuile fhuinneóig agus, bhí fear chondae na Mí ‘breathnú, ní raibh a fhios aige sa, sa domhan brách céard as a d’tháinig na soilse uilig. Bhí an cnoc le feiceáil acub sa lá, agus nuair a thit sé in a oíche, bhí sé lasta thimpeall fáinne, mar a bheadh fáinne lasta amuigh sa bhfarraige. Agus dúirt siad, “tá rud ecínt tarlaithe” a déir siad. Lá inar mharach ansin an bhfuil a fhios a‘d, bhí sean.... ndaoine a bhí i Ráth Cairn, bhí siad ag inseacht dhóibh an bhfuil a fhios a'd sé an gnás a bhí thiar, go lasfaí coinneal i chuile fuinneóig. Dhá mbeadh ar an teach ach fuinneoig amháin ‘s dhá mbeadh míle fuinneóig air, lasfaí coinneal i chuile fuinneóig. D’fagfaí an doras oscailte go mbeadh sé in a dódhéag san oíche. Agus chuile dhuine istigh, oíche Nollaig. Cuma céanna dhá mbeifeá, dhá mbeifeá thar lear fhéin, bheithfeá ag iarraidh a bheith sa mbaile oíche Nollaig. Meirceá nó Sasana, [cuma diabhail áit]? bheithfeá ag iarraidh a bheith sa mbaile oíche Nollaig. Sin an gnás a bhí anseo. (CPC) Here. And, another thing, the people of this county didn’t know at all about, do you know, the candles being lit in the, in the windows. But, when the candles were all lit, the candles in every window, and, the County Meath man was looking, he didn’t know in the, in the whole world where all the lights came from. They could see the hill during the day, and when night came, it was lit all around, like a ring lit out on the ocean. And they said “something has happened,” they said. The next day, do you know, old people who were in Ráth Cairn, they were telling them do you know, that that was the custom (back) west, that a candle would be lit in every window. If the house only had one window, or if it had a thousand 205 windows, a candle would be lit in every window. the door would be left open until twelve o’clock at night. And everybody would be inside, Christmas eve. Even if you, if you were overseas, you’d want to be home Christmas Eve. America or England, whatever devil place you’d be trying to get home Christmas Eve. That was the custom here. (MJS) Bhí muintir na Mí scantraithe faoin méid coinnle a bhí lasta agaibh, an raibh? (MJS) The Meath people were frightened by the number of candles that were lit, were they? (CPC) Bhí siad scantraithe, mar ní raibh a fhios acub cén fath an solas a bheith thimpeall an chnoic uilig. Bhí siad á fheiceáil glas sa lá ‘gus san oíche bhí an fáinne las timpeall air. Ní raibh a fhios acub sa domhan brách cé as a dtáinig an solas. Cineál | (CPC) They were frightened, because they didn’t know why there’d be light all around the hill. They saw it green during the day and at night there was a ring of light around it. And they didn’t know in the wide world where the light came from. A kind of | CPC here develops an argument of images relating to the inability of the Meath people to perform, much less to comprehend, Christmas ritual as performed in Connemara. These utterances are simultaneously a description of and an embodiment of the re- creation of a community—both ritually, at Christmas, and historically, in the move from Connemara. CPC’s narrative imaginatively links his native Inis Treabhair to Ráth Cairn. The image of Inis Treabhair as a ring of light, which is recreated in Ráth Cairn from one Christmas to the next, comes in the context of a reported ritual; description is interlaced with prescription, on how Christmas ritual is properly performed. This is a ritual in which the Meath Man 206 acts as a witness, and here the narrative breaks into direct speech: “And they said ‘something has happened’.” Returning to the theme of shopkeepers, CPC tells another anecdote. A Ráth Cairn man, buying two sacks of flour for Christmas, is accused of planning to start his own shop by the shopkeeper in Athboy, who cannot imagine such an outlay for Christmas feasting. Such a quantity could only be for selling. A breakthrough to direct speech marks the crux of this particular piece of talk: (MJS) | Seód é an cnoc taobh thiar anseo i Ráth Cairn? (MJS) | This is the hill in back here in Ráth Cairn? (CPC) Sea, Cnoic Ráth Cairn, mar a bhí na tithe uilig thimpeall ar a gcnoc, mar a déarfá, agus, bhí tí Chóilín Uí Chatháin agus, an teach an raibh mé fhéin ann, uimhir a seacht Ráth Cairn, agus sin dhá theach ard mar a déarfá agus, ceann eile, bhí, Cóilín Ó Catháin, go ndéana Dia grásta air, athair, Dharach Ó Catháin go ndéana Dia grásta uilig orthu. Agus, bhí sé istigh in Áth Buí agus bhi se istigh sa siopa beag seo, Dan Reilly a chuir muid i mBéarla air, Domhnaill Ó Raghallaigh ach, bhí sé ‘ceannacht [unclear]. Agus, bhreathnaigh fear an siopa (sic) air. “Ceard tá tú a dhéanamh” a deir sé, “cén diabhal atá tú a dhéanamh?” Shil sé go raibh sé ag goil a’ tosaigh siopa, thuas i Ráth Cairn. Mar b’ é an gnás a bhí thiar ag ceannacht an oiread seo an dtuigeann tú? [unclear] Deir sé, céard tá tú deanamh a deir sé an bhuil tú ag goil ag tosaigh siopa thuas ansin a deir sé. Bhí sé ag ceapadh go mbainfeadh sé an trade ó fhéin [laughter]. Ní raibh a fhios aige sa diabhal cén fáth. (CPC) Yes, the hill of Ráth Cairn, because all the houses were around the hill, as you’d say, Cóilín Ó Catháin’s house and, the house that I myself was in, number seven Ráth Cairn [a postal address] and the two tall houses as you’d say, and [unclear] Cóilín Ó Catháin, may God give grace to him, the father of Darach Ó Catháin, may God give grace to all of them. And he [Cóilín Ó Catháin] was in Áth Buí and he was in this little shop, Dan Reilly we called him in English, Domhnaill Ó Raghallaigh but, he was buying [unclear]. And the shopkeeper looked at him. “What are you doing?” he says, “what the devil are you doing?” He thought he was going to start a shop, up in Ráth Cairn. Because it was the 207 custom in the West to be buying so much, do you understand? [Unclear] He said “what are you doing” he said, “are you going to start a shop up there then” he said. He was thinking he’d take his trade from him [laughter]. He didn’t know in the devil why. Here are two more contrasts, in terms of quantity and in terms of giving versus selling. Deceased members of the community are named and remembered in this type of talk. It is customary to bless the dead when mentioning them in conversation in this manner. While the Ráth Cairn man bought two sacks of flour, the Meath man, by contrast, would only buy 1/2 a stone of flour (7 pounds). Likewise, the custom in Ráth Cairn was to slaughter a pig for Christmas, whereas the Meath man would only slaughter a rabbit. Everyone laughs when CPC suggests that the rabbit didn’t have much in the way of chops compared to a pig: (MJS) Chaithfí ualach, chaithfí ualach maith a thabhairt abhaile sa Nollaig sa mbaile | (MJS) One had to bring a good lot, a good lot home at Christmas at home [i.e. back in Connemara] | (CPC) | ualach maith.ualach maith | (CPC) |a good lot. A good lot | (SÓC) | Ní cheannófaí, ní cheannófaí, áit an bhuil muid i gcondae na Mí an dtuigeann tú, ach puint. Puint phlúir an dtuigeann tú? Agus nuair a cheannaigh an fear seo... cheannaigh sé dhá mhala plúir ...dhá mhala plúir | (SÓC) |They’d only buy, they’d only buy, where we are in County Meath you understand, pounds. Pounds of flour, do you 208 understand? And when this man bought ...he bought two sacks of flour, two sacks of flour | (CPC) | Sea leathphunt plúir, sin an méid ‘s builín, punt ím, leathchloch plúir, builín, sin a raibh acub, sin an méid. Ach an bhfuil a fhios a’d mharófaí muc ansin faoin Nollaig, an dtuigeann tú anois, sin gnás maith a bhí i Ráth Cairn anseo. Bhi muc maraithe faoin Nollaig. Fear anseo, a dtugadís Colm Ó Curraoin air, as, as ∂, | (CPC) | Yes half a pound of flour, that’s enough for a loaf, a pound of butter, half a stone of flour, a loaf, that’s all they had, that’s all. And do you know they used to slaughter a pig then at Christmastime, that’s a good custom that was here in Ráth Cairn. There was a pig slaughtered at Christmas time. A man here, they called him Colm Ó Curraoin, from, from, eh | (SÓC) |as an Trá Bhán | (SÓC) | from An Trá Bhán | (CPC) | as an Trá Bhán, táthar caillte uilig, deartháir de Sheán Curraoin agus de, Phádraig Curraoin agus de Mhícheál Ó Curraoin agus de Nioclas iad seo uilig, agus, sin é an búistéara. Bheadh Colm Ó Curraoin ag goil thart a’ marú na muc ansin an bhfuil a fhios a’d agus, bhíodh gríscíní ann agus bhíodh an t-an-chraic ann le haghaidh na Nollaig an dtuigeann tú. Bhuel. Ní raibh ag fear an chondaé seo ach coinín le marú, ghabhadh sé amach ‘s chuirfeadh sé snares ‘s bhéarfadh sé ar choinín, ‘s diabhal blás a bhí aige ach, bhí diofraíocht mór idir coinín agus muc! (CPC) | From An Trá Bhán, they’re all dead now, a brother of Seán Curraoin and of, Pádraig Curraoin and of Mícheál Ó Curraoin and of Nioclas, all of them, and, he was the butcher. Colm Ó Curraoin used to go around slaughtering the pigs then and, you know, there’d be chops and there’d be great crack for Christmas do you understand. Well. The man of this county only had a rabbit to slaughter, he’d go out and put (out) snares and he’d catch a rabbit. And devil a taste he had (i.e., he had nothing) but, there was a great difference between a rabbit and a pig! (person) | D’fhéadfá a rá! | (person) | You could say that! | 209 (CPC) | D’fhéadfá a rá go raibh. Ní raibh mórán griscín ar an gcoinín! (laughter). (CPC) | You could say there was. there weren’t many chops on the rabbit! (laughter) (MJS) Ní raibh go deimhin. (MJS) There certainly weren’t. (CPC) Ní raibh go deimhin, ach sin scéal eile mar a déarfá. Ach bhí siad cairdiúil go leor, feara condaé na Mí. Ni raibh, bhí siad an-chardiúil linn anois. (CPC) There certainly weren’t, but that’s another story as you’d say. but they were very friendly, the men of County Meath. There wasn’t, they were very friendly with us now. But with this final reduction of the Meath man to a mere rabbit catcher, CPC gives a word of praise: “they were very friendly to us, the people of Meath,” with the further explanation of how the Meath Man was reduced to his miserable state: (MJS) Ach ni móide go raibh an féasta mór acub le haghaidh na Nollaig, dhá laghad a rabhadar á iarraidh ann ach an oiread,∂ agus a bhiodh thiar. (MJS) But they hardly had the big feast for Christmas, as much as they wanted, that they used to have back in the West. (CPC) An bhfuil a fhios...sea an bhfuil a fhios a’d seard a tharla d’fear an chondae seo an bhfuil a fhios a’d, ni raibh ach an feilmeoir mór cúig chéad acra. Agus bhí an fear bocht ag obair aige. Agus mura ngoidfidh sé ón bhfeilméara é ní raibh sé ar fáil aon chaoi eile uaidh. An dtuigeann tú. Ní raibh sé ag fáil ach cupla, ní raibh aon neart acu orthu an dtuigeann tú chaithfeadh sé á ghoid ón bhfeilméara | (CPC) do you know...Yes, do you know what happened to the man of this county d’ye know, there was only the big farmer with five hundred acres. And the poor man was working for him. And if he didn’t steal it from the farmer he couldn’t get it any other way. Do 210 you understand? He was only getting, they couldn’t help it do you understand, they had to steal it from the farmer | Thus, the opposition has now become one of giving versus stealing, and SÓC says: (SÓC) | B’in an fáth go raibh mé á rá an dtuigeann tú nuair a shíl muid mar a déarfá, go raibh muid fhéin bocht. ach bhí daoine i gcondae na Mí seacht n-uaire nios boichte. (SÓC) | That’s why I was saying do you understand, (unclear) we thought, as you’d say, that we ourselves were poor, but there were people in County Meath who were seven times poorer. The conversation makes a series of metaphoric predications, in Fernandez’ (1986:8) sense of metaphor as “a strategic predication on an inchoate pronoun (an I a you, a we a they) which makes a movement and leads to a performance.” There are two sets of movements involved here. First, there is the emergent conversational framework, set up by MJS and built upon by the others, consisting of an evolving set of oppositions: (A) an áit thiar : anseo (B) anseo : Condae na Mí What begins as an opposition between the old place in Connemara (an áit thiar, the place west/back) and the new place in Meath (anseo, here) develops into an opposition between Ráth Cairn specifically (as an extension of Connemara customs and sociality) and “County Meath” in general (the native Meath man, his customs and sociality). There is a shifting of inchoate places as the metaphoric argument finds its object. The continuities argued for between Connemara and Ráth Cairn form the basis for the opposition between Ráth Cairn 211 and County Meath, a movement facilitated by the inchoateness of the deictic anseo (here), which is shifted from an inclusive to a marked, restricted sense. Likewise the term sa mbaile (at home), used by MJS is extremely slippery, referring indeterminately to Connemara and/or Ráth Cairn. The other movements, in what Fernandez terms dimensions of cultural “quality space” (1986:11-14, 39-43), enable and are enabled by these shifts in the deictic framework. Thus the opposition between shopkeepers’ gifts of a sack of flour in Connemara versus a small cake in Meath, sets the scene for the opposition between the Ráth Cairn man’s purchase of 2 sacks of flour versus the Meath man’s miserable “pounds” of flour. The argument of images continues with the opposition between pigs (the most highly regarded meat in medieval Ireland, incidentally) and rabbits.14 Even the rabbits had to be stolen by the poor Meath man, and this brings out the fundamental moral opposition between giving and stealing. This is revealed as an opposition between two social systems rather than a matter of personal character. Let us return to the first contrast mentioned by SÓC, between the fine stone walls of poor people’s houses in Connemara and the mud walls of landless laborers’ houses in Meath.15 The stones that make Connemara farms poor and 14. Before land reforms gave them them title to their own holdings, small landholders often raised pigs, which they sold or bartered to pay the rent. Slaughtering and feasting on pigs may carry an association to liberation from rent after land reforms. 15. SÓC was deeply impressed by this difference, and brought it up several times in conversation with me, telling me where the ruins of local mud houses were so I could see for myself. 212 the soil that makes Meath farms rich, on another level make Connemara society rich and Meath society poor. Nature becomes anti-nature under an unjust social and political order, in a trope which goes back to the medieval Irish sovereignty myth, with its goddess/hag figures.16 As I discussed in Chapter 4, one of the tasks of poetry is to reveal, mediate and correct this relationship through offering moral guidance to society. These stories are the reflections of people who have encountered a new economy and social relations, a new kind of alienation.17 The concepts of wealth and poverty held by the settlers of Ráth Cairn did not correspond to the realities of the economic, social and cultural system they found operating in County Meath in 1935 and after. From my portrayal so far of this conversation, it might appear as an expression of “equity consciousness” (Schneider 1990) encountering that of a more developed capitalism, or even as a conscious discussion of or response to modernity. But the ring of light that astonished the Meath men was an apparition, not from the past, but from an alternative world where “wealth” and “poverty” were revealed to stem from a more fundamental generosity and meanness of custom. The point explicitly made in these stories is that in the 1930s 16. Carney 1967; Mac Cana 1983:119; Ó Crualaoich 1989; Ó Buachalla 1996; Nic Eoin 1998; Leavitt 1998. On the trope of soil as essence of sociality, see below and Chapter 7. Taussig (1980, 1987) explores South American peasants’ use of images of nature and anti-nature in the discourse of devil pacts as their means of analyzing and resisting commodity capitalism. 17. Emigration is the usual milieu for this experience, and much of modern Irishlanguage literature contains similar attempts at coming to grips with these issues cf. Deoraíocht (Exile) by Pádraig Ó Conaire (Ó Conaire 1980 [1910]) and more recently, Sclábhaíocht (Slavery) by Colm Ó Ceallaigh (Ó Ceallaigh 1990). 213 it was the social order of County Meath, and not of Connemara, that was “backwards” and feudal. It was in Meath that penniless laborers worked for “the 500-acre farmer.” In Ó Cadhain’s words, it was “Éire na mBullán” (Ireland of the Bullock) as opposed to “Éire na nDaoine” (Ireland of the People). In the 1930s, in large parts of County Meath, a feudal system of land ownership was encompassed by a market economy, whereas in Connemara a market economy was encompassed, in part, by relations of reciprocity. This is the point, I believe, of SÓC’s emphasis on the “generosity” of Connemara shopkeepers. The arguments of images in the stories and conversations reported here can also be seen as making a claim to Ráth Cairn, and as a further enactment of the kind of ritual upon which such a claim is based. The argument made in the radio conversation acts to constitute Ráth Cairn as a place apart from other places, at once part of Connemara and part of County Meath but distinct from both. It was explained to me that the custom of lighting candles signified that Joseph and Mary would be welcomed into the house, and several people asked me if I was lighting candles, mentioning that it was the custom in Ráth Cairn. In another version of the story about the candles, Meath people cycle out to look at them, and upon their return to a neighboring town are asked where they had been, and answer, Bhí muid sna Flaithis—“We were in heaven.” The creation of Ráth Cairn as a kind of heaven on earth involved the assembly of the people, generosity and feasting. Indeed the telling of these stories themselves, in the context of a radio show or anywhere else, is part of Christmas ritual. Stories of 214 this kind name the dead, bless them, and sometimes make them present by quoting them. Having a generation of ancestors in Athboy churchyard also makes a very significant claim (cf. their mention in Máirtín’s song about Ráth Cairn, discussed in Chapter 4). The ritual importance of this talk on important occasions of social reproduction is certainly not unique to Ráth Cairn or modern Irish-language culture in general. For example there is a parallel here to a theme in Old Irish culture and literature in which, as John Carey (1987) and others have shown, the local tribal group (tuath) became ritually unified with the Otherworld at its major gathering, the oenach. This ritual of social reproduction requires the assembly of all the people, feasting, peace, the presence of the ancestors, and “acts of truth”—the telling of true stories and the narration of laws and judgments. The ring of light as a dialectical image At the time the radio show was broadcast, I asked a few people in Ráth Cairn about the story of the candles, and they suggested that was that it was something made up (rud a cumadh) by CPC and Máirtín Ó Conaire—SÓC’s brother, now deceased, who also used to tell the story. This of course made the story more, not less, interesting to me: why would they make up such a story? At the same time, everyone said that putting candles in the windows was a custom that set Ráth Cairn apart from other places, something “we” do. Of course, people burn candles on Christmas Eve all over the world and all over Ireland 215 (including Co. Meath). Mary Robinson, elected President of Ireland in 1991, made the image into a cliche by keeping a candle constantly burning in her official residence, to symbolically “welcome home the Irish diaspora” (the Ráth Cairn stories predated her presidency, however). In CPC’s story, what made Ráth Cairn unique was the burning of candles in every window of the house. A few people told me laughingly that the correct thing to do was to put two candles in every window. There is also a small problem of perspective—how something can look like a ring of light when seen from below. Máirtín Ó Conaire’s version of the story solved this problem by having one of the Meath men view it from an airplane! Ráth Cairn got its name from a rath on the same hill that the Meath men saw as a ring of light. This hill used to be crowned with a ring-fort (ráth,—they are called “raths” in English also).18 Raths are earthen ring-shaped ramparts marking ancient sites of habitation. They are very common in County Meath, and local people tend to treat them with respect as otherworld (fairy) dwellings. The rath on the hill of Ráth Cairn was plowed under, however, presumably by Connemara migrants who didn’t know what it was.19 SÓC showed me a bronze brooch (he called it a “Tara brooch”) found at the site. 18. A cairn is a cairn, i.e., a heap of stones. Presumably the original rath featured such a cairn, which might have marked a burial place—or might have just been a heap of stones. The place name long predates the community, of course, and Ráth Cairn people learned the name from local English-speakers. Because of this, many older people pronounce the name using English phonology ( ) rather than Irish phonology ( or ). 19. Raths don’t exist in Connemara, although there are similar stone structures and the remains of circular lake-dwellings (crannógs) which are associated with the otherworld. 216 Is our dodgy otherworld apparition a pun on the name “Ráth Cairn?” There is another pun at work here—in Connemara Irish the word ráth (ringfort) is a homonym of rath (bestowal, gift, prosperity, abundance; Ó Dónaill 1977:987). This false etymology mirrors a true etymological relation (Ó Cathasaigh 1979; Carey 1987) between the various senses of síd (otherworld, peace, prosperity). The pun on rath is the basic trope of a poem by the Connemara poet, Joe Steve Ó Neachtain (1990:32-33), which commemorates Ráth Cairn’s 50th anniversary: RATH [PROSPERITY/BESTOWAL] Goirm is coisricim Gach mac máthar dhíbh, Dár ruaig an ganntan Bhur sliocht aniar; A séideadh thar teorainn Mar chlúmh na bhfeothannán; Ar ghort ár fónamh A bhí bhur dtriall. I acclaim and I bless Every mother’s son of you, For whom scarcity banished Your breed from the west; Blown over boundaries Like thistle-down; The field of our recovery Was your destination. [...] Chuir sibh rútaí i dtalamh, Níor loic is níor leáigh sibh; Bhí bhur sprid chomh láidir Is gur mhaolaigh an phian; Inniu is creidiúint sibh Don tír is don náisíun, Tá Ráth Cairn slánaithe 217 Tar éis leathchéad bliain. You put roots in the ground, You never shirked or faded; Your spirit was so strong That the pain subsided; Now you are a credit to the country and nation, Ráth Cairn is saved After half a century. Tá oidhreacht i dtaisce agaibh, Is luachmhar an tseoid í; Tá sibh spraíúil, spóirtiúil, Carthanach is fial; I lár an dorchadais Is sibhse an lóchrann Atá dár dtreorú Ar an gcultúr fíor. You have saved your heritage, It is a valuable jewel; You are playful and sporting, Friendly and generous; In the midst of darkness You are the shining light That is guiding us To the true culture. Tá an teanga ag tanaíochan I mbroinn a máthar; Tá an leamhnacht truaillithe Ag tál ón gcíoch; A shliocht Ráth Cairn, Ná tréigí an páiste; Má tá slánú i ndán dhúinn Is sibhse an síol. The language is wasting away In the womb of its mother; The corrupted beestings [first milk] Is flowing from the breast; Descendants of Ráth Cairn, Don’t abandon the child; 218 If salvation is in store for us You are the seed. Ó Neachtain’s poem contains an image of Ráth Cairn as an otherworldly shining light in middle of darkness—an image very similar to CPC’s ring of light. The poem’s title plays on the semantics of rath and ráth, connecting the prosperity of Ráth Cairn with the positive moral qualities of its people. At the same time it places a moral burden on the people of Ráth Cairn to look after their bestowal (an additional sense of rath). The poem also features a very frightening image of nature/anti-nature—the child withering in the womb and the poisoned milk flowing from the breast of the mother (as Irish-speaking parents turn to raising their children through English).20 In both CPC’s story and Ó Neachtain’s poem, the image of Ráth Cairn appears as what Benjamin termed “a historical index”—“that in which the Then and the Now come together into a constellation like a flash of lightning” (Hanssen 1998:56). CPC recognizes the fleeting image of Inis Treabhair in the candlelight of Ráth Cairn’s first Christmas, an image which remains only as an afterimage as Ráth Cairn’s older generation passes away. Like Benjamin’s storyteller, “he has borrowed his authority from death” (Benjamin 1969:94). The 20. For Spenser, writing in 1596, although the trope was the same the problem was the opposite: the children of English speaking colonists were learning Irish: ...moreover they drawe into themselves, together with their sucke, even the nature and disposition of ther norses: for the mind followeth much the temperature of the body; and alsoe the wordes are the image of the minde, soe as, the[y] proceeding from the minde, the mynd must be needes affected with the wordes. Soe that the speach being Irish, the hart must needes be Irishe; for out of the aboundance of the hart, the tonge speaketh (Spenser 1596). 219 presence of death authorizes a relationship to time in which, in Ó Buachalla’s terms (quoted above), past history, present reality, and future hopes are conjoined. Likewise, for Ó Neachtain, the images of Ráth Cairn appear to him in a moment of danger (Benjamin 1969:257) as he contemplates the disappearance of the Irish language and of the Gaeltacht. In Chapter 4 we saw how Máirtín Mac Donncha’s lament for Darach Ó Catháin and his poem about Ráth Cairn are grounded in prophetic time. The present is an interregnum between past and future ideals, whether of ideal sociality (sean-nós occasions) or ideal political orders (the past and future unity of Ireland). The time of sean-nós performance, like the time of hospitality and gift-giving, is incompatible with and falls out of linear historical time, the time of historical progress (Benjamin 1969:263). I was told many stories about Máirtín’s father, about how if he met you on the road he would forget about his farm work if the occasion demanded a chat or song. Máirtín’s Ráth Cairn poem celebrates the liberatory potential of technology—“The sowing is done in just one day with a tractor and a machine.” The implication is that this freedom from toil will release energies for sociality. The oldest generation of Ráth Cairn understood this, and as Máirtín said to me, “they were great crack” (bhí an-chraic iontub).21 The following generation, Máirtín’s own, was concerned mainly with technology and economic progress for its own sake and had lost sight of utopian goals: “The old people never used to talk about money or land or cattle or anything. It was 21. Crack: artful conversation and sociality. See Chapters 2, 4, and 7. 220 only—O, yeah, the young people now talking about silage and bales of hay. And milk quotas and things like that.”22 One of the main functions of verbal art in the Gaeltacht seems to be to keep the mythic in play, both thematically and in the social relations recreated in performance. “A Cat and a Mouse in a Box” If Irish is dead she is dead and ten million more pages of folklore will not bring back for our posterity any glimmer of the life it lacks. If Irish is dead our future generations will be as proud of this ‘past of a dead civilization’––Seán Ó Súilleabháin’s wax cylinders––as a bride who finds the corpse of her husband’s first wife in her marriage bed.23 (Ó Cadhain, 1990 [1950]:154) Benjamin (1969:263) argued that the social order of modernity was underlain by a particular concept of history: the idea of “the historical progress of mankind” as it advances through “homogenous empty time.” Anderson (1983) appropriated Benjamin’s insight for his theory of nationalism. But there seems to be a disjunction, in Ireland at any rate, between the rationalized homogenous 22. Ní bhíodh an sean-dream ag caint ar airgead na ar thalamh na ar bheithigh na ar thada. Ní raibh ann ach––O yeah, an dream óg anois ag caint ar silage agus baleannaí féir. Agus quota bainne agus rudaí mar sin (7/8/97). The use of English words here is deliberate and marked. See Chapter 6. 23. Má tá an Ghaeilge marbh tá sí marbh agus ní thiúrfadh deich milliún leathnach eile béaloideasa ar ais dár sliocht aon dé den tsaol ar dhe í. Má tá an Ghaeilge marbh cuirfeadh an ‘past of a dead civilization’ seo––ceirníní Sheáin Uí Shúilleabháin––an oiread céanna bróid ar ghlúinte ár sleachta, is a bheadh ar bhrídeog a gheobhadh corp céad mhná a fir ina leaba pósta. 221 space-time of the state and the space-time of nationalism, at least in its revolutionary moment.24 The poet and educator, Pádraig Pearse, went to live in Ros Muc in the Connemara Gaeltacht, learning Irish and absorbing the ethics and aesthetics of Irish-speaking culture. It was in the name of a Gaelic social and cultural order (as he imagined it) that Pearse led the hopelessly outgunned Easter Rising of 1916—a victory of self-sacrifice and messianic time over the rationalized spacetime of the colonial order.25 Beginning with Eamon De Valera’s populist administration in 1932, political and media control under Fianna Fail rule consolidated the Irish state as an imagined community. This process included the deployment of a new linguistic regime: an anglophone state (largely retained from colonial times) with Gaelic window-dressing. Refunctionalizing the Irish language as a “beautiful jewel” (Ó Ciosáin 1993:182) in the postcolonial crown entailed the ideological erasure of actual Irish-speaking communities through their folklorization and mythification as exemplary centers of Irishness, along with their actual destruction through emigration and underdevelopment. 24. Nowadays, as the Irish state attempts to reinvent itself in a technocratic vein, there is for all intents and purposes no official annual Independence Day or celebration of nationhood except perhaps St. Patrick’s Day; since the 1970s the Easter Rising has been publicly commemorated mainly by Republican groups. Many overtly nationalist textbooks were revised and even old nationalist ballads were removed from the school curriculum since the 1970s. 25. The Easter Rising was denounced by one provincial Irish paper as “a Poet’s rebellion with too much literature” involved; “the Crazy Rebellion was the work chiefly of a lot of Crazy Poets. This has surprised people as far away as Chicago...” (quoted in Lee 1989:35). 222 Within the space of the new Irish nation-state, Irish and the Gaeltacht became a spectacle, a fixed symbolic image of the past and the unchanging essence of the nation. But the state’s ideological imaginings of Gaelicness were contradicted by those of Irish-speakers themselves, who had a completely different relation to the past and whose life experience was rooted in what was, already by the 18th century, an oppositional discourse within the emerging order of modernity. In the 20th century, an Irish-language counter-public sphere emerged which was based equally in the Gaeltacht and among urban Irishspeakers. An example of this counter-public sphere was the Irish-language socialist weekly newspaper, An t–Éireannach (The Irishman), published in the 1930s (Ó Ciosáin 1993) with an urban and Gaeltacht base. A typical figure in this process was Máirtín Ó Cadhain, whose imprisonment by De Valera during the Emergency (W. W. II) and subsequent political and literary interventions exemplified his role as the Gaelic bad conscience of the new Irish state. As a young man in 1930s Connemara, Ó Cadhain played a leading role in Muintir na Gaeltachta, and participated in the cycling trip to meet De Valera in Dublin on Easter weekend 1934—the anniversary of Pearse’s uprising. In August of 1934 Ó Cadhain gave a speech in An Ceathrú Rua (in Connemara) urging Gaeltacht people to take part in the land campaign. His speech was a clear-headed analysis of the political, economic and linguistic realities of the Irish state, where English and English-speakers had the upper 223 hand, even in the newly-designated official Gaeltacht areas. He saw little hope for bilingualism in the narrow confines of a state where the Irish and English languages couldn’t live together “any more than a cat and a mouse could live together in a box” (An t-Éireannach, 1/9/34). Ó Crualaoich (1989) has shown how Ó Cadhain’s literary work drew upon the discourse of folklore, that is, on the living linguistic culture of the subaltern. This is especially true of this 1934 speech, which situated political analysis firmly within the cognitive framework of Irish language folkloric discourse. Thus, arguing against the Government’s policy of turning the Gaeltacht into geographically defined welfare ghettos, Ó Cadhain said “We, the people of the Gaeltacht, are not willing to be made into a separate people or to have any Black Pig’s Dike put around us to entrap us” (see Chapter 2). 26 “The Black Pig’s Dyke” is a figure from storytelling; Ó Cadhain’s use of it invokes a universe of discourse familiar to his Connemara audience, but not familiar to outsiders. His eloquence is grounded in the symbolic values of storytelling, which functions as a high register in the Gaeltacht. The Cumann na nGael government27 had attempted to relocate Connemara people from the coast onto reclaimed bog land in the mountainous 26. Níl muide, muinntear na Gaedhealtachta, sásta daoine ar leith a dhéanamh dínn ná Claidhe na Muice Duibhe ar bith a chur orainn le muid a sháinniú. 27. Cumann na nGael represented the pro-Treaty side in the Civil War and was the historical predecessor to the present-day Fine Gael party, the second-largest party in Ireland after Fianna Fáil. Cumann na nGael was a conservative party and had a pseudo-fascist element during the 1930s, the “Blueshirts.” The term Blueshirt is still used as a term of abuse for members of Fine Gael. 224 townland of Seana-Phéistín. The project was soon abandoned, but De Valera’s government attempted to revive it in response to Muintir na Gaeltachta’s land agitation. Referring to this, Ó Cadhain said that the “gruagach gránna” [ugly specter or giant] of Seana-Phéistín was raised again from the grave of Cumann na nGael.” Ó Cadhain’s speech resembles what his contemporary, Walter Benjamin, described as a “dialectical fairy tale” (Buck-Morss 1989:273)—a celebration of human cunning, the capacity, through “awakening,” to outwit history, which has placed a spell on the dreaming collective, and has kept its members unconscious. Hegel’s “cunning of reason” literally deifies history, affirming the myth of progress. For Benjamin [however], cunning is the trick whereby human subjects get the better of mythic powers. Ó Cadhain’s speech makes a similar reversal of perspective, identifying state policies with monstrous mythic powers and urging the people of the Gaeltacht to awaken from and fight “the curse of Cromwell.” A scene among ruins Late in his life, Máirtín Ó Cadhain made a film in which he returns to his native townland in Connemara, An Cnocán Glas. In one scene, he stands among the stone walls, rocky fields and the ruins of his ancestors’ houses and recalls his childhood. “We often told each other, when we were children, that [these stone constructions] were the feats of Fionn and the Fianna Éirinn.”28 But it wasn’t the 28. The Fianna were mythical culture-heroes, led by Fionn Mac Cumhaill and represented in folklore as belonging to a warrior-band. Such bands existed in early Irish society—an age-grade to which young men belonged between childhood and full adulthood, 225 Fianna but his own people who built this landscape—what appeared to be natural or even supernatural in the landscape was what Benjamin and Lukács termed “second nature,” human technology. Ó Cadhain the writer, transformed into an urban intellectual, is trying to come to grips with the fact that he is still inseparable from the community of his youth,29 but that this community has changed and moved on, just as he himself has. The Fenian tales and miraculous stories he loved as a child—“the literature of the poor” with which he and his friends tried “to fool [ourselves out of] our hunger” (le dallamullóg a chur ar ar gcuid ocrais)—contained a utopian impulse, what Benjamin would call a vision of “ur-history.” Ó Cadhain, in his moment of dis-enchantment among the ruins, now sees this impulse in its proper place, in the historical life of the human community. Benjamin (1969:257) maintains that the past “can be seized only as an image which flashes up at the instant when it can be recognized and is never seen again.” Something of this sort happens in Ó Cadhain’s film as he recalls the midsummer ritual of his youth, the lighting of bonfires on St. John’s Eve: Here it is. A person would think that everything had changed except the stones. But but these too have changed more or less. For around this stone [?]—this is An Cnocán Glas [a place name: The Green Hill]—it is from this airy hill that the townland got its name. The houses are there, they were around this townland. There were houses there [pointing]. regarded by society as liminally “wild” and part of nature. 29. Addressing the people of his townland in the voiceover, he says he cannot put pen to paper without “you coming between myself and the paper” (ag dul idir mé féin agus an páipéar). The phrase suggests interference; Ó Cadhain’s point is that his people are the true medium of all hi artistic creation. 226 There were houses there. There was a house there, for example, and one of the people who taught Irish in Maynooth was from there. But for thirty years or so the houses have been moving from here and going down along the road. Here is where the bonfires used to be. I remember them well. I remember the people gathered round them. I remember the fód coise [burning sods of turf] being brought home. I remember, I remember the fód coise being put in the embers at home. I remember the fód coise being thrown into the gardens and the fields. And thrown at the livestock. From this airy hill, this Green Hill, you could see maybe 50 fires. Fifty bonfires on St. John’s Eve. Away from you to the east, east towards Galway, west out as far as An Cnoc. And there was a ring of bonfires, around Caoláire na Gaillimhe, around Galway Bay, [and] ... County Clare. Westwards to Ceann Boirne [Burren Head] and westwards to Ceann na Caillí [Hag’s Head]. There is no bonfire here any more, because, because there aren’t many houses left. It isn’t here that bonfires are built nowadays. 30 The scene in the film is quite striking as Ó Cadhain points at the places around him while delivering a litany of “I remember” and place names. 30. Seod é. Cheapfadh duine gur athríodh chuile short, b’fhéidir, ar an mbaile seo ach ábhar na clocha. Ach athraíodh siad sin féin ina mbeagán nó ina mórán. Mar timpeall ar an liagán [? = (standing) stone, monolith] seo, seod é An Cnocán Glas, an áit seo, an cnocán aerach seo, a fuair an baile a ainm. Tá na tithe sin, timpeall an liagán seo a bhí siad. Bhí tithe ansin [ag spáint]. Bhí tithe ansin. Bhí tithe ansin. Bhí teach ansin cur i gcás, agus b’as, duine de na daoine a bhí ag múineadh Gaeilge i Maigh Nuad sa gcéad seo caite. Ach le deich mbliana fichid nó mar sin tá na tithe ag athrú as seo, is ag dul síos le bóthar. Anseo a bhíodh na tinte cnámha ann. Cuimhrím go maith orthu. Cuimhrím ar na daoine bailithe timpeall orthu. Cuimhrím ar na fóid coise dhá dtabhairt abhaile. Cuimhrím ar na fóid coise dhá gcuir sa ngríosach sa mbaile. Cuimhrím ar na fóid coise dhá gcaitheamh isteach sna garrantaí is sna goirt. Is dhá gcaitheamh (?) ar na beithígh. Ón gcnocán aerach seo, an cnocán glas, d’fheicfeá b’fhéidir leathchéad tine. Leathchéad tine chnámh Oíche Shin Sheáin. Uait soir, soir anall as Gaillimh, siar, siar amach anall (?) chomh fada leis an gcnoc. Agus bhí fáinne de thinte cnámhe, thimpeall Caoláire na Gaillimhe, thimpeall Cuan na Gaillimhe [unclear] Condae an Chláir. Siar go Ceann Bóirne agus siar go Ceann na Caillí. Níl aon tine chnámh anseo feasta, mar, níl mórán tithe fágtha. Ní anseo atá an tine chnámh feasta. 227 Saint John’s eve is a ritual of community regeneration, when the worlds of the living and dead came into contact. The lit “travelling sods” (fóid choise) were carried to individual hearths and fields, and hurled at animals, to bring them fertility and protection. The ring of watch-fires recalls those of the Fianna, and a legend known to Ó Cadhain31 has it that these fires were the signal for the people to rise up against the occupying “Danes” at the time of Brian Boru (Danaher 1972:134-53). Ó Cadhain’s litany-like recitation of this recalled ritual and of the locations of houses and bonfires reminds us that dialectical images are based in the history and ritual of communities, and that the act of memory is performative, an operation in and on the present (cf. Feldman 1991). The flow of his narrative directs our attention from the mythical Fianna to the living community of the past, then shows us that this life, for better or worse, has moved on: it isn’t here that bonfires are built nowadays. The moment of sublation reveals itself visually, in an instantaneous flash wherein the old is illuminated precisely at the moment of it disappearance. This fleeting image of truth “is not a process of exposure which destroys the secret, but a revelation which does it justice.” (Benjamin quoted in Buck-Morss, see below) The spark of life, which Ó Cadhain both literally and figuratively recalls, is an image of ur-history, of a classless society. Such images belie the official mythologies of modernity, progress, and linear time; they are like the initial day of a calendar which serves as a historical time-lapse camera. And, basically, it is the same day that keeps recurring in 31. Recounted in Raiftearaí’s long historical poem, Seanchas na Sceiche; cf. Chapter 4). 228 the guise of holidays, which are days of remembrance (Benjamin 1969:263). The living and the dead The opposition between the living and the dead, “an beo agus an marbh,” was Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s political master trope. His novel, Cré na Cille (Ó Cadhain 1949), was set among the corpses of a graveyard, a site which allegorically fused a vision of the contemporary Gaeltacht, a satirical portrait of the Irish state, and memories of his recent internment by that state in the Currach Camp, County Kildare (see Chapter 7). In one episode in Cré na Cille, various characters discuss The Frenchman, a downed WWII pilot who has learned Irish in the Graveyard. He undertakes a linguistic survey of dental consonants in “the dialect of the Half-guinea”—the Half-Guinea is the cheapest of the graveyard’s three plots—but is disqualified by “the Institute [of Advanced Studies]” for learning “too much Irish––of a kind that isn’t dead throughout the scheduled periods––and since they suspect that a few words of it are Revival Irish, he has to unlearn every syllable of it until he is qualified to do that research properly.” He is assigned to collect the community’s “spent folklore” (béaloideas caillte), “so future generations of Gael-corpses will know what kind of life existed before them in the republic of Gael-corpses” (Ó Cadhain 1949:239). The popular culture of the Gaeltacht was received by urban anglophone elite culture in terms of “folklore” and––once it was safely dead—collected and 229 archived in Dublin. This reflected the predominant view of the modernizing elites of the Irish state who saw the Irish language, its culture, and even its speakers as relics of the (glorious, national) past (cf. Ó Giolláin 1989, 1993, 1996). In 1950, addressing Cumann na Scríbhneoirí in Dublin, Ó Cadhain delivered a bitter polemic against such an idea of “folklore” (1990 [1950]:154-56). He asked his listeners to imagine a circle drawn around a few streets in central Dublin, a circle which took in Trinity College, the Royal Irish Academy, the National Museum, the Irish Folklore Commission and its archives, University College Dublin, and the Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies. This circle, he suggested, was the “Chief-Cemetery of Ireland” (Príomh-Chill Éireann), the Newgrange32 of the Irish state. In it was “The Dead Clay” (An Chré Mharbh)––the calcified culture of Irish Ireland and its (equally calcified) caretakers, the scholars, in whose number he included himself “and my little Medieval pile of clay.” This he contrasted with “The Living Clay” (An Chré Bheo) of the surviving Gaeltacht, and the living imagination embodied in its people and their language and culture. Here Ó Cadhain extended the metaphor he developed in Cré na Cille––of clay as the transformative essence of social life––and used it to profoundly critique the Irish state and the modernizing discourse which worked to marginalize Irish language and traditions.33 “Clay” (An Chré) was the concrete 32. Newgrange: Brú na Bóinne, a megalithic tomb (c. 5000b.p.) in County Meath. 33. See Chapter 7. 230 dialectical image Ó Cadhain employed to remind us, as Susan Buck-Morss (1989:146) put it, that precisely by giving up nostalgic mimicking of the past and paying strict attention to the new nature, the ur-image are reanimated. Such is the logic of historical images, in which collective wish images are negated, surpassed, and at the same time dialectically redeemed. Conclusions We have seen how the medieval sovereignty myth was transformed in the popular consciousness of the Gaeltacht. The triple image of the Goddess of Sovereignty, the King, and the Poet has given way to images of nature and antinature and fleeting images of community and sociality in poetry and storytelling. Images of ur-history are not overtly “political,” but animate implicit critiques of “modern” social relations. Aesthetically, these images work in a manner similar to montage, where fragmentary elements are presented in contiguity, while making connections between them is a task left to the audience. This is in keeping with the allegorical aesthetics of sean-nós song (Chapter 9), being based on fragments, a poetics of death, the making of indexical connections over time between events, people, etc., and featuring an incompleteness of expression which requires the active involvement of an audience. As far as I have been able to tell, the remarkably similar series of images of human sociality—Ráth Cairn as a ring of light and as a guiding light in the midst of darkness, and Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s ring of bonfires around Galway Bay—were 231 independently conceived out of a common stock of cultural images. It is interesting that St. John’s Eve and Christmas rites formed opposite ends of the yearly calendar, being relatively “pagan” and “Christian” festivals of community and family regeneration. I am quite struck by the “Durkheimian” (1965 [1915]) features, as collective representations, both of these festivals and of the images of rings of light. But Durkheim saw collective representations as operating mainly on a synchronic plane—as the direct impression of forms of sociality on an individual human psyche which is itself fundamentally pre-social. I hope to have shown the much greater complexity of the Irish images discussed here. These are essentially diachronic, while functioning allegorically—more on the indexical plane than the symbolic plane. They are constructed in memory, and in a way, have more to do with structuring collective ritual than they are structured by this ritual. In Ó Cadhain’s writings and speeches, these dialectical images become overtly political, using the discourse of folklore as a cognitive framework to critique the social relations of the state. Although raised in an environment rich in traditional stories, song and poetry, Ó Cadhain refused to regard this folklore as a fixed national “heritage” or “treasure.” Rather than seeing folklore as something enduring, Ó Cadhain saw it as something ephemeral. He celebrated this aspect of folklore, remarking that fairies were getting scarce in Connemara, driven away by blasting for new roads. Rather than preserving disembodied “traditions,” Ó Cadhain advocated the elimination of poverty in Ireland and the 232 creation of a just social system, preserving the communities that gave birth to these traditions. His attitude to the artifacts of folklore paralleled that of Benjamin’s critique of historicism—the “cautious detachment” with which the historical materialist views “cultural treasures” (Benjamin 1969:258). CHAPTER SIX VOICE: THE NATION, THE STATE, AND THE NEIGHBORS Something about a bicycle One day a few years ago I was driving to work from Ráth Cairn and I stopped to give a lift to an elderly woman who was going to visit a relation about a mile down the road. We spoke in Irish as usual and she mentioned that she usually makes the trip by bicycle but wanted a lift that day owing to the rain. Then she added, “I suppose you use the word but we always say .” When I asked her why she didn’t use the term rothar (the normal Irish word for bicycle) she said that she would never use the word in conversation with members of her own generation—“the word we use is Irish shows many variations in both grammar and vocabulary even over quite small geographical distances. Ráth Cairn shows a fair amount of “dialectal” variation even within individual families, where family members come from different parts of Connemara. One happily married couple seem to find no difficulty in using two different words for “dog’, (madra) and (gadhar), to refer to the same well-trained animal living in their back garden. Seemingly 233 234 the marriage between gadhar and mada is an easier one than that between baidhskl and rothar. Some differences make more of a difference than others. The rejection of rothar by Irish speakers born in the 1920s is quite notable considering the term was already in use in the 1890s. Ironically, it may have been coined by none other than Father Peadar Ó Laoghaire, who is best remembered as the staunch advocate of caint na ndaoine (colloquial speech; literally “the people’s speech”) in Irish writing. An article published in 1896 in Irisleabhar na Gaedhilge (The Gaelic Journal)1 gives a list of 43 terms composed by Ó Laoghaire for various parts of the bicycle, along with the prediction that the bicycle would be of great assistance to advocates of Irish (lucht chosanta na Gaeilge), and that it would be a great embarrassment to them to not have an Irish term for every part of their machines. Ó Laoghaire was a native speaker of Irish and the author of Séadna, the first novel written in the language.2 He derived his terms for bicycle parts through metaphorical extension and adaptation of existing Irish terms for body parts, parts of other wheeled vehicles and terms associated with horse livery. The term rothar itself is derived from roth (wheel). The article was published at the cusp of a tremendous world-wide fad for bicycles, which, in Ireland, happened to coincide with a fad for the Irish language. Conradh na Gaeilge (The Gaelic League) had recently been founded, and 1. Irisleabhar na Gaedhilge (6)11:176; 1896. This article was discussed by Liam Ó Muirthile in his weekly column in the Irish Times, 2/18/93. 2. Séadna was composed entirely in direct speech, as was Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s novel, Cré na Cille (see Chapter 7). 235 its organizers were soon busy cycling around the country spreading the creed of Irish (along with céilí dancing). The Gaelic League’s Irish classes were popular in part because they provided an occasion for men and women to socialize together outside of the purview of the Church. Likewise, the bicycle offered young people, especially women, a new degree of independence and mobility. The new machine and the national language both provided new avenues for sociality as well as offering the promise of new forms of community. In its early years, the Gaelic League was the first nonsectarian popular movement in Ireland since the heyday of the United Irishmen in the 1790s. It marked a decisive turn from elite antiquarian interest in the language to popular efforts to revive Irish as a national language. The Gaelic League spawned literary revivals in both languages 3 and eventually gave birth to the independent Irish state. Urban gaeilgeoirí (Irish language enthusiasts) are still infamously associated with bicycles, as in Flann Ó Brien’s phrase “Gaelic morons with their handball medals and bicycle clips” (Kiberd 1996:498). Presumably these living stereotypes (Cronin 1989), if they still exist, can be found traversing the country on two wheels, armed with all 43 of Ó Laoghaire’s terms for bicycle parts. Irish, with its fine-grained dialectal differences, is an example of a weakly standardized language; in some respects it could even stand for the linguistic 3. The elevation of “Anglo-Irish” dialects to a vehicle for serious literature (by Douglas Hyde, J.M. Synge and others) coincided with and was dependent on the similar elevation and revival of Irish. 236 situation in Europe before what Anderson (1983) called the “assembly process” of both nation-states and their official “national” languages (more on this later). Nation-builders in Ireland have been language builders too, of course, and the relatively newly-coined word rothar is a seemingly innocent example of this process, which goes on all over Europe. But it is famously rejected in the Gaeltacht. When the term is used, it is often treated as something less than a fullfledged citizen of the Irish language. Ó Siadhail (1983:205-8) points out that in the dialect of Cois Fharraige (varieties of which are spoken by most Ráth Cairn people) rothar would be pronounced ro:r. But since the word is a modern coinage, is more often used. Other examples are Irish names of months, introduced through the school system and similarly treated as a loan-words. Older people tend to use English words for some, but not all of the names of months. But the English loan word bicycle is has been given full linguistic citizenship ( , “my bicycle;” , “on the bicycle,” etc.). “We-language” and “they language” When speaking of lexical differences, I have heard Ráth Cairn people (like the woman who says ) use the phrase an focal s’againne (“our word”). This “ours” refers to the local center of social value, and depending on the context, can mean the family, the townland, community, or various wider 237 collectivities like Connemara or those who speak like Connemara people.4 The sense of ownership is grounded in performance, talk and verbal art, in specific gatherings in specific hearths, sessions, etc. If one cared to formalize this view as a semiotic theory, one would say that form and value are brought together in performance by specific groups of people (the “we” impled in s’againne) talking about specific things. “S’againne” is used in this sense for much more than words. Gaeltacht culture in general has been resolutely local; authority and value are grounded in locality and community. Hence the relative lack of enthusiasm from Gaeltacht people for standard Irish, and their high tolerance for, and even indifference to, dialectal variations. For a certain generation of Irish-speakers, the suspicion of rothar is the suspicion of standardized language as a superposed register––something imposed from above, as opposed to what we say or what they say in the next parish or townland. Standardized language in its full-blown form is the creation of the nation-state, and a creature of a different set of ideologies of language and linguistic value. The nation-state is also predicated on maintaining a sense of “we-ness,” but often justifies standardizing language in terms of referential clarity rather than local groundedness. At the “processural top and center” (Silverstein n.d.:51) of the nation-state are its own authoritative performances, located in the acts of 4. When speaking about a dialect as a whole, Gaeltacht people tend to use phrases like “the Connemara man” (fear Chonamara), as in “The Connemara man would say x.” 238 its regimenting institutions, the media, schooling, etc., and in the speech of those it privileges.5 A standardized register of a language, used in prestigious contexts and by important people, takes on the power and prestige of its surroundings, and is felt to be the most precise and flexible instrument of thought and communication. This rationalization (in both senses of the term) of the standard reflexively constructs all other varieties of the language as “dialect”—“local color,” material for the Roddy Doyles, Dickenses, and Mark Twains of the world to work with. While the ideology of Gaeltacht people locates power and value in place and community, for what Silverstein (n.d.) terms “the standardizing imagination,” power and value are found in a transcendent code which is felt to not reflect a limited local point of view but rather the context-free “view form nowhere” of rational objectivity (Errington 1998). From this perspective—a perspective that denies being a perspective—in overcoming one’s limited point of view one also overcomes the limits of one’s “own” language. But what of Peadar Ó Laoghaire and his terms for bicycle parts? His concern wasn’t so much with referential clarity as with national identity, that advocates of Irish shouldn’t have to shamefacedly resort to “English” to talk about their bicycles, much less to name them. Here, language ideally demarcates populations (Urciuoli 1995; Irvine and Gal to appear) on a one-to-one basis. But for the Irish to “deanglicize” their speech, their language must be complete—able 5. Note that bourgeois performances often pretend to be non-performances; the lecture or the dictionary, for example. 239 to referentially parse the new world of technology as well as the old world of tradition. In a tightly drawn circle, the issue of identity brings us back to a concern with the perfection of the code as an instrument of referential clarity. To this day, the same ideological circle dominates debates about the standardization of Irish. The ideological connections between language use and social identity can be more complicated than this. Joseph Errington (1998:156-5), elaborating on Gumperz’ (1982:64-72) discussion of code-switching between minority and majority languages, notes that typically the two languages are functionally differentiated by their speakers as metaphorically “we” language versus “they” language. These contrasting codes are associated with in-groups and out-groups, which are characterized by relatively closed versus relatively open social networks. Mastery of the “we” code is thus grounded in nonverbalized shared understandings to a greater degree than is mastery of the “they” language. Mastery of the “they” code involves an understanding of the “relatively explicit, context-free norms which inform use of that out-group language” (Errington 1998:157; cf. Gumperz 1982:71). From this perspective, we can reexamine Gaeltacht-based Irish speakers’s use of “bicycle” versus “rothar” as examples of “we” code versus “they” code. Rothar is metaphorically de-voiced in the Cois Fhairrge dialect—treated as a word from outside. Although Irish speakers are aware that bicycle is an “English” 240 word, it has been fully possessed by Irish.6 Outsiders, who are typically learners of Irish, may not recognize a phrase like (my bicycle) at all. An Irish-learner like myself thus passes through three concentric “languages”—English on the outside, then Irish, and at the center of “we-ness,” English again, but an “English” that has been repossessed by Irish speakers. The instant I appeared in Ráth Cairn, I was given an Irish version of my name (Stiofán) as befits a budding “gaeilgeoir.”7 The first time I met the elderly woman I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, she asked me (in Irish) what my name was. I said it was Steve, but that people called me Stiofán. She replied that after I was in Ráth Cairn a while longer, people would start calling me Steve again. By this she meant that I would acquire “Steve” as an informal nickname as opposed to the formal “Stiofán.” This Steve2 would index familiarity, a familiarity I might not have easily achieved had I insisted from the start on being called Steve1. Similarly, Ráth Cairn people sometimes tease “blow-in” Irish speakers who have settled in the community by addressing them by English versions of their names. I have seen people get quite upset at such treatment, but it seems to be intended as a welcoming gesture. For a long time, Gaeltacht people who spent time working in England or America have been quite used to dual 6. Lillis Ó Laoire suggested the term “possession” (sealbhú) to describe this phenomenon. 7. I asked a friend once how one knows, upon meeting a stranger, if he or she is also an Irish speaker. The first thing he mentioned in response was “if their name is in Irish.” The Gaelic League encourages Irish-speakers to wear a special ring-shaped pin (An Fáinne) to identify themselves, but these are currently very much out of fashion with younger people. 241 names; thus one person was both Dudley Kane and Darach Ó Catháin—the migrant worker in England and the sean-nós singer in Ireland. As described by Gumperz, “we” and “they” codes function as “restricted” and “generalized” codes in the manner Bernstein (1971) has suggested. This view should be qualified in light of Labov’s (1982 [1969]) critique of Bernstein, to the effect that the difference is ideological as much as it is grounded in actual semiotic differences in the codes themselves. In the case of “local” versus “standard” Irish, their use is grounded in the ideologies I have outlined above—an idea that speech gets its value from locally and personally grounded performance, versus an idea that the value of language is grounded in its referential clarity. These ideological differences partially coincide with two different theoretical views of the nature of the sign, that of Bakhtin and Peirce on the one hand, and that of Saussure on the other. For Peirce any sign has three parts, the Representamen (or sign vehicle), the Object to which it refers, and its Interpretant, a more developed sign which results from any actual event of sign-usage. Saussure and those who follow him ignore the performative dimension and locate linguistic “value” entirely in the structure of a transcendent synchronic system of signs. The linguistic sign for Saussure is the combination of a sound-image and a concept. The “value” of any one linguistic sign is the outcome of its systematic relation to all other signs in the language system. It is interesting that for Peirce (8.331) the paradigmatic example of the sign relation is the gift (A gives B to C), whereas for Saussure the 242 paradigmatic example of linguistic value is the commodity, where (as Simmel points out) objects receive their exchange value through the mediation of an abstract and totalizing system of value, money (Simmel 1990:120). Saussurean linguistics has had great difficulties dealing with the relation of language to its object (the referent of a sign) as well as to its users (the speaking subject). Saussure’s doctrine of the arbitrariness of the linguistic sign locates the motivation of the relation between concept and sound-image in the language system as a whole rather than in any act of language use. The language system acts to carve up the conceptual world into concepts, through which we can perhaps recognize the “things out there” in the real world. But the existence of such a real world is not strictly necessary to the theory, and is even problematic to it. While Peirce’s theory describes very well the practice of both Gaeltacht people and the nation-state––their uses of language––Saussure’s theory is a mirror image of the ideology of the nation-state and its “standardizing imagination.” The nation-state attempts to socially realize Saussure’s theoretical dream of an abstract unitary language system, in a world where national languages ideally parse national populations in the same 1:1 ratio that for ideal Saussurean langue characterizes the unity of the sound-image and the concept. Here, the locus of anxiety is the boundaries––boundaries between word-concepts, between languages, between populations. Peirce’s and Bakhtin’s theories focus 243 on centers––acts of reference, of situated use of signs, while Saussure’s theory focuses on boundaries––systemic distinctions between linguistic signs. In Bakhtin’s (1981:271) terms, a “unitary language,” the “expression of the centripetal forces of language, ... is not something given but is always in essence posited––and at every moment of its linguistic life it is opposed to the realities of heteroglossia.” Unitary language is both something which is believed in (by the ideology of both the nation-state and traditional normative and descriptive linguistics), and something enforced by the regimentation of the state and its institutions. In opposition to these forces are what Bakhtin calls “centrifugal forces” which create or manifest “heteroglossia.” Performance, authoritative use of language in context, leaves behind what Bakhtin calls a “taste.” Thus, All words have the “taste” of a profession, a genre, a tendency, a party, a particular work, a particular person, a generation, an age group, the day and the hour. Each word tastes of the context or contexts in which it has lived its socially charged life; all words and forms are populated by intentions. Contextual overtones (generic, tendentious, individualistic) are inevitable in the word (Bakhtin 1981:293). Negotiating one’s own taste in lexical matters is a delicate business in a socially stratified society. Máirtín Ó Cadhain himself was vexed by the bicycle question. In his 1969 memoir Páipéir Bhána Agus Páipéir Bhreaca he writes: The English words that have come into the [Irish] speech are a troublesome matter. I heard an Irish scholar saying he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘rothar’––bicycle, that is, that maybe if he tried and imposed enough hardship on the learned instruments of his mouth he could manage to utter it, but on principle he wouldn’t. But if I myself said ‘rothar’ among the people I grew up with I’m 244 afraid they’d think I was being conceited. But I couldn’t find it in myself to utter the term they themselves use, ‘baidhsilic’, either. It’s not just that Irish scholar who needs a psychiatrist!8 Here Ó Cadhain juxtaposes two different linguistic ideologies. One involves a discourse of linguistic “purity.” Thus the linguist objects that rothar isn’t native to the dialect and violates its phonological rules, and by extension, the linguist’s own mouth as a carefully crafted simulacrum of the dialect in all its purity. Compare this statement to the dilemma of the dead Frenchman in Cré na Cille who is forced by “the Institute” to unlearn all his Irish to rid itself of “Revival Irish” and other forms of linguistic pollution.9 For Ó Cadhain such purity can only exist in language that is “fully dead,” objectified and preserved as a national treasure or heritage. As we will see in Chapter 7, he associated such notions of purity with lyric poetry, Romanticism, and conservative nationalism. In contrast, Ó Cadhain advocated “rough” prose, as language which fully answered to the “roughness” of life itself (Ó Cadhain 1969:36-37). In the passage quoted above, Ó Cadhain contrasts the ideology of purity with a Gaeltacht ethos of solidarity. The ideology of the local and personal rejects the term rothar as belonging to a “they” code—a superposed register. Thus, someone using the word rothar would be accused of “getting above himself.” The 8. Is cúrsa crosta iad na focla Béarla atá teagtha isteach sa gcaint. Chuala mé scoláire Gaeilge ag rá nach bhféadfadh sé rothar a rá, bicycle deile, go mb'fhéidir dhá dtaithíodh sé é agus anró aírid a chur ar ghléasannaí oilte a bhéil go n-éireodh leis é a rá, ach ar phrinciple nach ndéarfadh. Ach dhá ndeirinn féin rothar i gcomhlódar na ndaoine ar éirigh mé suas leo bheadh faitíos orm go sílfidís gur suimiúlacht a bheadh orm. Ach ní bhfaighinn ionam féin leagan eile atá acu féin air a rá ach oiread, ‘baidhsilic'. Teastaíonn siceolaí ó dhaoine seachas an scoláire Gaeilge sin! (Ó Cadhain 1969:18). 9. Ó Cadhain 1949:239; cf. my discussion of this passage in Chapter 5. 245 use of English loanwords, sometimes altered almost beyond recognition in local speech (as in the form baidhsilic) is part of the contrasting “we” code in Ó Cadhain’s own community. But Ó Cadhain himself felt embarrassed to utter forms like baidhsilic, probably due to the fact that he was far more familiar with speaking English than the generation before him was. Thus the salience of bicycle as an “English” word would have been far greater for Ó Cadhain than it was for his elders. The linguist de Bhaldraithe (1953:1) has documented a change in the phonology of English loan words in Cois Fhairrge Irish (Ó Cadhain’s dialect) which roughly corresponded to this generational difference. “New loan words” were thus phonologically closer to their English originals than “old” loan-words. Thus the English word job, borrowed as a verbal lexical element into Irish was realized in Irish, first as , then as . Likewise trap was borrowed, first as tra:p, then as træp’. In both cases, the old and new borrowings carried contrasting lexical meanings in their Irish usages. Changes in the phonological realization of loan-words might “feel,” to speakers such as Ó Cadhain, like a yielding to the symbolic power of English. But the solution to this problem, the coining of “native” terms in Irish, often amounted to an even greater yielding to English, in Ó Cadhain’s estimation. Thus, the passage quoted above continues, I count as indirect, if unintentional, attacks on the language many of the new words that are brought into Irish from English letter by 246 letter as it were, without regard to sound or anything. Irish is no longer able to have its own way with borrowings. 10 Ó Cadhain complained that older neologisms like léirmheastóir (critic) and amharclannn (theater), which, although awkward-sounding, were constructed from native Irish elements,11 were being replaced with words like critic or téatar. Not only do these words phonetically resemble their English counterparts, they are also calques of them, i.e., they derive their sense from the semantic system of English rather than that of Irish. Ní Laoire (1983), following Dorian’s (1981:101) observations about East Sutherland (Scots) Gaelic, analyzes the use of English borrowings as a register phenomenon, marking a degree of “informality” in the speech event.12 In the words of an office worker in a Gaeltacht coop, [I]f you used the Irish name or anything like that they’d think your Irish was a bit posh, or it wasn’t the kind of Irish they speak themselves, you know. They’d rather use a few English terms than 10. Comhairim féin in a ionsaí neamhdhíreach ar an teanga ag daoine nach ionsaí is rún dóibh go leor de na focla nua atá dhá dtabhairt isteach sa nGaeilge ón mBéarla litir ar an litir mar déarfá, gan aird ar fhuaim ná eile. Mar fhocla Béarla adéarfar go brách iad. Níl an Ghaeilge feasta i n-ann a cuid féin a dhéanamh den iasacht (Ó Cadhain 1969:18). 11. Léirmheastóir is constructed from roots glossable as SHOW + ESTIMATION + AGENTIVE; amharclann from VIEW + PLACE. 12. Ní Laoire assumes that the phenomenon of register involves variation along a single dimension—formality and informality of the speech event. But it is questionable whether formality represents a single dimension in the complex sociolinguistic situation of the Gaeltacht. Cf. Irvine 1984. 247 put Irish words on everything.13 In the testimony of this informant, the use of English terms primarily marks “weness,”—an informal social relationship. Gaeltacht coops are one of the main interfaces between the local community and the state (Chapter 2). Taking the example mentioned by this interviewee, if a representative of a coop, speaking to a local person, used the Irish noun taisceán rather than the English term, safe (i.e., a container for valuables), this could be felt to invoke their distinct positional identities as representatives of local versus non-local collectivities. It is the provenance of the term taisceán—its origin in the Standard—rather than any perceived formality or informality of the speech event, that would foreground these identities. Thus if I used the word taisceán speaking to a friend in Ráth Cairn, his likely response would be to comment, “That’s a nice word, ‘taisceán’!”(Is deas an focal é ‘taisceán’!). What is being mocked here is not formality (of code or of speech event), nor an idea of “good grammar” or even register itself. Speech forms are rejected which appear to derive their authority from social processes which are ideologically construed as outside of and “above” those of the Gaeltacht. In the discourse of personalism in the Gaeltacht, register and related phenomena are apperceived in terms of voice—the social and personal provenance of speech forms. Thus a Ráth Cairn man, objecting to the use of 13. [D]há ndéarfá an t-ainm Gaeilge nó rud ar bith mar sin cheapfaidís go raibh tú saghas ardnósach i do chuid Gaeilge nó nach shin an saghas Gaeilge a labhraíonn siad fhéin, you know. B’fhearr leo roinnt téarmaí Béarla a úsáid ná bheith ag cur focal Gaeilge ar chuile short (Mac an Iomaire 1983:1516; quoted in Ní Laoire 1988:297). 248 certain words on Raidió na Gaeltachta (R. na G.), asks “where did they get that?,” then answers his own question: “In the school”(Cá bhfuair siad é sin? Sa scoil.). Within Gaeltacht communities the discourse of personalism, backed by an ethic of solidarity, leads to the rejection of diglossia (Chapter 2). But this is a rejection, not only of English/Irish diglossia, but also of Irish-language standard registers. This ethos extends, in large part, to the management of Raidió na Gaeltachta, much to the puzzlement of the linguist Máirtín Ó Murchú (1984:18), who argued that written Standard Irish should be augmented by a spoken standard as well: When Raidió na Gaeltachta began, a new necessity was felt for standardization of the spoken language so that the speakers would be widely understood, and because they were worried about certain complaints that were being made regarding the quality of the Irish that was broadcast.... [In response] it was argued that it would be ‘completely unreasonable to expect anyone of them to speak anything other than their own natural dialect.’ This argument seems to reveal a complete disregard for the particular features that obviously pertain to cultivated speech in comparison to ordinary speech in any linguistic community.14 The response of the station’s management exemplifies the discourse of personalism insofar as it invokes one of the core values of Gaeltacht culture, “nature” (nádúr). 14. Nuair a thosaigh Raidió na Gaeltachta, braitheadh riachtanas as an nua le caighdeánú a dhéanamh ar an teanga labhartha toisc gur measadh deimhin a dhéanamh de go dtuigfí na cainteoirí raidió go forleathan, agus toisc go rabhthas imníoch faoi ghearáin áirithe a bhí á dhéanamh faoi chruinneas na Gaeilge a bhí á craoladh. ... áitíodh gur ‘mhíréasúnach ar fad a bheith ag súil go bhféadfadh aon duine acu rud ar bith eile a labhairt ach a chanúint nádúrtha féin.’ Is baolach go léiríonn an t-áiteamh sin neamhaird iomlán ar ne tréithe ar leith a bhaineann go follasach leis an gcaint chothaithe i gcomparáid le caint na muintire in aon phobal teanga. 249 Arguably, however, a new type of “cultivated speech” is in fact developing on R. na G. An example of this is the very name of the station, which is pronounced ræ:d’io: n∂ ge:lt∂xt∂ by announcers.15 In informal speech it would more often be called re:di:o: na ge:lt∂xt, omitting the word-final marker of the feminine singular genitive and treating radio as an unassimilated English loan word. In Ráth Cairn, Máirtín Mac Donncha frequently remarked to me that he knew what a re:di:o: was but never saw a ræ:d’io: in his life! Ó Murchú’s objection that the virtues of “cultivated speech” (caint chothaithe) are ignored by the station seems strange, considering that R. na G.’s programming is full of spoken and sung poetry, “hard talk” (cruachaint), heightened conversation, traditional storytelling and so on. These are the “formal registers” of Irish speech in the linguistic community of the Gaeltacht. Furthermore, as speech genres, they are similarly constituted in each of the three dialect areas. Thus they provide a (non-phonetic) basis for linguistic unity between the dialect areas. And R. na G. seems to have promoted a greater mutual intelligibility between dialects without resorting to a spoken standard Irish. But Ó Murchú’s objection is in fact a cultural rather than a linguistic one. Thus, he presents the choices available for the language as being to either develop it “as a broad multifunctional aspect of our culture” (mar ghné fhairsing ilfheidhmeach dár gcultúr) or “to leave it bound within the local folklore traditions 15. Ní Laoire (1988:297-98) cites similar phenomena on R. na G. 250 that have survived this long” (í a fhágáil fuaite laistigh de na traidisiúin áitiúla béaloidis atá tagtha slán chomh fada seo). This is an example of a discourse of national development applied to the Irish language. It valorizes certain linguistic forms (standard Irish) in terms of their modernity—a modernity which is manifested through orthographic and aural homogeneity. These homogeneities are rationalized in terms of the regimented code’s supposed neutrality and semiotic transparency (Silverstein 1987, to appear; Errington 1998). Underlying the discourse is a linguistic ideology identical to that of Anderson (1983) in his analysis of the rise of the nation-state: that uniformity of code promotes “wider communication” (an chumarsáid fhorleathan) and the ability “to draw together speakers of the language in a unified community” (lucht labhartha na teanga a dhlúthú i bpobal aontaithe). In contrast, the non-standardized codes of the peripheries are seen as narrowly traditional, “local”—i.e., bound to specific places and persons, and oldfashioned. The ideology of standardization tends to elide issues of domination of the peripheries by the center, attributing the power of the center to the inherent linguistic qualities of the rationalized code. In the Gaeltacht, however, speakers tend to explicitly respond to Standard Irish forms in terms of power and symbolic domination, reading these forms in terms of their provenance in the rituals of power of the centralized state. 251 Anxieties of Standard Irish The social and linguistic orders of the nation-state are contested orders. In Ireland, a polyphonic debate about what forms written and spoken Irish should take has mirrored anxieties surrounding the contested identity of the Irish nation. As Schieffelin and Doucet (1998:285) observe for Haitian Creole, arguments about orthography reflect competing concerns about representations of Haitianness at the national and international level—that is, how speakers wish to define themselves to each other, as well as to represent themselves as a nation. Linguistic ideologies pertaining to Irish have been influenced by three major discourses, which I call the discourse of national development, the discourse of purity, and the discourse of personalism. The first two discourses operate in what could be called the “national” arena, positing ideal relationships between language, the speaking subject, and the state. The discourse of personalism operates mainly on a local basis in the Gaeltacht. It also posits relationships between language, the speaking subject, and community, but is opposed to the first two discourses and often involves a rejection of the state and state-defined notions of linguistic propriety. Any individual, whether of Gaeltacht or nonGaeltacht origins, can participate in any discourse. Discussions of standardization inevitably become entangled with dilemmas based on the practices and ideology of the nation-state. In the 1920s and 1930s—the early years of the Irish Free State—a “War of the Dialects” raged about which dialect was superior as the basis of a new national language. Some effort was made, early on, to elevate Munster Irish (the southern dialect), based 252 on claims that it was closest to Classical Irish. It is often maintained that the current-day official Standard is biased towards Munster forms. There was also a “war” over which script to use—Roman or Gaelic,16 whether or not and to what degree Irish orthography should be “simplified,” and the ongoing debate between advocates of “caint na ndaoine” (colloquial speech) and those who advocated creating a new artificial literary standard. All of these debates reflected the political positions of the debaters regarding the Irish Free State and its acceptance of the terms of the 1921 treaty with England which partitioned the country and led to the Civil War of 1922-23 (Ó Ciosáin 1993:204). Most debates around standardization have centered on orthographic reform. There are two issues involved: the question of creating a unified spelling for the three major dialects, and the “modernizing” of spelling to reflect twentieth century pronunciation. But these debates inevitably raise a deeper ideological issue. Any standardized form of Irish would inevitably function as a superposed “high” register, implicitly devaluing “caint na ndaoine” as merely provincial talk. Such a register would in fact occupy much of the same functional ground that English has held, first in the colonial state and then in the new Irish state. 16. A variant of the Gothic script invented for Queen Elizabeth I when she ordered Bibles to be printed in Irish to propagate the Protestant faith in Ireland. The queen was “an excellent linguist” and an early gaeilgeoir—she commissioned what may have been the first Irish-language primer in 1564 (Ó Huallacháin 1991:103). 253 Thus the role of English and the experience of Irish speakers under anglophone domination underlies debates about the standardization of Irish. Early debates centered on the question of reviving the literary standard of the 17th Century.17 Classical Irish, used throughout Gaelic speaking Ireland and Scotland in the period between 1200 and 1650, was a superposed standard register, regimented by bardic schools and grammatical tracts (McManus 1994:335). It thus bore some resemblance to modern standard registers in European languages. The main point of reference for those who advocated a Standard based on 17th Century forms was not a bardic text or even a poetic work, but a polemical history of Ireland, Foras Feasa ar Éirinn, written in the 1620s by a French-educated priest, Geoffrey Keating. The language of Foras Feasa “was to become the linguistic and stylistic lodestar of modern Irish prose, much like Luther’s Bible translation had been for German;” unlike Luther’s work, Foras Feasa circulated in manuscript form and was “probably the last important book in European literature whose influence and dissemination owed nothing to the printing press” (Leerssen 1996:274). Although Keating’s prose style was more modern than that of the classical bardic register, he drew upon bardic style, e.g., in his use of “‘runs’ of alliterative epithets” (Leerssen 1996:405)—a style still valued (as cruachaint) in present-day Gaeltacht speech.18 17. A survey and discussion of these debates can be found in Ó Háinle 1994. 18. Cf. above and Chapter 4. 254 The magnetic attraction of Keating’s work to 20th Century Irish revivalists derived not only from its language but also to its function as a polemical “vindication of Irish civility” in response to English calumny (Kiberd 1996b; Leerssen 1996). Richard Henebry, writing early in the century, advocated a return to the Irish of Geoffrey Keating, banishing English borrowings and what he termed “Revival Irish,” which he accused of being a vehicle for thought which “has been conceived in English and is really a more or less mechanical translation of the mental English original” (quoted in Ó Háinle 1994:760). Henebry, an instinctive elitist, attacked not only revivalists like Pádraig Pearse but also the speech of native speakers themselves as being impure. Colloquial Gaeltacht speech contained many borrowings from English; likewise, many newly created words in popular usage were based on the semantics of English rather than Irish. Arguing against a laissez faire approach to colloquial speech, Henebry asserted that the real meaning of caint na ndaoine should be “the language of human beings,” not “the language of cattle” (quoted in Ó Háinle 1994:760-61). The contemporary argument for a standardized form of Irish has been summarized by Séamas Ó Murchú: It is generally accepted now that a standard, especially a written standard, is necessary for Irish if it is to be advanced as a national language. In short, it is needed (a) as a unifying link between the 255 various dialects and (b) as an aid to the learner (S. Ó Murchú 1978:362).19 This is the simplest form of the discourse of national development, which sees a need for unifying the forms of Irish in order unify speaking and reading publics. However, “a unified Irish language is still only an object to pursue.”20 Any language must acquire new words or add to the range of meaning of existing words as the social, technical, and physical world of its speakers changes. The particular problems facing Irish, as a minority language in a basically anglophone modern nation-state, are particularly intense and bring into relief many typical aspects of European linguistic ideologies. Thus in the discourse of national development, the hoped-for unity of Irish also requires its semantic completeness—as a Ráth Cairn person put it to me, Irish needs to have “words for everything.” Demography, regimentation, and neurosis The idea that a non-standardized Irish is incomplete or incapable of dealing with modern realities is very deeply ingrained. With what is hopefully intentional irony, Ó Háinle (1994:777) mentions “a list of 80 words compiled at Yale University in 1962 to test the modernity of languages.” Irish lacked only 19. Glactar leis go coitianta anois go bhfuil caighdeán, go háirid caighdeán don scríobh, riachtanach don Ghaeilge inniu má tá sí le cur chun cinn mar theanga náisiúnta. Go hachomair, tá gá leis (a) mar nasc aontaithe idir na canúintí éagsúla, agus (b) mar éascaíocht don fhoghlaimeoir. 20. Madne Oftedal, in a review of De Bhaldraithe’s (1959) Irish English Dictionary, quoted in de Bhaldraithe 1992:204. 256 three of them: words for “demography,” “regimentation” and “neurosis.” But he points out that Ó Dónaill’s 1977 Irish-English Dictionary gives us déimeagrafaíocht agus néaróis, leaving the Irish language lacking only “regimentation!” Notice one doesn’t test for “modernity” by asking if anyone is using Irish to engage with the things that English-speakers sometimes call “demography’, “regimentation’, or “neurosis.” Rather it is the presence of the “concepts” felt to be embodied in the actual forms of (English) words that is needed, and Ó Dónaill’s déimeagrafaíocht and néaróis in addition to being calques or loan translations of the English terms reassuringly resemble them as well. This is the mechanical translation that Henebry feared. In actual use such coinages could perhaps develop their own distinctive senses in Irish, acquire full citizenship and be fully possessed by speakers of the language, but as long as they are felt to belong to a domain in which English feels more appropriate, this is unlikely to happen. How is Standard Irish regimented? When Irish speakers disparage “book Irish,” the “book” they refer to might as well be any book, but if we have to choose one, there is The Official Standard: Grammar and Orthography of Irish (An Caighdeán Oifigiúil: Gramadach na Gaeilge agus Litriú na Gaeilge) published by the Irish state in 1958. This book was the latest in a series of government documents which began with spelling reforms in the 1940s when various systems of orthography based more or less on Classical Irish were finally abandoned (Ó Siadhail 1981:71-2). As the title suggests, the authors of this work 257 wished only to arrive at a standard spelling and grammar for government publications. At the same time, they hoped that the book would provide guidance to publishers and teachers—in short, that it would give birth to a genuine Standard that would eventually gain wide acceptance. This would make Irish “able to compete with English... [and would keep it] abreast of the languages of other cultured communities”21 (quoted in Ó Háinle 1994:783). This Standard is the creature of the Dáil translation bureau (Rannóg an Aistriúcháin). The first Dáil (the Irish parliamentary body), elected after most of the leaders of the failed1916 Easter rising were executed by the British, met on January 21st, 1919. Famously, it transacted all its business in Irish (Daltún 1983:13). Subsequent sessions were conducted in both Irish and English, and the translation bureau was created to mediate between the two languages. This first, “republican” Dáil went the way of all flesh when the Irish Free State was created in 1921. Subsequent governments have been more “pragmatic” about the language question, but the first meeting of the first Dáil and the original Proclamation of the 1916 insurgents have achieved a mythical status; two of the three “foundings” of the Irish state were Irish-language events. The practical, as opposed to the mythological, significance of Irish derives from the linguistic behavior of subsequent governments. A few monolingual Irish-speakers were elected to the Dáil in the 1930s, but the great majority of Dáil 21. inniúil ar dhul i gcoimhlint leis an mBéarla... ar chomhrian le teangacha na bpobal cultúrtha eile. 258 debate has been in English. Irish and English are constitutionally the “first” and “second” official languages of the state. In practice, laws are drafted, debated and enacted in English, then translated into Irish. The translation bureau, along with related civil service bureaus and committees, is thereby engaged in a massive effort of linguistic regimentation, motivated by an ideology of referential transparency between the two languages. Thus the philosophy of the Terminology Committee of the department of Education: That as far as possible one term shall express one concept, and one concept shall be expressed by one term; for example in environmental matters that trualliú is the same as ‘pollution’ and that no other term is recommended but truailliú .22 The State functions in English, creating a register of semantically equivalent Irish forms. But the more perfectly this semantic equivalence is achieved, the more this formal register of Irish becomes a calque of its English equivalent. Gaeltacht people could thus be forgiven for seeing, in Standard Irish, an Irish-language mask covering English-language thought. But this is more or less the way that devotees of Standard see the speech of the Gaeltacht. Which is more “polluted,” truailligh, or a word more likely to be heard in the Gaeltacht, “pollute-áil?” 22. Ó hÓgáin 1983:30; my translation. 259 In a variant of the discourse of national development Alan Bliss (1981) has advocated establishing three regional standards for Irish, so as not to alienate native speakers. Bliss, like many others, envisions two possible futures for Irish. One option would be to create a Standard Irish which would be used “for all purposes to the exclusion of English.” But “if Irish was to be used for all purposes, a standard language would have to be devised ab initio, and a large part of its vocabulary would have to be invented.” Bliss admits that has actually been done, but “to use Irish for technical and intellectual purposes is to run counter to the spirit of the times” when English already occupies this position internationally, becoming more and more an international super-standard language (Bliss 1981:78). The other option, felt by Bliss to be more realistic, would feature diglossia similar to that of Luxembourg (where French and Luxembourgeois are functionally differentiated). In this scenario, English would occupy the high registers—“used for all scholarly, technical, and political purposes”—with written Irish used only on “a rather small scale—private letters, advertisements, local newspapers and official announcements of a local nature (Bliss 1981:78).” This writing would be done in the three regional standards. However documents of national significance like the Constitution would still have to be written in some form of a national standard Irish “which because of its legal force would need to have the same form in all parts of the country” (ibid: 82). This statement betrays another aspect of the ideology of the standardizing imagination—that 260 legal knowledge comes from the precise wording of laws, rather than from the ongoing deliberations of lawmakers and courts. Interestingly, Bliss does not deal with the question of whether or not the Irish state or any state has defined or needs to define an official national or international standard for English. Bliss’ argument reveals the greatest vulnerability of the discourse of national development. If one accepts the techno-functionalist view of language (Errington 1998) implicit in this discourse, one has to admit that the English language is already fulfilling the role hoped for Irish. English-language media and schooling already promote national integration and provide the matrix for a vibrant (and internationally exportable) Irish “national” culture.23 English also functions as a medium of supranational integration. Bliss’ proposal is in line with the political, economic and linguistic policies of the Irish state. The state has promoted economic growth through encouraging massive direct foreign investment, attracting multinational corporations with extremely low tax rates and the promise of an educated, disciplined, and English-speaking labor force. At the same time the state’s official language policy has been to promote “bilingualism,” although (as discussed in Chapter 2) there is no emergent functional differentiation between Irish and English. 23. Cf. newspaper discussions of so-called “Dublin 4 speak,” named after the affluent neighborhood of Dublin where R.T.E. (the national broadcasting network) is headquartered, or “the DART accent,” named after the commuter rail line that connects that neighborhood to other affluent areas along the shores of Dublin Bay. There are signs that a “standard” register is emerging in English which is being adopted (especially by young people) all over Ireland. 261 Connemara voted heavily against Ireland’s entry into the European Community (now the European Union) in the referendum of 1972. This scandalized the government, which blamed Raidió na Gaeltachta (then in its infancy) for being “biased” in its presentation of the referendum issues—i.e., for failing to heavily promote a “yes” vote, as was done by the English speaking media. The government responded by taking a more direct role in running R. na G. (Ó Glaisne 1982:135-41). Upon entry into the European Union, Ireland did not push for the designation of Irish as an E.U. “working language,” an act that was tantamount to accepting English as the official language of the state. This could be adduced as evidence of what Schiffman (1996) terms a “covert language policy” in favor of English. Coin of the realm The Caighdeán Oifigiúil was published 40 years ago this summer. The French franc was also devalued in the summer of 1958. Irish Times, 9/26/98 A statement repeated to me several times by English-speakers goes something like this: Not everyone knows this, but legally, the Irish-language version of any law (including the Constitution itself) is the real, legally binding version. So if you get a smart lawyer, who knows Irish extremely well and can find an error or discrepancy between the Irish and English versions of the relevant law, you can get away with murder... 262 It is true that according to Article 25 of the 1937 Irish Constitution, in the case of a discrepancy between the two, the Irish-language version of any law has primacy over the English-language version (cf. Ó Riain 1994:25). What gives the statement the force of a myth (Barthes 1972) is the excess of significance it attributes to this fact. The myth has interesting implications—that in reality, laws are “really” made by the anonymous drudges who translate them into Irish. The legitimacy of the state then rests on their narrow shoulders; any mistakes they make bring into doubt the state’s ability to govern. The myth also expresses the feelings of the ordinary citizen that his fate is governed by mysterious others who speak their own private codes. Here, Irish is seen as a secret language spoken by the state to itself. A strangely symmetrical legend, related to me a few times in Ráth Cairn, concerns Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s release from prison in 1944. Along with many other republicans, Ó Cadhain was interned in a concentration camp in Co. Kildare during World War II, on orders from De Valera. As the story goes, De Valera finally ordered Ó Cadhain’s release because his expertise was needed for the English-Irish dictionary! Like the myth about Irish-language laws, this story, related to me by Gaeltacht people, imagines a flaw deep in the heart of the state. According to this myth, the state was unable to author its own Andersonian birth certificate, a dictionary, without the aid of those it had expelled from the body politic. 263 The only thing untrue in this legend was that Ó Cadhain was deliberately released in order to work on the dictionary. In fact, upon his release, Ó Cadhain went to Dublin and worked “on the turf” in Phoenix Park—turf was used to replace coal during the war emergency and the government used the park as a distribution point for the city. Many former prisoners as well as Gaeltacht people worked there. Ó Cadhain supplemented his wages by providing words for the Department of Education’s lexicographers. He was paid by the word for this work, and kept providing words until his £1000 contract was used up (Costigan 1987:65). Later (1947-56) he worked for the Dáil translation bureau. And many words and phrases from his literary work were incorporated into Ó Dónaill’s (1977) Irish-English dictionary (Ó Murchú 1982:iii). What makes the legend particularly mythical is the implication that the state needs to use native speakers of Irish as a kind of mask to hide its anglophone inner self. This is the obverse side of the English speakers’ myth about Irish-language laws, which posits a secret Irish-speaking heart in a selfevidently English-speaking state. Another story I was told about Ó Cadhain has it that De Valera used to ask him for advice on speech writing. De Valera perfected a style of public speaking where his speeches would begin and end in Irish, but were otherwise in English.24 One day, the story goes, he phoned Ó Cadhain in the translation 24. When Muintir na Gaeltachta met De Valera in Dublin in 1934, they insisted on negotiating in Irish—since De Valera’s Irish was limited, they would have the upper hand, whereas De Valera would have the upper hand if the negotiations were in English (Ó Ciosáin 1993:157). 264 bureau shortly after 5pm, but Ó Cadhain refused to speak Irish to him, saying “I only speak Irish between 9 and 5.” An abundance of state, semi-state, non-profit, and private companies, bodies, organizations, and artistic groups bear Irish-language titles while functioning in English. As with De Valera’s speeches, the value of this “symbolic” use of Irish—its ability to mark and affirm genuine identity, derives from people, somewhere, somewhen, actually using the language to live and communicate in. The Gaeltacht is like a linguistic Fort Knox (Taussig 1997:132)—removed from the center, but functioning as a hidden guarantor of value for the national language. The Gaeltacht is regularly compared, in national discourse, to a “treasure,” “storehouse,” etc. The two stories about Ó Cadhain carry a similar message—that Gaeltacht people are needed by (and paid by) the state to guarantee the value of its rhetoric, as well as that of its grammars and dictionaries. A discourse of linguistic purity At the turn of the century, the writer Peadar Ó Laoghaire argued that a return to classical Irish would devalue the living speech of the Gaeltacht and advocated sticking to “caint na ndaoine.” Those who advocated sticking to the living speech of the Gaeltacht sometimes went as far as advocating not standardizing Irish at all, or developing three regional standards rather than one national standard. Ó Laoghaire represented one extreme in the debate: 265 The man who wants to ‘avoid provincialisms’ simply avoids the language. Hence, what he writes is not Irish of any description. It is simply a Volapük invented by himself. [...] The proper thing to do is to preserve carefully all ‘provincialisms’: not to let a shred or a trace of them be lost. [...] Let us preserve, not only ‘provincialisms’, but even the most isolated localisms. Ink and paper are not very expensive (quoted in Ó Háinle 1994:761; Ó Laoghaire’s emphasis). A 1954 article by the poet Seán Ó Ríordáin exemplifies the discourse of linguistic purity. Ó Ríordáin was a native speaker of Irish from Baile Mhúirne in Co. Cork, a Gaeltacht area which he describes as being breac go maith (“very spotty,” i.e., going over to English) during his youth. Later in his life he visited Corca Dhuibhne on the Dingle peninsula in Co. Kerry and was impressed by the “purity” (glaine) of the dialect there. He compares this in the article to the dialect of Sophocles and Plato, dubbed “exquisite parochial” by Arnold Toynbee. He quotes Gerard Manley Hopkins’s lament for “what Anglo-Saxon might have been” as a literary language if it had escaped mixture with other languages. In Hopkins’ words, “in spite of all that Shakespeare and Milton have done with the compound I cannot doubt that no beauty in a language can make up for want of purity.” Ó Ríordáin comments that such purity depends on “dialects being separated from one another as they are now. The more separate they are, the purer, the more closely-knit, the more native they are.”25 Here Ó Ríordáin takes the “separation” of the dialects, the historical effect of the decline of Irish, and makes it into a virtue. 25. na canúintí do bheith deighilte ó cheile mar atáid fé láthair. Deighilte sea is glaine agus is dlúithe agus is dúchasaí iad. 266 Ó Ríordáin continues with a suggestion that when the language is revived and spreads throughout Ireland, it would be better for one dialect to gain the upper hand than for all the dialects to meld together. He then gives advice to gaeilgeoirí who wish to gain access to the “beauty” (áilleacht) of a specific local dialect: Say it is an urban Gaeilgeoir who seeks it. He must live in the Gaeltacht for at least a year and be humble in his mind in the presence of the people. He must hold in contempt whatever Irish he still remembers—throw away whatever he has. He must be reborn. He must let the living Irish into his blood. This year will stay inside him, enriching him and changing him and aiding his reading and thoughts in Irish (Ó Ríordáin 1982 [1954]: 87).26 This is an exceptionally strong statement from a poet and linguistic virtuoso who is highly attuned to the “fine weave” of specific local ways of speaking. But I heard similar sentiments expressed by urban gaeilgeoirí many times in my fieldwork, often in almost exactly the same terms. There are several interesting things about Ó Ríordáin’s statement. The almost ritual sacrifice of the self is also a humbling of the urban self in front of rural others in the sacred space of the Gaeltacht. The romanticism of the gesture is a revolutionary one, calling for the overthrow of the existing linguistic order. The act of intense personal transformation involves a double mimesis. The speech and thought of the gaeilgeoir is felt to become in many respects a mirror 26. Abair gur Gaeilgeoir cathrach é atá a lorg. Níor mhór do cur fé san Ghaeltacht ar feadh bliana ar a laghad agus bheith umhal ina aigne féin i láthair na ndaoine. Níor mhór do bheith droch-mheastúil ar a bhfuil de Ghaeilge ina chuimhne cheana fein—a bhfuil aige a chaitheamh uaidh. Níor mhór do teacht ar an saol ath-uair. Níor mhór do an Ghaeilge bheo do ligint sa bhfuil aige. Fanfaidh an bhliain seo istigh ann á shaibhriú agus á athrú agus ag cur len a chuid leitheoireachta agus len a mhachnamh i nGaeilge. 267 of the purer speech and thought of the Gaeltacht community. 27 Thus transformed, he or she is to return to the state, transforming it in turn. This double mimesis is an example of what Taussig (1997) calls the magic of the state. It is the state which invests the Gaeltacht with a sacred significance as a place of personal and national transformation. As we saw in chapters 2 and 5, until the 1970s Irish state policy tended to emphasize the spiritual qualities of the Gaeltacht at the expense of its material well-being. Although Ó Ríordáin came from the rural Gaeltacht, the discourse of linguistic purity is rooted in what is essentially an urban standpoint, listening in to local dialects from the outside. It is also open to the charge of spiritualizing poverty. Máirtín Ó Cadhain criticized the discourse of purity precisely because it required the culture of the Gaeltacht to be static and “dead”—a living death as the victim of the state’s magic. The cultural and linguistic qualities celebrated by Ó Ríordáin are arguably the effects of poverty and the decline of the Irish language.28 27. Contrary to what one might expect, ideas of sexual “purity” are not an essential part of this discourse. I often heard both Gaeltacht people and gaeilgeoirí say that they felt freer to speak about sexual and bodily matters in Irish than in English. Historically, the regime of censorship in Ireland has been associated with the same “modernizing” tendencies which denigrated Irish. This had the effect of partially removing Irish language discourse from the regime of censorship’s sphere of influence (cf. Kiberd 1995). Máirtín Ó Cadhain linked class ambitions in the Gaeltacht to anglicization and the puritanism of a “censorious Freudian SuperEgo” (Chapter 7). 28. The point of view which located the spirituality of the Gael in his poverty was attacked in two Gaeltacht satires, Myles na gCopaleen’s An Béal Bocht (O’ Brien 1973) and Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s Cré na Cille (see Chapter 7). 268 In such a discourse, Irish emerges as a very unusual example of an “official national language,” where urban elites gain more credibility by achieving native-like proficiency in the speech of a single poor rural townland than they do by becoming exemplars of a new, “modern,” “dialect-free” national standard.29 Although the English spoken by such people is sometimes quite “posh,” it just as often is not. Even in English—which is constitutionally “the second national language” but pragmatically speaking, the main national language—the “centripetal forces” (Bakhtin 1981) of standardization are fairly weak. The personalism of Gaeltacht attitudes to speech is reinforced by the discourse of purity and by generations of urban gaeilgeoirí returning like swallows every summer to the same rural hearths. These people often have kinlike relations within the local community. Many of them have genuinely put Ó Ríordáin’s advice into practice, a practice quite similar to that of anthropology with its emphasis on long-term participant fieldwork. The founder of the Gaelic League, Douglas Hyde, examining Irish culture in 1892, saw his fellow Irishmen living in a “halfway house” between Irish and English customs, language, and thought, having ceased being Irish without becoming English. In his famous lecture, “The Necessity for Deanglicising Ireland,” Hyde advocated reviving Irish as the national tongue of what would 29. An interesting exception which proves the point is the speech of working-class urban gaeilgeoirí in Belfast, who have created their own “Gaeltacht” within the Nationalist community. Although they do visit the rural Gaeltacht, these speakers often take pride in having their “own” dialect as well as their own Gaeltacht (cf. Feldman 1991, O’Reilly n.d.). 269 thereby become a distinct and independent nation. Hyde reserved special scorn for the anglicization of personal and place names, and the ugliness of the new names created in a desperate attempt to imitate English ways. The techniques of the self recommended by Ó Ríordáin are aimed as much at “deanglicizing” the self as at improving its Irish. Ó Ríordáin’s article began with his confession that the speech of his native community, Baile Mhúirne, was “mixed,” not with other dialects of Irish, but with English. Lurking within the discourse of linguistic purity is a purism which, like the purism of Richard Henebry, ultimately denigrates Gaeltacht speech as being fatally polluted with English borrowings and code-switching. With this in mind we can consider an earlier piece of advice from Peadar Ó Laoghaire, on how to translate from English into Irish: Read over the English matter carefully. Take all the ideas into your mind. Squeeze the ideas clean from all English froth. Be sure that you allow none of that oozy stuff to remain. English is full of it. You must also get rid of everything in the shape of metaphor. Take instead of it the true idea which the metaphor is intended to convey. When you have the ideas cleared completely of foreign matter, put them into the Irish side of your mind and shape them in the Irish language, just as you would if they had been your own ideas from the start.30 Ó Laoghaire suggests dividing one’s mind into “English” and “Irish” sides as a bulwark against the oozy impurity of English-language expression. His injunction against metaphor represents an attempt to minimize or avoid mimesis—a mental quarantine at a border crossing. 30. Peadar Ó Laoghaire, Papers on Irish Idiom, originally published in 1899. Quoted in Cronin 1996:147. 270 Full sentence The question of what actually counts as “speaking English” is problematic. Once I was with some Ráth Cairn people on a trip to An Cheathrú Rua in Connemara, and we were talking to a middle-aged man about the new Irish-language television station, Telefís na Gaeilge (T. na G.). He particularly objected to the use of English in one soap opera on T. na G.: “There are full English sentences in it!” (Tá full sentence Béarla ann!). This man’s lapidary statement encapsulated what did and did not count as “speaking English” as far as he was concerned. Intra-sentential code switching (inserting an Englishlanguage noun phrase—full sentence) was fine, but not inter-sentential code switching. He considered the “full sentence,” I suspect, to be the minimal unit of linguistic intention, and thus, in a sense, of speaker identity. Proverbs tend to be full sentences, as do quoted witticisms in conversations. But proverbs are seanfhocail—”old words”—and the term “word” (focal) is used metaphorically to refer to personal intention. This might have something to do with why the man used the English term sentence rather than the more technical Irish term, abairt, which is derived from a root meaning “say,” and can also mean “phrase.” But a most impressive institution of metalinguistic regimentation exists in the Gaeltacht as well—the Irish-language summer colleges for children. They are a state-sponsored rite of initiation for most Irish teenagers, who follow in the footsteps of the nation’s gaeilgeoirí founding-fathers to the liminal zone of the rural Gaeltacht. 271 Most summer colleges send children home if they are caught speaking English, and “speaking English” is often defined as the utterance of a full English sentence. Tales of horror as hapless children are sent home for saying “Excuse me!” after sneezing at the dinner table are probably exaggerated. But this man, who boarded summer college children, would have been asked to participate in regimenting the speech of his charges. Language and value Both Ó Laoghaire and Ó Ríordáin were native speakers of Irish who, having grown up in the Gaeltacht, went on to become national literary figures. I have discussed a few of their writings about the Gaeltacht in which they participate in a discourse of linguistic purity—a discourse which implies a point of view from outside the Gaeltacht looking (or listening) in. Such discourses are metapragmatic in that they attempt to classify, revalue and/or regiment various ways of speaking (Silverstein 1976; Lucy 1993; Hill 1998). A central concern of this dissertation involves the various ways that people have struggled to value and revalue various ways of speaking Irish. Thus, main points of contention in the political struggles described in Chapters 2, 4, and 5 have been the relationships between language forms, cultural values, and communities of speakers, which mediate the relationships between these communities and larger collectivities. These struggles involve discourses about languages and communities in their entireties. Other issues involve the valuation 272 of particular generic ways of speaking: poetic speech, the “crack,” song, etc. Styles and registers of speaking are valued and revalued in these discourses as well: Is a Standard Irish is a worthy goal? What communities would such a Standard ideally represent? What kinds of relationships between Irish and English words or ways of speaking are desirable, and what communities or types of person are associated with various styles of code-switching? The lexical “value” of individual words is also an issue, along with the question of who or what shall determine these lexical values—learned committees at the center of state power, or local communities far from the center. It is possible to consider these discourses as socially “constructing” the values of various ways of speaking from without, as it were. But every act of speaking is also an implicit act of valuation. To the extent that any stretch of speech is “voiced” in Bakhtin and Voloshinov’s sense, the participants in the act of speaking make an implicit connection between language form, cultural values, and social points of view. Quotation The rich variety of forms and functions of quotation in various cultures of speaking has been one of the major topics in linguistic anthropology (cf. Lucy 1993). These pertain to what Voloshinov (1973:117) shows are social relations between speakers and between contexts of speech. The forms used in reported speech 273 reflect basic and constant tendencies in the active reception of other speakers’ speech [...] How, in fact, is another speaker’s speech received? What is the mode of existence of another’s utterance in the actual, inner-speech consciousness of the recipient? How is it manipulated there, and what process of orientation will the subsequent speech of the recipient himself have undergone in regard to it? What we have in the forms of reported speech is precisely an objective document of this reception. Once we have learned to decipher it, this document provides us with information, not about accidental and mercurial processes in the “soul” of the recipient, but about steadfast social tendencies in an active reception of other speakers’ speech, tendencies that have crystallized into language forms. As Judith Irvine (1996) has shown, quotation involves the relation of two or more contexts of speaking--the reporting and reported contexts: With reported speech forms [...] the speaker constructs or represents a projective relation among dialogues: a projecting one, i.e. the pragmatic present, and a projected or implicated one, whose utterance is quoted (Irvine 1996:147). This seemingly very simple structure can be endlessly complicated in practice. Quoted speech is not always overtly marked (eg., by quotation frames such as “He said ‘X’”). Any aspect of the speech situation can serve to identify a stretch of speech as quotation, including even the social role of the speaker. Griots (members of a West African bardic caste) are a case in point, where quotative framing is virtually implicit in the social identiy of the griot, so central is quotative transmission (jottali) to the very definition of the griot’s place in society (Irvine 1996:148). Entire languages can become understood as the “words of the ancestors,” as in the case of Wasco (Moore 1993:237), a dying Native American language: For younger speakers, knowledge of the language is constituted in memories of its authoritative use in context(s). The need to validate this knowledge by rendering it performable involves the 274 intertextual re-enactment of remembered events of use through direct quotation: “Grandma said: ‘...’.” Proverbs are understood in many cultures as ancestors’ or elders’ speech, although they may be marked as such only by their grammatical form. As Irvine (1996:148) points out, one could invent a Wolof proverb in the proper form and have it be taken as ancestral wisdom. As in the invented traditions discussed by Hobsbawm (1983), a dialogue among ancestral speakers would thus be implicated by the proverb form although having no actual historical basis. By looking at various practices of quotation and attribution in Ireland we may begin to understand them as instances of a more general phenomenon involving history, memory, and personality. Proverbs are sometimes framed in similar ways (mar a déarfá, mar a dúirt an té a dúirt, etc.), occasionally with humorously absurd attribution--“quotation proverbs” (Mac Con Iomaire 1988:210) which not only lack the seriousness and solemnity of ordinary proverbs, but they turn some of them about and hold them up to ridicule: “‘There is no luck except where there is discipline’--as the son said while beating his father” (“Ní bhíonn an rath ach mar a mbíonn an smacht”--mar a dúirt an mac agus é ag bualadh a athar) Humorous usages or parodies are valuable for revealing the underlying assumptions which they play upon—in this case, that something worth repeating has an author and was created in and for a specific situation. This assumption is very common in the performance tradition, where transmission is often personalized—tied up with memories of persons and events—through practices of quotation, naming, and narration. 275 Imitation During my fieldwork in Ráth Cairn, one of the first things that struck me about speech styles in Irish was the manner in which people imitated others in passing. These minimal quotations, usually only a single word or short phrase, are framed with phrases like mar a déarfadh x (“as x would say”). Miniature performances, they simultaneously summon up an image of a third person and focus attention on the linguistic form of the quoted word or phrase. They are thus “poetic,” representing the minimalist convergence of the poetic and metalinguistic functions of language (in Jakobson’s 1987 [1960] sense). As performances, they are an extremely common feature of “the crack,” acting as the first step in the progression to heightened conversation and verbal art. Performative quotation is the essence of linguistic personalism, simultaneously calling attention to the social and personal provenance of particular language forms and making social types out of the individuals quoted. Thus it is a powerful metalinguistic tool in a community where different generations and social strata exhibit markedly different speaking styles. The situation in the Irish Gaeltacht is very much like that of the Norwegian-speaking community studied by Blom and Gumperz (Gumperz 1982:27), where [w]hat was normal usage for some in some situations counted as marked for others. Marked forms, moreover, tended to be used to convey indirect inferences which could only be understood by someone who knew both the speaker’s family background and his 276 or her position within the social spectrum of value orientations. Language use in situations such as these... is a way of conveying information about values, beliefs and attitudes... In its minimal form, performative quotation is used in situations where both the audience and the person quoted are social familiars. Detailed background information about speakers and situations can be left unspoken. Even the identity of the quoted person can be left unstated. I noticed that Máirtín Mac Donncha sometimes mentioned the person’s name only for my benefit, assistance that was clearly unnecessary for the other people involved in the conversation. These minimal quotations form the basis of much of Irish language verbal art. Although I was fascinated with the minimal forms, I was never able to tape record them, because they weren’t regarded as “performance” and usually only took place in private conversation. People seemed almost unaware that they were doing it, and I never got anyone to reflect on the practice. Instead, I occasionally tried to produce these forms myself. One time when a group of Ráth Cairn people was visiting Connemara, we were in a pub where a lottery was taking place, and I remarked that if a certain elderly Ráth Cairn woman were there, “she’d be looking at the numbers.” (bheadh sí ag breathnú ar na numbers). The response I got was “You’ve been here too long!” (Tá tú rofhada anseo). What made it work as a performative quotation was the use of “her word” (numbers) spoken in her voice, plus her reputation as an enthusiast of any form of lottery, bingo, etc. 277 I found that the great majority of people quoted were older people and “characters,” especially people who had died in the last several years. I heard a few such people quoted so much that I felt like I knew them myself, even though they had passed away before my arrival in Ráth Cairn. Quotation of older people is almost invariably affectionate, if not respectful, in tone. Typically it highlights antiquated speaking styles, especially the difficulties “the old people” (an seandream) had with English. Sometimes it is expanded into a full anecdote. For example, a (named) Ráth Cairn man goes to Athboy and wants to buy some ballach (a type of fish), and asks the shopkeeper for “four bollockses.” Máirtín Mac Donncha told me many stories like this, sometimes adding that it was a good thing to hear bad English in Ireland! Voice and the social construction of codes Quotation framing acts to increase the salience of codes, by voicing them—attaching them to social types. All quotation typifies, as Lucy (1993:120) points out: A unique utterance is not, by definition, a token because there is no corresponding type. (The sign is only a sinsign in Peirce’s framework). However, the moment a second utterance is produced which purports to copy or replicate that original utterance, it is no longer unique; a type has been created (the original utterance has been typified) and the original and its replicas must be regarded thereafter as tokens of a type—even though the reporter may be striving to articulate their contextual specificity and ultimately deny their status as tokens of types. 278 For Peirce (4.537), the token/type distinction is part of the trichotomy of tone, token and type (also called qualisign, sinsign, and legisign). In Peirce’s philosophy all such distinctions are gradient rather than absolute, due to the principle of “synechism” (continuity). That is, tone, token, and type shade into one another. This has implications for the study of reported speech. More than just speech can be “reported.” Voicing occurs on the tonic level, reporting speaking style and other gestural elements.31 Take for example the statement by Máirtín Mac Donncha (discussed in Chapter 5): “O, yeah, the young people now talking about silage and bales of hay. And milk quotas and things like that.” (O yeah, an dream óg anois ag caint ar silage agus baleannaí féir. Agus quota bainne agus rudaí mar sin ). He imitates the tone of voice and the lexical accent of “the young people,” calling attention to the link between their speaking style and their social values. Farming-for-profit is an English-language discourse in County Meath, and the use of English terms by “the young people” of Ráth Cairn is a power code analogous to the Hispanicized power code used by Mexicano-speaking cultivators, as reported by Hill (1985:727). Just as voicing often calls attention to the social bases of code-switching, code-switching is a matter of voice. Code-switched statements like “My friend is into that as well” (Tá mo chara into that as well) adopt English-language cliches into Irish-language sentences. Gaeltacht teenagers have perfected this style, 31. See Chapter 8 for an example of quotation in dancing. 279 which seems to be attractive to them because most teenagers speak entirely in cliches anyway, and also for its value in driving purists crazy. Cliches, as readymade chunks of speech, take on value due to their indexical connection to valued domains (e.g., English-language television shows). Thus, this type of codeswitching could be seen as a negotiation with the symbolic power of English (cf. Hill 1985:725). Explicit framing of quotation (as opposed to mere voicing) moves the metalinguistic event further up Peirce’s trichotomy, explicitly constructing the reported speech as a token of a type. In ordinary speech, Irish-speakers commonly deal with words or phrases that feel somewhat at odds with the conversation’s style by framing them as anti-quotations: mar a déarfá (“as you’d say”) or various improvisations on the same theme: Mar a dúirt an ceann eile (“as the other one said”), similar to the use in English of phrases like “so to say” or “as it were.” Sometimes such phrasings are little more than devices to mark out a kind of rhythm in speech or to express nervousness. But as they become more prominent they work to thicken the texture of speech by de-centering portions of it, attributing it to some other context. An example of this is the use of mar a déarfá or mar a deir an Béarla (“as the English [language] says”), on Raidió na Gaeltachta by interviewees when using words or phrases they feel are in “English” rather than assimilated borrowings, eg. “county board” as opposed to “bicycle.” 280 Quotation framing can “insulate” (Irvine 1996:149) the speaker from full responsibility for the words it frames; the speaker is thus not “speaking English” and breaking the rules of R. na G. (the station forbids English-language talk and song lyrics). This null type, anti-quotation (the use of forms such as mar a déarfá, “as you’d say”) tends to be used to frame speech that feels to the speaker like it is relatively less voiced than the ongoing discourse they are participating in. Examples of this are the framing of technical jargon in informal conversation and the framing of English words and phrases on Raidió na Gaeltachta. Other forms of quotation framing are used to frame speech which feels relatively more voiced than the ongoing discourse. People use it to frame phrases from other dialects: “as the Kerryman says...” (Mar a deir fear Ciarraí...). On R. na G. (12/24/98), an interviewee mentions having visiting relatives from America, and the host says: “As they say naturally, you have yanks visiting” (Mar a deireann siad go nádúrtha, tá yanks sa mbaile a’d). Here the host uses an English word (yanks) that the interviewee would have used if he weren’t speaking carefully due to being on the air. At the furthest extreme is performative quotation, where the voices of named individuals are animated in conversation. This type of quoted speech is maximally voiced—representing the point of view of a single individual. In Irish-language verbal art, maximal use is made of the construction of voice in direct discourse (Chapters 7 and 8). Verbal art can be seen as an 281 extension and deepening of everyday practices of quotation and voicing. One of the many social ends served by verbal art is thus the metalinguistic regimentation and revaluing of speaking styles. It comes as no surprise, then, that Gaeltacht verbal art plays an important role in resisting ideological assaults from without. A case in point is Joe Steve Ó Neachtain’s humorous poetic dialogue (agallamh beirte) (1986:35-40) “Ar Thóir Deontais” (Looking for a Grant), which features a confrontation between a Gaeltacht mother and the civil servant who has denied her son a grant for speaking Irish. The civil servant relates to the mother how she gave her son an oral examination and concluded that he didn’t know any Irish at all. The humor of the piece revolves around the linguistic misunderstandings between the two. The civil servant reports the conversation she had with the son, but it becomes clear that the son, like the mother, heard the civil servant’s “Standard” Irish words as English words: [civil servant]: Dúirt mise— ‘Cad is ainm duit?’ Is níor fhreagair sé in aon chor! I said— ‘What is your name?’ And he [the son] didn’t answer me at all! [mother]: A dhiabhail, ní Cod is ainm dó! Baisteadh chomh maith leat féin é. The devil [an expletive], his name isn’t Cod! He was baptized just like you were. 282 Neither the son or the mother recognize the Munster dialect form, Cad is ainm duit. They both hear it as “Cod is ainm duit”—“Your name is a cod [a joke].” Likewise, they hear rothar as “roar” instead of “bicycle,” and so on. The son doesn’t speak Irish at all, says the civil servant. She recommends that the family watch Trom agus Éadrom, a television program featuring light entertainment and a “bilingual” format featuring token use of Irish. The woman objects (using two assimilated English words) that that show is nothing but the host “scratching himself and blabbing in English” (á scraitseáil féin / Is é ag plobaráil i mBéarla). She says that the show’s host is the type of person who is highly regarded and will get the best jobs in Ireland, and that the civil servant would never have gotten her job if she spoke Irish “from the cradle” (ón gcliabhán). The civil servant responds, “But I have standard [Irish] and grammar, something that doesn’t exist in the Gaeltacht” (Ach tá caighdeán agam is gramadach, / Rud nach bhfuil sa nGaeltacht). She accuses the mother and son of speaking “halfEnglish” (leath Béarla). To this, the mother retorts that the civil servant wouldn’t speak Irish at all if it weren’t for her well-paying job. In this poetic dialogue, and typically for the genre, the mother and son are cunning simpletons attempting to gain the upper hand in conflict with the outsider. Here, they do so by threatening her with retaliation from their local T.D. (representative in the national Dáil). In the clientelist political system of Ireland, this is the only way to beat the Civil Service. 283 Like the man referred to above who objected to “full sentences” in English on T. na G., the conflict in Ó Neachtain’s dialogue contrasts two attitudes to bilingualism. The mother, by her own reckoning, speaks “Irish” all the time, but has no problem with lacing her speech with unassimilated as well as assimilated loanwords from English. The civil servant, on the other hand, stands for a “bilingualism” where a pristine but artificial form of Irish is spoken, and where “standard [Irish] and grammar” are objects of value in an English-speaking world. This is a conflict over possession. Ó Neachtain suggests that the discourse of the civil servant, by recognizing as genuine “language” only that which is regimented and formalized as “standard and grammar,” dispossesses Gaeltacht people. The position of Irish is thus similar to that of Mexicano, a minority native language of Mexico, where the purist discourse of “legitimo Mexicano” acts to devalue peasant speech. Jane Hill (1985:735) refers to this purism as “linguistic terrorism,” the voice of a Spanish-language discourse. “Thus, purist rhetoric joins other pressures in driving Mexicano into an underground, often secret, solidarity code.” For the hero of Ó Neachtain’s miniature drama, as for Máirtín Ó Cadhain, bilingualism in Ireland is like “a cat and a mouse in a box” (Chapter 5). In an equal contest, English will have the upper hand (cf. Eckert 1980). But in the wilfully hybridized speaking style that Ó Neachtain celebrates, the mouse has 284 the cat in the box—English-language elements have been possessed and subordinated to an Irish-language discourse. In the Seventeenth and Eighteenth centuries, as the colonial regime was consolidated in Ireland, Irish-language poets mocked their fellow Irishmen’s adoption of English mannerisms by calling attention to the newfangled Englishisms (béarlachas) in their speech, manners and dress (Leerssen 1996:204). Now, in the late twentieth century, Gaeltacht poets like Ó Neachtain defend the hybrid speech of their neighbors against the linguistic purism of an independent Irish state. Conclusions In this chapter we have explored a few of the consequences of the unusual status of the Irish language as both a minority language and the official national language of Ireland. We examined three different discourses about the language: the discourse of national development, the discourse of purity, and the discourse of personalism. Debates about the ideal form of the Irish language are motivated by conflicting conceptions of community—of what kinds of people speak Irish and what types of social relations ideally underpin the Irish state. Each discourse constitutes a particular set of ways for locating social value in linguistic forms. The practices and institutions associated with these discourses attempt in various ways to create global images of ideal communities of Irish speakers. In this sense, they function as attempts to “voice” the Irish language as a whole—to 285 connect idealized linguistic forms to idealized images of speakers as social types. In this case, the social types are not so much types of person as types of community. Each discourse tries in its own way to situate the Irish language vis-a-vis the unquestioned symbolic power of English. They do so by imitating the perceived referential power and transparency of the English language (in the case of the discourse of national language development), attempting to avoid English altogether (as in purist discourses) or finally, embarking on strategies of incorporation and possession of English forms (in the case of the personalist discourse of the Gaeltacht). There is another aspect of the relationship between the Irish and English “languages” that we have barely touched on thus far: the relationship between linguistic cultures as repertoires of generic ways of speaking—sets of practices which relate discourse forms, the social organization of speech events (e.g., footing in Goffman’s (1981) sense) and cultural values or points of view. The situation in Ireland is that cultural “ways of speaking” and “languages” (Irish and English) are overlapping categories. Names of many speech genres are commonly used to refer to forms of talk current in both languages. Thus, Máirtín Mac Donncha, like other Irish-speakers, uses terms like “joke,” craic (“crack”), seisiúin (“session”), “party,” “sketch,” (a satirical skit), sean-nós, and so on, to refer to performances in either language. Writers such as Glassie (1982), Lloyd (1993), and Shields (1993) have recognized the great 286 similarity between “traditional” genres in English, such as broadside ballads, and Irish-language genres such as lyric song laments. Joe Heaney (Chapter 8) recognized these as essentially similar and used terms like “lament” and “seannós” to cover productions in both languages. The term gaelach is used by Irish-speakers to refer to possession of such a valued ensemble of ways of speaking. One can be “gaelach” without speaking Irish and one can speak nothing but Irish without being “gaelach.” For Irish speakers, quite clearly, the term “gaelach,” although having the specific meaning of “pertaining to the Irish language,” refers more widely to the general forms of sociality in which “Irish” ways of speaking are embedded. As Glassie’s Englishspeaking informants in 1970s County Fermanagh pointed out, in many ways the most profound “linguistic” transformations in Ireland occur, not when Irish is abandoned in favor of English, but when more “traditional” modes of sociality are abandoned in favor of more “modern” ones. Glassie’s informants saw this literally as a process of “losing the language”—i.e., losing one’s ability to (like the Irish language poets discussed in Chapter 4) utilize talk as an effective means of mobilizing traditional social and cultural value. At this level, we take leave of narrowly specific cultural notions of language form considered in itself, and turn our attention more directly to the relationships between ways of speaking and forms of sociality in general—taking Gaeltacht culture as a culture of speaking. Thus, we have looked at ordinary practices of quotation and anti-quotation in conversation and in more “formal” 287 situations such as radio talk. We have noted continuities between these everyday practices and the loftier reaches of verbal art—poetry and song performance (to be explored in greater depth in Chapter 8). We have seen how notions of the normative nature of the “code” itself—what should or should not count as “speaking Irish”—emerge from everyday speech practices and are refracted more deliberately and self-consciously in verbal art. “Code-switching” (incorporation of English grammatical and lexical elements in “Irish-language” speech events), and conflict about it, is principally a matter of voicing. By looking at ways of negotiating, maintaining, and violating norms of code-switching, we saw the voice system and the here-and-now construction of voice as an active tool of social interaction. In the next chapter we return to Máirtín Ó Cadhain, this time as a Dublinbased writer, intellectual and political activist. His great novel, Cré na Cille, is a modernist symphony of voices, on a par with the works of Joyce and Beckett, and also the first modernist novel to be set in a rural rather than an urban milieu (Kiberd 1996). Cré na Cille is Ó Cadhain’s novelistic attempt to globally examine the relationships between ways of speaking and forms of sociality, through an aural portrait of the speech of an entire Gaeltacht community. Ó Cadhain saw his life work as a struggle to create a modern literary language in Irish. Such a task is highly political in any language, and all the more so in a “national” language which also happens, perhaps uniquely, to be a minority language. Ó Cadhain’s novel is an attempt to bridge these 288 contradictions in part by relying on a very traditional form––the construction of voice in direct discourse––which he took to new levels in Cré na Cille. CHAPTER SEVEN VOICES OF THE DEAD AND A ‘NEW MEDIUM’: MÁIRTÍN Ó CADHAIN’S CRÉ NA CILLE The Irish language is the re-conquest of Ireland, and only the reconquest of Ireland will save the Irish language.1 (Ó Cadhain 1990 [1970]:18) Máirtín Ó Cadhain was born in 1905 in Cois Fharraige in the Connemara Gaeltacht (Irish-speaking district) in county Galway. A lifelong radical, he saw in the restoration of Irish, his native language, the possibility of creating a revolution that would put an end to the social and cultural power of Ireland’s colonizers and their heirs. Ó Cadhain escaped poverty to become a schoolteacher and writer, only to lose his job for being a member of the IRA. Like many others he was interned in the Curragh prison camp––“Ireland’s Siberia, surely the coldest place in Ireland ”––for most of World War Two, a place he compared to Dostoevsky’s House of the Dead (Ó Cadhain 1969:7). This experience transformed Ó Cadhain’s life and gave him the experience which formed the basis of his career as a writer: I spent the equivalent of five years in three or four prisons but most of it was in the prison camp in the Curragh of Kildare. I don’t wish to say much about it although it is relevant to these issues. I learned 1. “Is í an Ghaeilge Athghabháil na hÉireann, agus is í Athghabháil na hÉireann slánú na Gaeilge.” 289 290 as much about humanity [there] as I would if I’d lived a hundred years. Knowledge of humanity, of life, is necessary for a writer (Ó Cadhain 1969:26).2 The internees managed to turn the camp into a kind of university where Ó Cadhain taught himself and others several European languages, reading through the Russian and French classics (Ó Cadhain 1969, 1973). These influences are evident in his novel, Cré na Cille,3 which he began shortly after being (reluctantly!) released from the camp. ‘A new medium’ Ó Cadhain was a committed modernist, and as such faced immense problems working through the medium of Irish, a language seemingly suited only for the old and traditional. Historical events had driven Irish back to the western seaboard where it survived in the speech and folklore of a rural underclass. Although Irish for centuries had a highly developed vernacular 2. Chaith mé ionann’s chúig bhliana idir trí nó ceathair de phríosúin ach ba sa gcampa géibhinn ar Churrach Chill Dara a chaith mé an chuid is mó dhe. Ní mian liom mórán a rá faoi sin, cé go mbaineann sé le mo scéal. Fuair mé an oiread eolais ar an duine is dhá mbeinn céad bliain ar an saol. Tá eolas ar an duine, ar an saol, riachtanach don scríbhneoir. 3. Keefe’s (1984) translation of “Cré na Cille” as “Churchyard Clay” may conjure up a misleading image of an English or New England village with its church and graveyard at the center, etc. Cill historically meant ‘church’, originally a monastic ‘cell’, but its basic meaning now would simply be ‘graveyard’. Irish Catholic graveyards are often not contiguous to churches, although often they are associated with ruins of ancient churches or monastic sites, destroyed or abandoned as a result of invasion or colonization. These sacred grounds are often eccentric to modern settled areas. The liminality of these sites is thus the product of historical disruption as much as ecclesiastical design. As for cré, the most common equivalent in English as spoken in Ireland, in speaking of human remains, would be ‘dust’ (Tadgh Ó Dúshláine, personal communication). In Irish the same word is used for human remains, clay, and earth. Ó Cadhain’s title plays on the full range of meanings of both cré and cill. 291 literature and a standard literary register, these were destroyed along with native political and educational institutions in the events following the Elizabethan conquest in the 17th Century. After independence in 1922, the Irish state officially promoted the language, but in practice functioned through English, treating Irish as a static symbol of the past, a ‘tradition’ to be lovingly preserved, but without relevance to modern life. As we have seen in Chapters 2, 5, and 6, because of the perceived cultural and political power of English, bilingualism was often not seen as a viable option in Ireland. Pádraig Ó Siochfhradha (known as “An Seabhac”) was typical of many when in a 1936 lecture he maintained that the country as a whole was forced to decide between two opposed futures for the language: [I]t isn’t very certain which of them they have decided upon, [Irish] as a beautiful valuable jewel in a glass case, an object of wonder and pride, of scholarly study, or as the normal instrument of fair and hearth, shop and church, business and culture, relying on [Irish] alone.4 Style became politicized in such an atmosphere; depending on the stand one took on An Seabhac’s question, either Irish should grow and develop modern themes and styles or else it should be confined to older, ‘traditional’ styles and themes. Thus, conservative nationalist literary critics maintained that Irish literature 4. [N]í ro-chinnte atá sé cioca tá sé beartuighthe aca í bheith ‘na seoid áluinn luachmhar fé chlúid i gcás gloine, chun bheith ag déanamh iongantais is mórtais di, is staidéar léigheanta uirthi, nó í bheith ‘na gnáth-uirlis aonaigh is teaghlaigh, siopa is eaglaise, gnótha is cultúra, agus a bheith i dtaoibh léi amháin. In Éire na Gaedhilge nó Anglo-Ireland--Ciocu? (“Irish [-language] Ireland or Anglo-Ireland-Which one?”), quoted in Ó Ciosáin 1993:182. I am grateful to Éamon Ó Ciosáin for calling my attention to this quote. 292 should stick to what was termed caint na ndaoine--colloquial speech (literally, “the people’s speech”) as they understood it (Chapter 6). They saw Irish as a vehicle for the preservation of traditional values, with any salacious or controversial material edited out. But those wishing to modernize Irish faced an additional issue -- the wholesale imitation of English grammar and idioms, which writers like Ó Cadhain saw as beholden to an alien discourse. In a testament he wrote shortly before his death (Ó Cadhain 1969), Ó Cadhain argued, taking issue with his conservative critics, that Irish was a new literary medium. Any possible continuity with past literary traditions had been broken by the marginalization of Irish and its speakers under an Anglophone cultural and political regime. As an innovating writer in a minority language, he was faced with a dilemma: to either break with the ‘folk’ speech community or be bound by it. Ó Cadhain refused to do either. Although brought up in a rich oral tradition, he refused to become a ‘folkloric’ writer, confined to the themes and forms of folklore. Likewise, he refused to try and create a special literary register within Irish, a “unitary language” of tradition, whether old or new. Like Bakhtin (1981:271), he identified such attempts with literary lyric poetry. He maintained that Irish, like other minority languages, was plagued by a “disease of poetry”-lyric poets writing about their own “private minor upset little pharmacist’s bottles,” severing the connection between writing and the social world. Prose, on the other hand, was “the material, the concrete, the building-stone of life, and as 293 rough and disagreeable as life itself” (Ó Cadhain 1969:36-37).5 Ó Cadhain sought a development and enrichment of all the lexical and stylistic resources of Irish, bringing them to bear on the modern world as he found it. But such an enrichment could proceed only through a critical process in which the cultural and social connotations of Irish ways of speaking were brought to the foreground artistically, revealed for what they were. Cré na Cille , his major novel, was an attempt to do this satirically, and did so by bringing together the methods of satiric folk poetry of Connemara and the modern European novel. Ó Cadhain’s own account (1969) of his evolution as a writer focuses heavily on words––their creation, meaning, and connotation. This is in keeping with Friedrich’s observation that lexical meaning is a primary focus of poetic craft; poetry draws upon and deepens the motivations of words, their connection to the grammatical and semantic structure of language as a whole (Friedrich 1979, 1996; see also Jakobson 1987 [1960]). Silverstein (1979) notes that the word, as the largest decontextualizable unit of language, is a natural focus for “secondary rationalization,” in which pragmatic meaning (the perceived residue or effect of language use in context) is projected onto lexical structure. Ó Cadhain was supremely aware of the poetic and pragmatic potentials of words, and sought to exploit them in his own effort to reconstruct Irish as a literary language. His prose––fictional works, political tracts and literary 5. Ó Cadhain here referred explicitly to literary lyric poetry, while maintaining that local folk poets in the Gaeltacht still had “a public and a function” and played a social role similar to that of poets under the old gaelic regime. Cf. Denvir 1989. Although he criticized lyric poetry, Ó Cadhain’s prose is deeply poetic in the sense explored by Friedrich (1996). 294 essays––is often dense with new or unfamiliar words, words the author coined himself or picked up from Old and Middle Irish, Scots Gaelic, archaic words from folklore, and even fossilized Irish words he found in the Hiberno-English dialects of his cell-mates in the Curragh camp. He saw himself as a literary craftsman, but as responsible to his community and its popular speech forms. He was proud of the fact that his neighbors in the Connemara Gaeltacht had little trouble understanding Cré na Cille, which was certainly not the case with nonnative speakers who lacked the intuitive sense of the deep structure of Irish that would allow them to grasp unfamiliar words. Ó Cadhain approvingly quoted Mallarmé’s maxim--donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu (Ó Cadhain 1969:16-17). But his “tribe” was first and foremost the people of the Gaeltacht––Irish-speakers whose communities and language were becoming more, not less marginalized under an independent Irish state. These communities were in a sense doubly colonized: by an anglophone national Irish state, and in a wider sense by that state’s own neocolonial domination under the emerging post-war world order of the 1940s. Ó Cadhain saw the decline of Irish within the Gaeltacht as the linguistic expression of the increasing class stratification of Irish-speaking communities.6 The living speech of the Gaeltacht, with its ever-changing linguistic fashions of speaking, genres and 6. Ó Ciosáin (1991) critiques the strangely romantic and condescending assumptions about the Gaeltacht as classless that underlie and undermine Hindley’s (1990) analysis of the decline of Irish. 295 registers, was both the expression and a prime instrument of such change. Cré na Cille was Ó Cadhain’s parodic microscope with which to examine it. Ó Cadhain’s realism Máirtín Ó Cadhain saw the representation of ‘a person’s own speech’ as the key to his characters’ psychology: The most important thing in literature now is to reveal the human mind, something the camera cannot be pointed at. I mean a person’s own speech. Speech is much stronger for doing that than giving stock phrases about his clothes, physical appearance, his language, the furniture in his house or the stage props, the features of the country, or the customs there. If it is a historical story, the history will tell you what your story’s characters did, and psycheology7 will help you a great deal to guess what led them to do those things. It’s not what is on a person’s skin [ie, what’s on the outside] that is important, or even his skin itself, but the thing he is walking around with inside of his head. We know more about the stars of heaven than about what is happening inside that little shell next to you (Ó Cadhain 1969:30-31).8 7. Ó Cadhain gives his own coinage––‘aigneolaíocht’––glossing it with the more common ‘síceolaiocht’ –– a loan translation of the English ‘psychology’. Aigne has more of the meaning of ‘character, intention, disposition’ than the English term ‘mind’. Ó Cadhain’s discursive prose is full of such coinages accompanied by glosses, in keeping with his project to build a modern Irishlanguage discourse. 8. An rud is tábhachtaí anois sa litríocht ar fad, an intinn a léiriú, e nach féidir an camera a dhíriú uirthi. Caint dhílis an duine nach mór. Is acmhainní i bhfad caint chuige sin ná ag tabhairt seoraithe faoin a chuid éadaigh, a ghné chraicinn, a theanga, troscán a thí nó troscán an ardáin, na tíre, ná na nós atá faoi gcuairt. Más scéal stairiúil é, inseo an stair dhuit céard a rinne pearsana do scéil agus cuideo an aigneolaíocht, an tsíceolaíocht, cuid mhaith leat le tomhais céard a thug dóibh na rudaí sin a dhéanamh. Ní hé an rud atá ar chraiceann an duine a bhfuil an tábhacht ann, ná fiú an craiceann féin, ach an rud a bhfuil sé ag siúl timpeall leis istigh in a cheann. Is mó atá a fhios againn faoi réalta Nimhe ná faoin a bhfuil ar siúl istigh faoin mblaoisc bheag sin le t’ais. 296 Writing about a Greek intellectual who resembles Ó Cadhain in many ways, Herzfeld (1997b) maintains that Greek literary realism is founded on the attempt to divine the motivations of others’ words and actions: the description of motive and desire... is an important aspect of any claim to realism the Greek context. Like most Greeks, Andreas [Nenedakis] both doubts the possibility of knowing another’s thoughts and recognizes the existence of conventions for doing so (Herzfeld 1997b:7). Ó Cadhain’s psychology is founded on similar doubts as to the knowability of another’s motives or interior states. What distinguishes his realism (in Cré na Cille) from that of Nenedakis is Ó Cadhain’s exclusive reliance on the direct voice of characters in dialogue as the only instrument with which to plumb these depths. To make matters worse, Ó Cadhain deliberately exaggerates the degree to which his characters’ speech is composed almost exclusively of cliches. As Friedrich (1986) points out, cliche and repetition form one of the main bases of both “high” poetry and “folk” verbal art. In this sense, Cré na Cille embodies a poetics of voice, but one which is maximally social, as is ensured by the claustrophobic confines of its graveyard setting. Ó Cadhain’s literary realism, like all realisms (Pesmen 1991) is a matter of convention, but the convention he chooses is a venerable one in both the Irish oral and literary traditions. In Cré na Cille he invented a new literary form, which was nonetheless grounded in the ethnopoetics of the Gaeltacht, functioning as an extension of traditional verbal art. Cré na Cille is written entirely as the direct speech of a community of corpses buried in a churchyard in Cois Fharraige in the 297 1940’s. There is no narrator--the reader encounters only the characters’ voices in dialogue with each other; characters are not even named except in their own or others’ speech. This device powerfully highlights speech style, since it is by their speech styles that we know the characters. The construction of voices in direct quotation is typical of Irish language verbal art, which emphasizes the direct speech of its protagonists over narrative description. Cré na Cille is in many ways closer to the dramatic lyric of satiric folk poetry than it is to contemporary Irish or English language prose. By foregrounding speech style in this manner, verbal art lays bare its connection to a character’s point of view and social position. As an intervention in the language, Ó Cadhain’s work follows that of the poets of the 17th and 18th Centuries, who attempted to revalue the Irish language against English as an expression and vehicle of a newly politicized Irish cultural identity. One of the main ways they accomplished this was by satirizing the adoption of ‘foreign’ (ie., English) voices by Irish-speakers: Time and again in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Gaelic poetry, the point is made both on the aural and on the semantic level, that the inner harmony of Gaelic Ireland has been jarred by the intrusion of foreign elements. This is usually done by introducing English words, names, phrases into the text (Leerssen 1996:204). Cré na Cille is a realistic novel within its satirical framework, almost a novelistic ethnography of speaking, portraying a dialogic interrelationship of ways of speaking including gossip, satirical songs and poetry, ritual laments, proverbs, witticisms, parody of others’ voices, various styles of codeswitching 298 between English and Irish, and pure invective. These speech forms are parodically distorted and rendered absurd by virtue of coming from the mouths of corpses. Lack of transcendence The action of the novel centers around the main character, Caitríona Pháidín, a newly arrived corpse, and her obsession with outdoing her still living younger sister Neil, a rivalry which dates back to Neil’s marriage to the man who Caitríona adored. Although Caitríona later made a good marriage, her own son Pádraig failed to prosper. Neil and Caitríona have spent their lives competing for an American sister’s inheritance and for the land of Tomás Taobh Istigh, a lazy waster of an uncle who plays the two sisters off against one another. Gearóid Ó Crualaoich (1981:82-84) shows that the deep structure of the novel is based on the contrast between “the feminine, effeminate, unsuccessful world” of Caitríona, her son Pádraig, Pádraig’s wife and her mother Nóra Sheáinín on one side, and “the masculine, manly, prosperous world” of Neil, her son Peadar, his wife Meaig and Meaig’s father, Briain Mór, on the other side. The story is introduced to the reader in a polyphonic counterpoint, related in overlapping stories, gossip, songs, ‘nonsense’ poetry, allusions to trashy romances, verbal abuse and quoted witticisms as the other characters make a mockery of Caitríona’s plight. 299 In the very first sentence9 of Cré na Cille Caitríona Pháidín wonders if she is buried in the pound plots or the 15 shilling plots. She muses to herself on what a fine funeral she must have had, having spent the last years of her life attending other people’s wakes and funerals, building up a network of obligations among relatives, neighbors and associates by contributing to their remembrances. Using this system of reciprocity, Caitríona Pháidín hoped to compete with the local shopkeeping class by having ‘a fine great altar’ (Altóir bhrea mhóir) at her funeral. After her death she interrogates new arrivals to the cemetery about the state of her own funeral: who attended, how many candles were on the altar, whether “the mountain people” (lucht an tsléibe) were there (with their offerings), and so on. Eileen Kane (1968:249-50), in her fieldwork in the Donegal Gaeltacht, reports people as saying, upon hearing of a death, “are there offerings on us?” She notes that “shopkeepers and tradesmen... have more extensive non-kin obligations (one estimated that he gave £50 a year in offerings)...” One of the subtexts of Cré na Cille is the uneasy relationship between the reciprocity economy and the newer forms of political economy; Caitríona is clearly identified with the former and is therefore doomed to lose out in her quest for status. The shopkeeping class, of course, use their access to capital to exploit both the system of reciprocity and the market economy. Caitríona’s hopes are dashed, 9. A sentence which because of its complex grammar was often as far as novice readers of Irish ever got (Ó hÉithir 1977)! 300 though, as she learns that she wasn’t buried in the “pound plots,” in spite of her instructions to her son Pádraig. Caitríona is told on arrival that “it’s the same life here as in the ‘old country’” (p. 17), and hears the babble of voices all around her, all saying the same things they said in life. This profound lack of transcendence gives Cré na Cille its satirical power. Life’s petty obsessions are only magnified in the unchanging environment of the graveyard. Caitríona and others lament the fact that the living do not realize the importance to the dead of such symbols of wealth as finely made coffins, lavish wakes, expensive plots, and a cross “of the island greenstone.” The idea of Heaven is dismissed entirely by Caitríona (Ó Cadhain 1949:63), who, musing to herself, remembers how as a girl she peered into the deceased Earl’s estate and imagined him dining with St. Peter: They are the same thing--rails around a grave and the high fences around the Earl’s house. […] It seemed to me then that it was the same thing to be clear in The Earl’s [rent] books and being clean in the books of Heaven. Ó Cadhain’s theatrical note on the frontispiece says “Time: Eternity.” But the term he used, de shíor, has the basic meaning of ‘eternally, continually, unceasingly’, as in repetitive unchanging action. There is no other world. New corpses are roughly thrown in on top of old ones, in the wrong graves, and then arbitrarily shunted off to new graves. Literally thrown together, social distance is narrowed to zero. Claustrophobia takes an extreme form in this world made of talk--everyone hears everything everyone else says and has ever said, about themselves and about others. 301 Cré na Cille both uses and makes a mockery of death as the absolute end, as the “Way of Truth” (Slí na Firinne), the site of ultimate moral reckoning. Conventional phrases used “above” to claim veracity for a statement -- ‘Dar dáir mo chonra’ (by the boards of my coffin), or ‘Sin é corp na firinne’ (‘that is the body of the truth’ --i.e. the whole truth) -- become comically absurd in this environment. Mendacity does not cease; there is no Last Word. The graveyard setting of Cré na Cille was partially inspired by Dostoevsky’s short story Bobok (Titely 1989) where a narrator overhears the residents of a graveyard agree to “cast aside all shame” and indulge, for the first time, in “shameless truthfulness.”10 Ó Cadhain’s characters have no such pretensions, and any transcendence achieved happens against their wills, but like Dostoevsky’s corpses, the inevitable slide into oblivion that awaits them takes the form of loss of social identity as they are forgotten by the following generations (cf. Ó Crualaoich 1981). Clay as medium and trope The idea of corpses talking in the graveyard came naturally enough to Ó Cadhain’s neighbors in Cois Fharraige, for whom “the dead were more luminous to them than the living:” Every bend in the road, every lane, bush, hill, outcrop and almost every rock was a living thing to us with a personality of its own. 10. Some reviewers compared Cré na Cille to Masters’ Spoon River Anthology. Ó Cadhain vehemently denied having read or been inspired by the Anthology, but admitted to having read Bobok (Ó Cadhain 1969:32-3). 302 […] They were part of our dead: our manifest history was in them (Ó Cadhain 1969:8). In Connemara’s mythic topography, the landscape is a place of transformation, uniting language, narrative, the dead, and moral values. Folk stories tell of dead souls stuck in specific places in the landscape until their sins are redeemed. The clay of Cois Fharraige is human in the fullest sense, the product of human labor, sand and seaweed, “the sterile querulous clay of the strand-seaweed” as one character, Dotie, calls it (Ó Cadhain 1949:296), and the medium to which the dead return. Dotie comes from prosperous East Galway; her lament for its rich soil takes on the form and themes of the caoineadh, women’s extemporaneous funeral oratory. But her orations are immediately dismissed by the other characters: -----…Dia dhá réiteach. Nach mairg nar thug siad mo chual cré thar Ghealchathair soir, agus mé a shíneadh i dTeampall Bhrianáin ar chlár ghléigeal an Achréidh ab uil mo mhuintir! Tá an chré caoin fáilteach ann; tá an ché sprosach síodúil ann; tá an chré lach múirneach ann; tá an chré díonmhar teolaí ann. Níorbh fhíniú é fíniú na fearta ann; níor thruailliú é truailliú na feola ann. Ach glacfadh cré cré; phógfadh agus dheornfadh cré cré; dhéanfadh cré cóimeascadh le cré… ----- Tá an maothnas uirthi seo aríst… 303 -----…God save it! Isn’t it a pity they didn’t take my heap of clay over beyond Brightcity [Galway] to the east, and stretch me out in Teampall Bhrianáin on the bright plain of Achréidh where my people are! The clay there is welcoming; the clay is easy and silky there; the clay is pleasant and affectionate there; the clay is protective and warm there. The grave’s decay is not decay there; decay of the flesh is not decay there. But clay would welcome clay; clay would kiss and embrace clay, clay would mingle with clay… ----- The sentimentalism has her again…(Ó Cadhain 1949:54). In Dotie’s oration clay is the metaphorical essence of sociality and embodies the difference between her own community and that in which she had the misfortune to be buried in. Cré na Cille’s chapter titles extend this metaphor to one of transformation: 304 TABLE 7.1: Cré na Cille, frontispiece (with translation) AM: De Shíor TIME:For ever/constantly LÁTHAIR: An Chill PLACE: The graveyard (cell) RÉIM: PROGRESSION: Eadarlúid I : An Chré Dhubh Interlude I :The Black Clay Eadarlúid II : An Chré dhá Sreathnú Interlude II :Layering the Clay Eadarlúid III : An Chré dhá Slámadh Interlude III :Gathering the Clay Eadarlúid IV : An Chré dhá Meilt Interlude IV :Grinding the Clay Eadarlúid V :An Chré dhá Cnáimhleasú Interlude V :Bone-dressing the Clay Eadarlúid VI : An Chré dhá Sua Interlude VI :Kneading the Clay Eadarlúid VII : An Chré dhá Cumadh Interlude VII :Shaping the Clay Eadarlúid VIII : An Chré dhá Cruaghoradh Interlude VIII : Hard-firing the Clay Eadarlúid IX : An Chré dhá Líomhadh Interlude IX :Polishing the Clay Eadarlúid X :An Chré Gheal Interlude X :The Bright Clay This series implies purification and transformation, through human labor, into something enduring, like pottery, paper, or bronze. Ó Cadhain was famous for the polyvocality of his words, however, especially his titles--at least some of these titles have other meanings having to do with mendacity and arguments, 305 e.g., ‘confusing’ instead of ‘kneading’, ‘making up (lies)’ instead of ‘shaping’, etc. Such a transformation could have a variety of outcomes as we shall see. Clarification The graveyard in Cré na Cille is Ó Cadhain’s vehicle for the transformation of caint na ndaoine (colloquial speech) into a new medium. His use of direct speech allows him to develop new forms within the “native” speech registers of he found around him, rather than creating new ‘literary’ registers. By doing this he brought the native registers into dialogue with each other, letting them answer, rebut and debunk each other through his characters. An example of this dialogue is the meeting between the newly deceased Tomás Taobh Istigh and Nóra Sheáinín, whose daughter has married Caitríona’s son. A corpse of shady social origins, Nóra is attempting her own post-mortem elevation into middle class respectability. Aided by the romantically befuddled Máistir Mór (the schoolmaster), Nóra has become ‘literate’ (the Master reads to her from his own grave), and ‘cultured’ (she uses fashionable English-language phrases, quotes from romantic novels and Abbey Theater productions, and throws in the odd word of French), even standing for election and founding a Rotary club in the graveyard. Nóra’s newfound respectability is infuriating to Caitríona, who constantly harps on Nóra’s shady past and the ignorance and poverty of An Gort 306 Ribeach, Nóra’s townland. But Caitríona’s protestations have been ignored by the other characters until now:11 ----- Éist, Thomas! That’s the dote! Ní dhéanfaidh an ‘tiff’ sin le Caitríona … ----- T’anam ón docks é “tiff”? ----- Ní dhéanfaidh an sciolladóireacht sin ach t’intinn a ‘vulgarisáil.’ Ní foláir domsa caidreamh a bhunú leat. Is mé oifigeach caidrimh chultúrtha na cille. Bhéarfaidh mé léachtaí dhuit ar “Ealaín na Maireachtála.” ----- T’anam ón docks é, “Ealaín na Maireachtála…” ----- Mhothaigh dream léarsannach againn anseo go raibh dualgais orainn dár gcomhchoirp, agus chuireamar Rótaraí ar bun … ----- Is mór a theastaíos Rótaraí uaibh! Féacha mise … [NS]----- Hush, Tomás! That’s the dote! That tiff with Caitríona won’t do … [TTI]----- Your soul from the Devil ‘tiff’? [NS]----- That abuse will only vulgarize your soul. I must establish relations with you [a pun]. I am the cultural relations officer of the graveyard. I’ll give you lectures on “The Art of Living.” [TTI]----- Your soul from the devil, “The Art of Living…” [NS]----- A far-seeing group of us here felt that we had a duty to our fellow-corpses, and we founded a Rotary… [TTI]----- You certainly need a Rotary! I’ll see… (Ó Cadhain 1949:294) Tomás does not understand Nóra’s use of the fashionable English phrase ‘tiff’. He interrupts her with an incredulous response, spoken in a homely cliche (“your soul from the devil ‘tiff’”?). Nóra substitutes the Irish phrase ‘sciolladóireacht’ (verbal abuse or scolding), but continues on with the English 11. Characters are not explicitly identified in Cré na Cille; for clarity I have identified them in the English translation as follows: NS = Nóra Sheáinín; TTI = Tomás Taobh Istigh; D = Dotie; S = An Scríbhneoir (The Writer); CP = Caitríona Phaidín. 307 verb ‘vulgarize’, itself vulgarly gaelicized with the verbal suffix -áil.12 With this one word Nóra expresses her snobbish aspirations and reveals their source in an English-language discourse. Ó Cadhain’s satire broadens with her next words which reveal her awkward command of bureaucratic jargon. Her offer to “establish relations” is an inadvertent sexual pun. “Ealaín na Maireachtála” (‘The Art of Living’) is absurd in a graveyard setting as well as making much more sense in English than in Irish -- Ealaín is often used derogatorily (to refer to drinking for example), and maireachtáil has the connotation of ‘survival’ as much as ‘living’. ----- Go díreach, Thomas. Féach thú fhéin! Ruabhoc romansúil thú a Thomais. Ba ea ariamh. Ach ní mór don románsaíocht stafóga an chultúir faoina cosa, lena hardú suas as an bhfód fiáin, agus Rí-Chorr comhéigneach na Fichiú hAiose ag ardchéimniú i gcluana gréine Chiúpaid a dhéanamh dhi, mar adeir Mrs. Crookshanks le Harry … ----- Foighid ort, anois a Nóra chóir. Inseoidh mise dhuit céard adúirt Aoibheall Bhreoilleach le Snaidhm ar Bhundún i “Roiseadh na Fallainge” … ----- Cultúr, Thomas. ----- T’anam ón docks, ab í Nóirín Sheáinín as an nGort Ribeach atá agam ar chor ar bith? … Muise meastú a dtiocfaidh canúint mar sin ormsa i gcré na cille? Diabhal mé a Nóra go mbíodh caint bhreá Ghaelach agat sa sean-reacht! … ----- Ná lig ort fhéin, a Nóróg, go cloiseann tú chor ar bith é. ----- Gug gúg, a Dotie! Gug gúg! Déanfaidh muid stroipín beag comhrá ar ball. Eadrainn fhéin, tá a fhios agat. Gug gúg! [NS]----- Certainly, Tomás. Look at yourself! You’re a romantic roebuck, Tomás. You always were. But Romanticism needs the 12. The ending of an ordinary Irish verb class; used as a suffix it is a typical way of incorporating English loan-words. (Stenson 1990). This suffix is extremely productive, however, lending itself to a particular style of ‘creolized’ conversation, parodied in Antoine Ó Flatharta’s recent dramas (cf. Ó Flatharta 1986). 308 staffs of culture under her feet, to raise her up from the wild sod, to make her the cutting edge of the Twentieth Century dignifying herself in Cupid’s sunny meadows, as Mrs. Crookshanks said to Harry … [S]----- Patience now, my dear Nóra. I’ll tell you what Aoibheall Bhreoilleach said to Snaidhm ar Bhundún in “The Tearing of the Cloak” … [NS]----- Culture, Tomás. [TTI]----- Your soul from the Devil, would that be Nóirín Sheáinín from Gort Ribeach? …By dad do you think an accent like that will come over me in the graveyard’s clay [cré na cille]? Devil me Nóra but you had fine Gaelic talk in the old days!… [D]----- Don’t let on at all that you hear him, Nóróg. [TTI]----- Koo koo, Dotie! Koo koo! We’ll have a bit of conversation in a while. Just between us, as you’d say. A pleasant little chat between us, you know. Koo koo! (Ó Cadhain 1949:294) Nóra’s tremendously mixed metaphor brings together Yeatsian imagery and quotation from the cheap novels supplied by the Schoolmaster. ‘Mar adeir x...’ or ‘Mar adúirt x...’ (‘as x says/said’) are very commonly used when quoting or attributing local witticisms.13 One would rarely find a ‘Mrs. Crookshanks’ quoted in this manner! At this point An Scríbhneoir (‘The Writer’) breaks in--Ó Cadhain’s parody of hack ‘folkloric’ writers such as those who wrote for the state-sponsored Irishlanguage publishing project, An Gúm. The Writer begins to quote from his own ‘masterpiece’ -- the characters’ names (‘Aoibheall Bhreoilleach’ and ‘Snaidhm ar Bhundún’) translate as ‘Frolicking Naked’ and ‘Knotted Bowels’. 13. Glassie (1982) and Ó Crualaoich (1989) emphasize the importance of this type of quotation as one of the most common forms of Irish verbal art. 309 Not recognizing her new accent, Tomás has been unaware of Nóra’s true identity until The Writer addresses Nóra by name. Tomás comments on her changed accent, using the ambivalent word gaelach to approvingly describe her former ways. Gaelach means ‘gaelic’, i.e., ‘pertaining to Irish-language culture or values’, but also, ‘backwards, homely, simple’. Nóra’s friend Dotie breaks in urging her to ignore this insult, only to be greeted lewdly by Tomás. The conversation continues: ----- Bhí an cultúr orm ariamh, a Thomais, ach ní raibh tú i ndon a fhiúntas a mheas. B’fhollasach dom é sa gcéad affaire de coeur a bhí ariamh agam leat. Marach sin b’fhéidir go ndéanfainn thú a ghreasacht beagán. Uch! Fear gan cultúr! Comradaí ba chóir a bheith a gcéile. Tiúrfaidh mé léacht duit, le cuidiú an Scríbhneora agus an Fhile, ar an ngrá platónach… ----- Ní bheidh plé ar bith agam leat, a Nóra Sheáinín. M’anam nach mbeidh!… ----- Mo chuach ansin thú, a Thomais Taobh Istigh! … ----- Bhínnse ag cuimilt leis an uaisle tigh Neil Sheáinín… ----- A chonúisín! … ----- Óra muise, is mór an spóirt iad na ceanna coimhthíocha sin, a Chaitríona. Bhíodh smáileog mhór bhuí ag iascach in éindigh le Lord Cockton i mbliana, agus chaithfeadh sí a raibh de ‘feaigs’ déanta. Chaithfeadh agus deirfiúr an tSagairt freisin. Bíonn siad i mboscaí móra i bpóca a treabhsair aici. Tá Mac Cheann an Bhóthair scriosta dhá gcoinneál léi. Tuilleadh diabhail aige, an bacach! Ach i nDomhnach duit, tá sise go gleoite. Shuigh mé isteach sa mótar abuil sí. “Gug gúg, a Neansaí,” adeirimse … ----- Cré amh chaobach í t’intinn, a Thomáis dote, ach déanfaidh mé í a shua, a chumadh, a chruaghoradh agus a líomhadh nó go mbeidh sí ina soitheach álainn cultúir … ----- Ní bheidh plé beag ná mór agam leat, a Nóra Sheáinín. M’anam nach mbeidh. Fuar mé mo dhóthain díot. Ní bhíodh neart agam mo chois a chur isteach tigh Pheadar an Ósta, nach mbítheá istigh leis an 310 tsáil agam, ag súdaireacht. B’iomaí pionta breá a sheas mé ariamh duit, ní dhá mhaíochtáil ort é! … ----- Ná lig ort fhéin, a Nóróg, … ----- Nár lagtar ansin thú, a Thomais Taobh Istigh! Go lige Dia mór do shaol agus do shláinte duit! Tabhair fúithi anois te bruite, faoi Nóirín na gCosa Lofa. Ag imeacht ag súdaireacht! An raibh tú tigh Pheadar an Ósta, a Thomais Taobh Istigh, an lá ar chuir sí an pocaide ar meisce?… Go gcuire Dia an rath ort, agus innis é sin don chill… [NS]----- I always had the culture on me, Tomás, but you couldn’t appreciate its value. It was clear to me in my first affaire de coeur with you. Except for that I might have encouraged you a bit. Ugh! An uncultured man! Lovers should be comrades. I’ll give you a lecture, with the help of the Writer and the Poet, on platonic love… [TTI]----- I won’t have anything to do with you, Nóra Sheáinín. On my soul I won’t! [CP]----- Good for you Tomás Taobh Istigh!… [TTI]----- I used to suck up to the gentry in Neil Sheáinín’s [sic] house… [CP]----- You little rubbish! [TTI]----- Oh my, those foreign ones are great sport, Caitríona. There was a big lump of a blonde fishing with Lord Cockton this year, and she’d smoke all the fags ever made. She would, and the priest’s sister would too. She keeps them in big boxes in her trouser pocket. Ceann an Bhóthair’s son is destroyed keeping her supplied. Serves him right, the beggar! But I tell you, she is lovely. I sat in the car with her. “Koo koo, Neansai” I said … [NS]----- Your mind is raw lumpish [loutish] clay, Tomás dear, but I will knead it, shape it, fire it and polish it until it is a lovely vessel of culture… [TTI]----- I won’t have anything at all to do with you, Nóra Sheáinín. Upon my soul I won’t. I’ve had my fill of you. I couldn’t set foot inside Peadar’s pub without you at my heel behind me, sponging. It’s many’s the fine pint I’ve stood you, not to begrudge you for it! … [D]----- Don’t let on, Noróg … [CP]----- Strength to you there, Tomás Taobh Istigh! May great God give you life and health. Give it to her piping hot now, to Nóirin na Cosa Lofa [Nóirín of the smelly feet]. Going sponging! Were you in Peadar’s pub, Tomás Taobh Istigh, when she got the billygoat drunk? …God prosper you, and tell it to the graveyard! (Ó Cadhain 1949:294-95) 311 As Tomás rejects Nóra’s offer of ‘Platonic Love’, Caitríona Pháidín cheers him on. Her approval of Tomás is entirely contingent on his laying low of her enemies -her own sister Neil and Nóra Sheáinín. In the end, Tomás refuses Nóra’s offer to make him into a lovely vessel of culture, which sets the stage for her uncrowning. Finally Nóra is unmasked as a drunkard and a sponger and her pretensions to ‘culture’ come to nought. Nóra embodies a particular kind of falsely progressive ‘culture’, just as characters such as Tomás and The Writer represent a kind of backwardness and its romantic literary glorification, respectively. Nóra’s offer to transform Tomás recapitulates Ó Cadhain’s sequence of chapter titles, showing us how much is at stake here. There are no ‘positive’ characters in Cré na Cille, with the possible ironic exception of Caitríona Pháidín, whose bitterness and invective amount to almost pure negativity. The characters are all stereotypes in some sense; their existence in the novel is that of kinds of speech -- the reader/listener recognizes them from their speech styles, especially from their habitual phrases. Here we see the full potential of quotation (Chapter 6) to typify, if not to reify, both speech styles and stereotypic images of persons. Unlike real people (cf. Hill 1995), these characters exhibit a relative lack of complexity of social ‘voices’; each character has basically one voice, although characters constantly refer to, mimic and mock other characters’ ways of speaking, as we saw above. This is the essence of Ó Cadhain’s process of critique, 312 in which styles, ‘embodied’ (!) in stereotypic characters’ voices, fight it out, revealing their own and each other’s social and cultural essences. Ó Cadhain in the public sphere Máirtín Ó Cadhain could be seen as a typical nationalist intellectual of the type analyzed by Anderson (1983). But Anderson’s theory runs into difficulties in dealing with Ireland, paralleling the difficulties of the Irish nation-state itself. Perhaps no single person embodied such difficulties as much as Ó Cadhain. He self-consciously cast himself as a guardian of Irish-language learning, a role formerly played by the poetic learned class in the Gaelic political system. As a republican, he believed in and participated in the construction of an independent democratic Irish nation-state. He was an essential element in the effort to recreate Irish as a national language, working first for the Dáil’s 14 translation service (1947-56) and eventually becoming Professor of Irish at Trinity College, Dublin.15 But one of Ó Cadhain’s most bitter complaints was the lack of any serious public role for Irish: even Russian was more likely to be heard on Dublin busses than Irish (Ó Laighin 1990:142). The public sphere in Ireland was fundamentally Anglophone, with Irish only occupying interstitial niches or playing an ornamental role in Irish affairs––casting doubt on the possibility of a viable 14. the Irish Parliament. 15. A great irony considering that Trinity College was a Unionist stronghold long after Irish independence, flying the British flag over its campus in central Dublin until 1935. 313 modern Irish-language literature. Ironically, the Abbey Theater Company, founded in Dublin at the end of the 19th Century, was originally seen as a partial substitute for an Irish national public sphere, in the absence of an independent Irish State (Kiberd 1996, Pilkington 1997). The literary revival of which the Abbey Theater was both expression and medium helped precipitate the political revolution of the 1920s. But even though they grew out of the movement to revive the Irish language (The Gaelic League, founded in 1893), these literary and political movements did not create viable Irish-language media; with the exception of An t-Éireannach in the 1930s (a weekly socialist paper to which Ó Cadhain contributed) most Irish-language papers were vehicles for revivalist propaganda rather than forums for information and general debate about current issues (Ó Ciosáin 1993). The national public sphere of independent Ireland functioned through English.16 The Irish state was not able to achieve the political unification, economic independence, or linguistic revival felt to be the nationstate’s due. This resulted in (or was perhaps the expression of) a lack of ideological closure––to a certain extent there were two nations in the Republic of Ireland. The Irish-speaking “nation,” such as it was, existed in an almost clandestine manner, relatively excluded from the public sphere and sharply divided between a fairly limited literate urban group (intellectuals and 16. This situation has only begun to change since the 1970s, with the creation of Irishlanguage radio (1972) and television (1996) channels, both in response to agitation by Gaeltacht civil rights groups. 314 radicalized urban poor) and the rural (mostly poor) Gaeltacht, whose class divisions Cré na Cille mercilessly satirized. In the rural Gaeltacht, the Irish-language counter-public sphere was embodied in traditional knowledge (placenames, narratives and song), the verbal art of local poets and “characters,” through performance forms such as agallamh beirte. This popular culture tended to be received by urban anglophone elite culture in terms of ‘folklore’ and––once it was safely dead––carefully collected and archived in Dublin. This reflected the predominant view of the modernizing elites of the Irish state who saw the Irish language, its culture, and even its speakers as relics of the (glorious, national) past (cf. and Ó Giolláin 1989, 1993, 1996). In Chapter 5 we looked at Ó Cadhain’s 1950 speech, Béaloideas (Folklore), in which he compared the museums, archives, and universities of central Dublin to the sacred tomb of a dead civilization, in which the “dead clay” of Gaelic Ireland lay embalmed. Here Ó Cadhain extended the metaphor he developed in Cré na Cille––of clay as the transformative essence of social life––and used it to profoundly critique the Irish state and the modernizing discourse which worked to marginalize Irish language and traditions. It might not be too out of line to consider An Chill, the graveyard of Cré na Cille, as his mocking send-up of the Irish state as a whole (cf. Ní Bhroin 1988), challenging us to try and distinguish the dead from the living. On another level, Cré na Cille most certainly reflected his prison-camp experiences (‘cill’ is also the word for ‘cell’), the claustrophobic 315 confines of the Curragh Camp (he began writing the novel shortly after his release). 17 Cré na Cille is above all his satirical portrait of a Gaeltacht community. In this sense it is fruitful to compare these fictional Graveyards to the Otherworld of folklore, the mirror image through which living tradition analyzes the everyday social world (Taussig 1980, Bourke 1997). Such Otherworlds are also places of transformation, and for Máirtín Ó Cadhain, the Irish-language public sphere in Dublin was a safe haven from which to mount guerrilla attacks on the anglophone state. An “underground politician” (Ó Glaisne 1971), he constantly intervened to embarrass the state into honoring its nominal commitments to the language. He wrote a column in Irish for the Irish Times from 1953 to 1956 (although its editors often had no idea what he was saying) in which he commented on events and persons of the hour (disguised by “humorous symbols”), and was “a dangerous satirist in Irish and in English” (Ó Glaisne 1971:16-17). Part of the myth that grew up around Ó Cadhain was his intricate knowledge of local events, persons and even their genealogies, garnered from an immense network of acquaintances; he was not loathe to put this knowledge to 17. To this end it is worth noting how consistently in Ireland prisons have provided transformative political spaces. The prisoners’ movement in the Curragh Camp in the 1940’s built on that of the 1920s and was was an important precursor of the prisoners’ movement and hunger strikes of the 1980s in Northern Ireland. Cf. Feldman 1991 for a description of how prisoners’ development of channels of relatively free and open communication (including use of Irish) transformed the political space of the H-blocks. 316 work, as when he publicly branded an anti-Irish language activist an “adulterer of petrol” (Ó hÉithir 1973:9). 18 Cré na Cille was serialized in weekly installments in The Irish Press, a national English-language newspaper, between February and September 1949 (Titley 1989:37). Although written in Irish, the novel was in effect deployed in both public spheres simultaneously, for Ó Cadhain knew it would be read and understood very differently by different types of reader. One day during this period Ó Cadhain was on a bus in Dublin and heard himself discussed in unflattering terms: In the seat in front of me a man and a young girl were discussing Irish-language literature. Naturally, I began to listen: ‘I hear there will be another book soon from Peig’19 said he: as usual with the Gaels and their wives or lovers, the conversation was in English. ‘What do you think of this story serialized in the Irish Press?’ said the girl. ‘This Ó Cadhain fellow’, he said. ‘A right galoot if ever there was one. A Joycean smutmonger’. To this day I don’t know who the girl was. The man was fairly well-known in literary affairs. But at any rate I had gotten another mouthful of free advice for my 18. Having great genealogical, mythical, historical, linguistic and poetic knowledge which is brought to bear on current political issues in the form of allegorical fables and concise and sometimes gnomic poetic kennings or condensed symbols, Ó Cadhain’s understanding and practice of rhetoric bears a striking resemblance to that of the medieval Irish court poet as described by Carney (1967). Cf. Chapter 4. 19. Peig Sayers, a “folk” writer from the Kerry Gaeltacht, whose Irish-language autobiography has long been required reading in the school curriculum. Peig was an exceptionally gifted storyteller, perhaps unjustly infamous for her litanies of sadness and misery. Dotie’s character in Cré na Cille is possibly based on this aspect of Peig. 317 benefit (Ó Cadhain 1969:12-13).20 This event provides the background for an episode of Cré na Cille where Nóra refuses the Writer entry into the Rotary Club: …You won’t be accepted. Your work is Joycean…You’re no good to me. I won’t listen to “An Fuineadh Gréine.” You must have a low intellect to write something like that… You’re reciting your “Brionglóid an Dionosaur”… I won’t listen. A right Joycean Galoot. You’re a lowly expression of Living Nature. 21 In this sense we can see Cré na Cille as an intervention in the Anglophone national space as much or more than as a contribution to it. In his literary memoir Ó Cadhain compared the novel’s reception in urban predominantly anglophone middle class culture to an event which happened to him while collecting folklore: Some Gaeltacht people would agree with [the man on the bus], or they would agree with the criticism. It stands to reason that they would be sensitive, especially in recent years with the old way of life changing from top to bottom. A few years ago I got to know an old man in north County Galway. I think he was one of the last people in the area who had any Irish at all. He spoke it clearly and eagerly. I wanted to put things from him on tape and he couldn’t wait to hear his own voice on the tape, once he heard things that were already on the same tape. His daughter was there, a bedraggled one, a spinster it seemed: ‘Oh no! I couldn’t allow him! I know he would say the wrong things! He wouldn’t know how to 20. San am a raibh Cré na cille ó sheachtain go seachtain san Irish Press bhí mé lá ar bhus i mBaile Átha Cliath. Sa suíochán róm amach bhí fear agus cailín óg ag plé litríocht na Gaeilge. Ní nach hiona chuir mé cluais orm féin: ‘I hear there will be another book soon From Peig’, adúirt seisean: mar is iondúil le Gaeil agus len a gcuid ban nó a gcuid leannán, i mBéaria a bhí a gcomhrá. ‘What do you think of this story serialized in the Irish Press?’ adúirt an cailín. ‘This Ó Cadhain fellow’, adúirt sé. ‘A right galoot if ever there was one. A Joycean smutmonger’. Go dtí lá an lae inniu níl a fhios agam cé hí an cailín. Fear a bhfuil roimt mhaith cáil air i gcúrsaí litríocht é an fear. Ar aon chor bhí gáilleog eile de chomhairle mo leasa faighte agam i n-aisce. 21. ... Ní glacfar leat. Tá do shaothar Joysúil... Níl aon mhaith dhuit liom. Ní éistfidh mé leis “An Fuineadh Gréine.” Intinn íseal-íseal atá agat agus rud mar sin a scríobhadh... Tá tú ag gabháil do “Bhrionglóid an Dionosaur” ... Ní éistfead. Brionglóid an Dionosaur. Gaileota Joysúil dáiríre. Gné an-íseal den Dúil Bheo thú (Ó Cadhain 1949:239). 318 say the right things from the wrong things …’ (Ó Cadhain 1969:16).22 This English-speaking “censorious Freudian Super-ego” epitomized the forces of false “modernization” for Ó Cadhain and dramatized the type of mentality he believed would predominate following the loss of the language in Ireland. Ó Cadhain’s radical political views, his unromantic portrait of the language and linguistic culture of the Gaeltacht, and his experimentation with new forms, were too much for traditionalist critics to bear. One reviewer, reacting to both the novel’s radical form and its distasteful content, maintained that “the author does not let on that it is he himself who is doing the talking. He has put [his talk] into the mouths of others. A lot of it I wouldn’t put into the mouth of a dog.”23 On the other hand, Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s neighbors, the people of the Gaeltacht, took well to the book in spite of its avant-garde nature. Breandán Ó hÉithir noted its ready reception in Árainn (in the Aran Islands): Shortly after the book came out I lent my own copy to a woman in my townland of Eochaill. For the next six months the book went from house to house from Eochaill to Cabhrúch, to Baile na Creige, Fearann an Choirce and west to Baile na Seacht dTeampall. Sentences and sayings from it went into [local] speech, and as Ó 22. D’aontódh cuid de mhuintir na Gaeltacht leis sin, nó d’aontóidís leis an gcáine. Tá sé ag luí le réasún go mbeadh an mhuintir goilliúnach, go háirid na blianta seo agus a seansaol sinsire ag athrú ó bhun go barr. Cupla bliain ó shoin chuir mé eolas ar sheanfhear sa taobh ó thua de Cho. na Gaillimhe. Sílim go raibh sé ar an duine deireanach sa gceantar a raibh aon bhrí Gaeilge aige. Ba phaiteanta agus b’fhonnmhar uaidh í a labhairt. Ba mhian liom rudaí uaidh a chur ar spól agus b’fhada leis go gcloisfeadh sé a ghlór féin, nuair a chuala sé rudaí a bhí ar an spól cheana. Bhí an inín ar an urlár, ceann sraoilleach, puisbhean gan pósa ba chosúil: ‘Oh no! I couldn’t allow him! I know he would say the wrong things! He wouldn’t know how to say the right things from the wrong things … 23. “Ní leigeann an t-údar air fhéin gur bé fhéin atá ‘déanadh na cainnte. Tá sí curtha i mbéil daoine eile aige. Go leor dhi nach gcuirfinn i mbéal an mhada” (quoted in Denvir 1987:38). 319 Cadhain himself said, there was at least one Tomás Taobh Istigh in every townland I mentioned. (Ó hÉithir 1973:3-4)24 Cré na Cille was read aloud in gathering-houses (Ó Cadhain 1969:13), and eventually produced as a radio play. Phrases from the book were quoted in conversation in much the same way as phrases from local folk-poetry were quoted. Indeed the form of the work as a whole resembles that of the agallamh beirte --the popular folk genre of poetic dialogues, usually satires with stereotypic characters, which comment on local social and political issues. I recently heard a broadcast on Raidió na Gaeltachta in which selections from the novel were read to an audience in Connemara, during the intermission of a singing contest. Hearing the characters’ lines interspersed with the raucous laughter of the audience brought home the point that Cré na Cille is as much a work of popular verbal art as it is an avant-garde experiment (Ó Crualaoich 1979). Cré na Cille had a huge impact on younger Gaeltacht writers. The writer Breandán Ó hÉithir credits Máirtín Ó Cadhain with revolutionizing Irishlanguage literature through the introduction of both a new level of realism and a high level of craftsmanship. “To us, Gaeltacht people, the book was a revolution in Irish-language writing. This was caint na ndaoine, but worked, enriched, hewn in a way never before seen” (Ó hÉithir 1973:3). 24. Go garid tar éis don leabhar a theacht amach thug mé mo chóip féin ar iasacht do bhean i mo bhaile féin Eochaill. As sin go ceann sé mhí shiúil an leabhar sin tithe as Eochaill, go Cabhrúch, go Baile na Creige, Fearann an Choirce agus siar go Baile na Seacht dTeampall. Chuaigh abairtí agus nathanna as sa chaint, agus, ar ndóigh mar a dúirt an Cadhnach féin, bhí Tomás Taobh Istigh amháin ar a laghad i ngach baile a luaigh mé. 320 Conclusion Cré na Cille is a typical modern novel in many respects––it maintains a “parasitic” relation to other speech genres (oral and literary), reconstituting them in “polyphony” (Bakhtin 1981, Moretti 1996). In Silverstein’s (to appear:48-9) analysis, the modern novel is one of the main tools for propagating the ideologies behind standardized national languages. [T]he presupposed perspectival jumble of interests in the society that [the novel] realistically portrays [finds] its narrative linguistic trope in the figurated “polyphony” of voicing that depends on using linguistic “heteroglossia” to tropic advantage. The novel is thus “a swatch of plausible reality which it both represents and, in ‘voicing’, gives voice to” (Silverstein n.d.:48-49). This trope is enabled by the situation of the novel in the homogeneous space-time that Anderson (1983) maintains is also the fundamental trope of the national imagined community. But in some ways Cré na Cille has no space or time, let alone the newly homogenous space-time which Anderson and others maintain is the novel form’s gift to the imagination of nationality. Nor is there a narrator25 or any one clear “authorial” voice. He has “put [his talk] into the mouths of others” after all. One consequence of the lack of a narrator (or of a main character with whom we identify and through whose consciousness we perceive the other characters) is 25. There is one voice which identifies itself as “Stoc na Cille” (The Trumpet of the Graveyard) which speaks in archaized Irish making general pronouncements about the duality of life and death. In spite of its exhortations to listen to its voice (which “must be heard!” -- caithfear éisteacht!) the corpses never do, nor does it engage in dialogue of any kind with them. Partway through the novel it seems to meet an even more mysterious disembodied second voice, and finally it fades away. The lack of attention paid to Stoc na Cille contrasts strongly with the characters’ doomed efforts to not attend to each others’ voices. 321 the lack of indirect discourse––of the melding of a narrator’s and characters’ voices to create a sense of an accessible psychological interiority (Voloshinov 1973). Cré na Cille’s style instead reinforces a sense of psychological opacity (the essential unknowability of other souls). The Andersonian idea of simultaneity is also absent or radically altered here, with no overriding point of view or sense of the possibility of a panoramic view of society, and no sense of novel itself taking this view. Everyone is in ignorance in Cré na Cille, including and especially the reader. Characters can only attempt to ‘read’ ongoing events as reported by (and dialogically marked as the words of) other characters. Both local and ‘World’ events such as World War II are read with tairgreachtaí (prophecies), which results in various hilarious mixups and anachronisms. In this sense Cré na Cille could be seen as an anti-novel, a reflection of the lack of any place for Irish or for the Gaeltacht in the space of the new Irish nation-state.26 The lack of transcendence, of “character development” or a successful resolution of the novel’s social and dramatic tensions, brings into relief this larger political failure. Máirtín Ó Cadhain in many ways subscribed to the ideologies of modernization, nationalism and linguistic standardization, but wished to see them realized in Irish, his native language. The historical particulars which left him stranded, as it were, in a language he felt he might himself outlive (Ó Cadhain 1969:40) led him 26. cf. Lomnitz-Adler’s (1992:3) concept of “the labyrinth” in modern-day Mexico: “The political importance of national culture and the difficulty in describing national culture in any terms other than the terms of nationalism has generated a circular dialectic, a vicious cycle that is built on the tensions that occur between the maze of social relations that exist within the national space and the ideologies regarding a common identity, a shared sense of the past, and a unified gaze towards the future. I call this complex of issues the labyrinth.” 322 to deeply question these ideologies, especially when they conflicted with his commitment to democracy. But the democracy of An Chill is a direct rather than a representative one. Attempts to create a “Rotary” with elections, lectures on “cultural” topics and self-improvement, and limited membership are frustrated by the very nature of the social space of the Graveyard, where everyone hears everyone else and has equal access to his or her own “voice.” This arguably represents a utopian strain in Cré na Cille ––the possibility of an equality based, not on a Dostoevskian “openness” of souls transcending their petty day-to-day interests, but instead on the self-representation of determinately partial and recalcitrant interests. Whether the counter-space of Cré na Cille could become the model for a new Ireland remains to be seen. CHAPTER EIGHT JOE HEANEY Joe Heaney as interpreter of a tradition Seosamh Ó hÉinniú, known in Connemara as Joe Éinniú, and in the English–speaking world as Joe Heaney, was born on October first, 1919 in An Aird Thoir, Carna, in the Connemara Gaeltacht in County Galway. The people of Carna and the surrounding Iorras Aintheach peninsula were and are renowned for their verbal art; large numbers of songs and stories have been collected there since before the turn of the century. Joe won a scholarship at age 15 to attend college in Dublin, although he only completed four years of a six-year program of teacher training. By his own account, he was very shy about singing in front of other people until he entered and won first prize in a singing competition in the Oireachtas in Dublin in 1940. Not long after this he emigrated to Scotland, then England and eventually to America. It was abroad and on brief visits home to Ireland that Joe Heaney made the recordings and performances that consolidated his fame as the leading traditional Irish singer of his generation. He was a mainstay of the London folk scene during the 1960’s and became well known as a singer in New York in the 1970’s. His last years were spent in American universities — Wesleyan University at first, and then at the University of Washington in Seattle, as a 323 324 visiting artist in the Department of Ethnomusicology. He died in Seattle on May first 1984. I was a student of Joe Heaney’s at the University of Washington in Seattle, making the weekly trek to my lessons, which took place in an instrument storage room in the basement of U.W.’s music building. At an absurdly early hour of the day Joe would teach me songs, along with giving detailed descriptions of life in Connemara, his philosophy of singing, and other “lessons” about life and love. Joe’s understanding of love songs impressed me the most—his explanation of why they were “lamentable,” and the darkness and depth of emotion in the songs themselves. Then he would sing the songs for the tape recorder as various large gongs resonated quietly in the corners of the room. Unfortunately I recorded only the songs, and it took me quite a while to realize the value and interest of the talk. My decision to rectify the situation came, alas, too late, leaving me only with memories, some notes, and the archived tapes of those who had the presence of mind not to turn off the recorder when the song was finished, and who generously contributed copies of their tapes to the U.W.’s archives.1 When one listens to the many other fine singers and storytellers from Carna, of his generation and the ones that followed, it becomes clear that Joe was not by any means unique in his talents; he was the product of a close-knit 1. The interviews used in this chapter, unless otherwise cited, were recorded during Joe Heaney’s three week residency at the University of Washington, Seattle, in 1978. References are to tape catalog numbers. Interviewers were Esther Warkov, Fred Lieberman and Mike Seeger. I am very grateful to them and to Laurel Sercombe and Sean Williams at the University of Washington Ethnomusicology Archive. 325 supportive community which took (and takes) the art seriously, with high critical standards. What made Joe Heaney unique was his position as both insider and outsider, spending most of his life interpreting this tradition to others in other communities. By the time he became a visiting artist among musicologists he had already passed through at least two other interpretive communities—the Irishlanguage movement in Dublin and the folk revival scene in England and America. The influence was mutual. Joe Heaney was an exceptionally articulate, opinionated, insightful and forceful spokesman for the culture, language and artistic tradition of Connemara as he saw it. Participation in the tradition was an open-ended process of discovery for him as he sought to deepen his feeling for and ability to perform the songs. To this end he did not hesitate to look for insights from the various other communities he passed through along the way. Thus one finds him quoting, to support his views, the likes of Alan Lomax, Máirtín Ó Cadhain, Ewan Macoll, Séamas Ennis and Pádraig Pearse as well as his father, grandmother, and neighbors in Carna. His statements about the song tradition must be taken with this in mind; the proverbial grain of salt consists in this case in paying close attention to whom Joe was speaking. While immediately addressed to some particular American musicology student, his statements were in a wider sense addressed to several other “others:” Irish Americans, folk revivalists, academics, 326 the Gaelic Revival movement2 in Ireland, as well as “the folks back home” in Carna. In his fairly solitary existence in Seattle in the final years of his life, Joe Heaney was nonetheless fully engaged in dialogue with all these other voices. His statements often reflected the points of view and terminology of these others, but always answered them from his own solid and profound intuition of what it meant for him to sing a song. The strongly and multiply dialogic nature of Joe’s statements gives them an allegorical quality not dissimilar to that of some of the songs themselves. Musical form and the act of singing The folklorist A. Martin Freeman, collecting songs in Baile Mhúirne, Co. Cork at the beginning of the century, found that singers did not regard a song’s musical form independently of its words: However minutely a song may be discussed, only the vaguest references to the tune will be heard. The tune is an elusive essence, the mysterious soul of the words. It has no independent existence. It is part of the singer’s secret, indistinguishable from his voice. [...] Only experience in the country and long conversations about songs will bring you to this conclusion: that the people hardly know anything about their tunes. [...] If you tell [a singer] that two of his songs have the same tune, he will answer that is impossible, since they are different songs. If you then say, that the tunes are very much alike, he will agree, and look upon you as a musical genius for having noticed it. “What a marvellous thing,” he will exclaim. “for a man who was not brought up in Irish to know so much about our songs!” For—may I repeat it?—the tune without the words is as 2. Which, via An t-Oireachtas and other competitions, was codifying as well as reifying “sean-nós” song and creating what amounted to an official canon. Cf Ó Laoire (1993, 1996), Ó Cearbhaill (1995). 327 little imaginable as a voice without a mouth. He thinks you understand the song (that is, the words) so perfectly, that you have got the tune. (Freeman 1920:xxiv-xxv) It is difficult to believe that these singers were ignorant of the music of their songs, especially considering that song airs could be played as instrumental airs. It seems more likely that musical form was not thought of independently from either a specific singer’s “voice” or the words of the song and their meaning, i.e., the song’s “story.”3 This would be more an example of a differing cultural point of view than of inability to hear or conceptualize music as as an independent entity. Joe Heaney’s questioners often tried to solicit “rules” for or descriptions of “patterns” of ornamentation. In response, Joe tended to adopt what Bourdieu (1977:18) terms a “semi-theoretical disposition, inevitably induced by any learned questioning,” formulating proverbial rules which he attributed to his elders in Carna. Asked formalist questions (such as “How do you know where to put grace notes in a song?”), Joe argued passionately and consistently for a radically different understanding of his tradition, in which musical form is only one aspect of a much wider act of orientation. He mobilized all available resources to articulate and defend this vision, including technical musicological terms, nonsequiturs, and a few otherwise dubious recollections and interpretations. In 3. Ó Madagáin (1985) suggests that in 19th Century Ireland there was a much more of a continuum between speech and song, with speech becoming more like song as its main function became more that of expressing emotion. This would go along with a point of view that would regard musical form as a pragmatic phenomenon primarily, and only secondarily as an aesthetic matter. 328 doing so he wasn’t being scientific, but was, arguably, articulating his insights as best he could to people who came with quite different presuppositions about music, song, and much more: ...the notes that you’re talking about, the embellishments of it—whatever you call it, that’s nature’s accompaniment they call that. I don’t try to do it, it just happens through the song when I try to draw out a line, and not—hold on to that particular line because there’s something special about that line. Don’t throw it away, hold on to it as long as you can [78-15.10]. In this example, recorded at a public recital, he affects an unfamiliarity with musicological terms (“whatever you call it”). He asserts, in passing, the role of ornamentation in the tradition by reformulating the terms of the question in folksy proverbial form (“nature’s accompaniment”), attributing it to “them”—the old people in Carna. Then he gives his own answer. Joe was conversant in both cultural worlds, but often argued for a point of view similar to that which Freeman encountered in Baile Mhúirne. The “something special” about the lines is the singer’s response to his or her own knowledge of the song’s “story”—its narrative background. Lyric song as direct discourse Most utterances contain deictic elements which refer to the occasion of utterance (such as person, tense, and spatial terms like “here” and “there”). Thus the meaning, in a sentence, of “I” or “you” depends on who is speaking and being spoken to. Deixis links an utterance to specific persons, times, and places. When utterances are directly quoted, deictic elements in the embedded speech 329 are left unchanged, as in “He said, ‘I’m going there now’.” The quoted sentence, ‘I’m going there now’, in and of itself offers no clue as to the meanings of “I, ” “there,” and “now”—these must be supplied elsewhere. In the case of much of the Irish song tradition, where songs often consist entirely of direct speech, information about “who, what and where” has to come from somewhere other than the sung text. This, I believe, is the basis of Joe Heaney’s assertion that songs have stories—some kind of background knowledge is often essential for understanding what the song is about. When songs consist entirely of direct speech, as is the case with many “sean-nós” songs, there is no explicit quotation framing (“he said”) in the song itself. Only the transition from speech to song marks the song as someone else’s words. This can create an especially powerful sense of being projected into the world of the original utterance. As I have shown in this dissertation, the use of quotation (either explicitly or implicitly framed) to project an “original” dramatic scene for an utterance is one of the major tropes of both conversation and verbal art in Ireland. Apt or witty turns of speech are remembered and repeated, as are poems and songs, accompanied if necessary by explanatory stories that set the scene. This form is also used in verbal art to project a dramatic scene for a work, as in the poetic agallamh beirte (Chapters 2, 4, and 6). Often it boils down to the simple poetic device of composing in the first person—situating one’s own work in a dramatic context. Being a trope, it is not a question of mere truth or falsity—whether 330 anyone actually said that in such and such circumstances—although the taking of such tropes literally figures prominently in the “invention of traditions” (cf. Ó Buachalla 1993). Rather than simply reading through this trope, taking it literally as a straightforward account of a past event, it is worth asking what is gained by using it—what richness is added to a performance or utterance in the here-andnow by treating it as the residue of a past event? Sometimes the effect of a song derives from the lack of fit between the world it describes and the world actually encountered by the poet. Satires may consist entirely of statements which appear to praise—it is sometimes said of certain songs praising boats (An tSailchuach, Pucán Mhicil Pháidín) that the boats themselves were worthless. On another level entirely are songs like Cúirt an tSrutháin Bhuí, where the poet, Colm de Bhailís, portrayed a shelter in which he was waiting out a rain-shower as a fabulous palace, the envy of the Queen of England (Denvir 1996). Poetry and conversation have a particularly close relationship in the Gaeltacht regions, above and beyond the features universally shared between the two, as Denvir (1989:96) points out: ...the good speaker and his hard sayings are held in high esteem in Ireland, particularly in the Gaelic tradition. Speech can be almost a creative art-form in itself, and many saying, lines, or indeed verses of the poets are mentioned in ordinary conversation. Likewise, the popular oral poetry of the Gaeltacht draws its inspiration and many of its forms from conversation. Narrative storytelling has always relied 331 heavily on the portrayal of the speeches and conversations of characters in stories. Often, the dialogue in these stories is in verse.4 James Carney suggests that much of the epic tradition in Ireland took the form of poetic dialogues in a prose context: A very common literary form in Irish is the tale which is a mixture of prose and verse, the prose being used for narrative, the verse for emotional statements by the characters involved (Carney 1963:22) It has been maintained (Dillon 1947:10-11) that this is the original form of the epic in Indo-European society, which was preserved until modern times in the Irish and Scots Gaelic Fenian tales. As we saw in Chapter 4, there is a strong tendency in many Irish genres to identify “poetry” with directly reported speech. This should be considered in the light of indigenous ideologies and practices with regard to poetry. The oral tradition tends to represent poetry as having been composed extemporaneously. There are a great many stories about poets, usually consisting of a narrative description of the scene which acts to frame the poetic utterances of the protagonist(s).5 These stories offer outsiders an insight into folk conceptions of poets and poetry, but also function to maintain traditional attitudes about poetry and language, and help preserve the power of the poets. 4. For example, a number of the stories collected in the 1940’s from Peig Sayers (Wagner and Mac Congáil 1983) feature verse-dialogue. 5. Delargy (1945:207) mentions “‘duels in quatrains’, as a rule with a short explanatory prose introduction.” 332 In many stories, however, the protagonists are not named as “poets” but appear as ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances. Ó Madagáin (1985) argues that extemporaneously composed poetry, usually in the form of song, including “arguments in verse,” was commonplace in Ireland in the last century. These utterances were often passed on orally, along with narrative description, i.e., reported context. Much of the song tradition, especially the Irish-language tradition, takes this form, which could just as easily be used by poets to project a narrative scene for their works, casting them in dramatic form. The song and the story Irish-language song is arguably an example of a “tale which is a mixture of prose and verse”—where the verse is sung and the prose is not necessarily recited. It might seem strange to regard the singing of lyric poetry as a kind of storytelling, but in doing so I am following Joe’s own advice, when he insisted that “singing a song is like telling a story.” Other singers of his generation are of like mind in maintaining that songs have or tell or go along with stories. The songs generally take the form of the speech of the main character(s), who are identified only by accompanying narratives. Sometimes referred to as údar an amhráin (“The authority for the song”), these narratives may be told by the singer or by someone else, and range from a few words of introduction to complete stories; sometimes the sung verses are interspersed with spoken narrative. 333 The use of the term údar seems to encompass several of its senses as defined by Ó Dónaill (Ó Dónaill 1977:1296): 1. Author, originator; source, origin. 2. Author, writer. [...] 4. Authority, reliable evidence. 5. Cause, reason. The “story” of a song, as “údar” is first of all an account of the person who composed it, the dramatic situation in which the song originated, and the reasons for and effects of the author’s poetic response to that situation. But it is also the authentication of the song, which makes it real for an audience by tying the poetic utterance to a definite origin in history and by locating the song in a specific place in the landscape.6 As Hugh Shields has observed, the simple identity of the poet is often a matter of special interest to a Gaelic audience. [...] Since the first-person mode predominates, the same identity is shared by the poet and the main personage [...] so that authorship need not be considered an extrinsic, nonnarrative aspect. A poet may be a local person whose circumstances local people may guess at, if not actually know (Shields 1993:77). The “story” in sean-nós singing is what could be called a potential, as opposed to a performed narrative. As narratives they seem to range from quite formal, artistic, and performable stories all the way to simple background knowledge or indeed mere hunches or intuitions about the meaning or origin of a song. In my fieldwork in Ráth Cairn I rarely heard stories to songs narrated as part of song performance, but I frequently heard them discussed in conversation, 6. It is interesting to compare sean-nós song with Austurian “deepsong” (Fernandez 1986); both are currently undergoing popular revivals based on their qualities of personalism, celebration of place, and spontaneity as a kind of heroic utterance. 334 often not connected with actual song performance. Older people who are not singers nonetheless know both the words and the “stories” to songs; I have heard one man in particular complain that younger singers he hears on Radio na Gaeltachta obviously do not know the stories, even altering the gender of a song’s characters. That the “story” functions as shared background information rather than performed narrative does not diminish its importance. Without its shared narrative background, much of a song’s meaning is lost. This is true especially since sean-nós songs often consist entirely of the protagonists’ speech, and thus are lyric and dramatic, rather than narrative, in nature. Songs refer to their stories, just as ordinary conversation is enriched by references or allusions to songs—e.g., a young man, while cleaning out an ancient decrepit pipe for an older man, laughingly compares it to Píopa Ainde Mhóir. In my own fieldwork, I have frequently been struck by how smooth and continuous the transition from conversation to song can be, a phenomenon also well documented by Glassie (1982) and Shields (1993). Ordinary conversation provides the occasion for reference to, then narration of, a story, which peaks with reported poetic conversation between the story’s protagonists, followed by a few sung verses or an entire song. When a song’s “story” is narrated in performance it portrays the lines of the song as the actual direct utterance of the protagonist(s). An example of this is 335 Joe Heaney’s spoken introduction to Amhrán Shéamais Uí Chonchúir.7 I include the first two sung verses to give a feel for the kind of transition involved, between spoken narrative and the sung poetry which this narrative frames as direct quotation: Bhuel, an t-amhrán atá mé ag goil a rá anois, sé an t-ainm a tugtar air, ‘Amhrán Shéamais Uí Chonchur’. Nó, tugann cuide de na daoine ‘Amhrán Árainn’ air. Mar is in Árainn a rugadh ‘is a tógadh Séamas Ó Conchur. Fear bocht diaganta a bhí ann. ‘Is an t-am a raibh na ministéirí nó , thugfadh cuide de na daoine ‘soupers’ orthu ag goil thart. Gheall ministéir a bhí in Árainn cnagaire dúthaigh, sé sin a rá, gabháltas talúna, rud a dtugainn muide gabháltas air, cnagaire a tugtar in Árainn air. Sin timpeall ‘s, ocht n-acra fichead talúna. Gealladh é sin do Shéamas as ucht amhrán a dhéanamh, a’ moladh an chreideamh gallda agus ag rith síos a chreideamh fhéin, an creideamh caitlicheach. Agus bhí Séamas bocht mar a duirt mé, agus ní raibh a fhios aige céard a dhéanfadh sé. Chuaigh sé abhaile agus luí sé ar a leaba. Agus san oíche, bhí aisling aige. Agus san aisling tháinig an t-aingeal aige agus thóg sé lamh leis. Agus thaspáin sé dhó an t-anam dhá mheáchan. D’éirí Séamas ar maidín, agus chuaigh sé go dtí an sagart paráiste. Agus d’inis sé dhó, mar a bhí an aisling aige. “Chonaic mé” ar seisean “an t-anam dhá mheáchan aréir.” “Agus a Shéamais a stór” a dúirt an sagart, “ar mheáigh an mhaith an t-olc” “Ó mheáigh” a deir Seamas, “míle buíochas is altú le Dia.” “Muise a Shéamais anois” a deir sé, “an bhfuil socraithe i t’intinn a’dsa céard a dhéanfas tú?” “Ó tá” arsa Séamas. “Tá mise ag goil abhaile anois” a déir sé, “Agus cluainfidh an saol fós, an t-amhrán atá mise ag goil a dhéanamh.” Agus dearfaidh mise an t-amhrán anois mar a rinne Séamas Ó Conchur é. (Well, the song I’m going to sing now, they call it “Séamas Ó Conchur’s song.” Or, some people call it “The Árainn song.” Because Séamas Ó Conchur was born and raised in Árainn.8 He was a poor, pious man. And this was the time when the ministers, or, as some people would call them, the Soupers, were going 7. Broadcast 3/9/95 on Raidió na Gaeltachta. Recorded by Raidió Telefis Éireann in the Damer Theatre, Dublin, in 1957. The song itself, without the spoken introduction, can be found on the C.D. Amhráin ar an Sean-nós. 8. Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands. 336 around. A Minister who was in Árainn promised him a ‘cnagaire dúthaigh’ [a measure of land], that is to say, a ‘gabhaltanas talúna’ [a land holding], what we [in Connemara] would call a ‘gabháltas’, they call it a ‘cnagaire’ in Árainn. That’s about 28 acres of land [16 acres according to Ó Dónaill p. 254]. That was promised to Séamas in return for making a song, praising the foreign faith and running down his own faith, the Catholic faith. And Séamas was poor as I said, and he didn’t know what he would do. He went home and lay on his bed. And in the night, he had a dream [aisling, a vision]. And in the dream, an angel came to him, and took his hand. And he showed him the soul being judged [lit., ‘being weighed’, after death]. Séamas got up in the morning and he went to the parish priest. And he told him about the dream he had. “I saw,” he said, “the soul being judged last night.” “And Séamas, dear” said the priest, “did the good judge the bad?” “Oh it did” said Séamas, “a thousand thanks and blessing to God.” “Well Séamas” he said, “Have you decided what you’ll do?” “Oh I have” said Séamas. “I’m going home now” he said. “And the world will still hear [i.e., hear forever] the song that I’m going to make.” And I’ll sing the song now as Séamas Ó Conchur made it.) Dhá bhfaighfinnse culaith éadaigh a mbeadh óir a’ silleadh léi Ar chuntar dán a dhéanamh, ag moladh an chreideamh gall, (If I would get a suit of clothes streaming with gold in return for making a song praising the foreign faith) Ní bhfaighfinnse ó mo chroí istigh, sliocht Liútair a mholadh ar aon chor, A d’iompaigh ar lamh chlé, ‘s ar thréig Mac na ngrást. (I couldn’t bring myself from my heart inside, to praise Luther’s descendants, who turned towards evil and abandoned the Son of graces.) [10 more verses...] The didactic beginning to Joe’s narrative reflects the occasion—a performance in Dublin for an urban audience—although the discussion of terms and dialectal differences would be common “at home” also. Joe was quite adept at telling these introductory stories to English-speaking audiences, followed by 337 Irish-language songs, while maintaining that the songs themselves were untranslatable. The main function of the “story” when narrated is to orient the listeners, setting the stage for the song and equipping them for the change in footing9 when the song inserts them directly into this constructed scene. What was past in the story becomes present in the song, and the third person becomes first person. The central act of singing and listening to sean-nós song was for Joe this projection back in time, and he often used the word “story” to refer, not to any kind of narrative, but to this past scene itself. This past scene is the secret of the song, a shared history that is ritually enacted in performance: ...This is why they go anticlockwise when they’re singing, they hold hands and go anticlockwise. Because they’re turning back the clock, to when this time was—and each song tells a story. Because when most of the songs were composed, the people couldn’t speak about their feelings they had to put it over in song so people wouldn’t understand what they were saying. The common enemy, wouldn’t understand what they were talking (Heaney 78-15.5). Songs very frequently support multiple interpretations—in effect different “stories” or construals of their originating personae. This is a feature of the manuscript tradition as well.10 Discussion and argument about the true narrative background to lyric poems is thus part of the tradition. 9. Goffman (1981); see also Urban (1989) on the use of the first person in South American ritual discourse. On the importance of reported speech for understanding the sociocultural functions of language, see Voloshinov (1973). 10. Ruairí Ó hUiginn, personal communication. 338 Singing style The most often remarked feature of the sean-nós singing style is the highly ornamented solo melodic line. Pitch, duration, tone-quality, and dynamics all appear to be organized so as to allow the singer the greatest flexibility in ornamentation (Bodley 1973). Melodic ornamentation consists of adding small grace notes: melismatic ornamentation is “a group of adjacent auxiliary notes decorating or replacing a main note of the melody;” intervallic ornamentation is the replacement of intervals between main notes, and the filling in of intervals with “a series of stepwise notes” (Ó Cannain 1978:71). Ornamentation results in a kind of rubato: The number of accents or beats per bar is constant, and falls mostly into patterns of 2, 3, or 4. The duration of each of these beats is variable—indeed it has to be so in order to accommodate the ornaments.Thus one gets a form of rubato that is to some extent structural—a rubato that has a specific part to play in the musical structure (Bodley 1973:52) The practice of ornamentation is but one aspect of the musical variation (between measures, verses, performances, and performers) which is valued as the hallmark of “true” traditional style: Not only is the ornamentation changed from verse to verse, but what might be considered the basic musical material of the song may be varied as well (Bodley 1973:72). Ornamentation, along with melodic and rhythmical variation take the same forms in both song and instrumental music, which also share the same basic 339 melodies.11 However, the exact nature and role of ornamentation in traditional singing is a matter of some debate. Lillis Ó Laoire has suggested that the Gaelic Revival movement and other aficionados have made a “fetish” of melodic ornamentation, taking it as the unique measure of “true” sean-nós style and distorting the tradition in the process, whereas many singers and some regional styles use very little ornamentation (Ó Laoire 1996, and personal communication). Clearly, melodic ornamentation is but one of many ways of structuring a performed text. Relevant to this discussion is Glassie’s (1982:40) observation that storytelling in County Fermanagh had two “modes:” One is full and flat in sound, complex in grammar; it is used to digress informationally, to orient the listener, and it approximates prose. The other is melodic, rhythmically broken, grammatically simple; it is used to advance the narration, to excite the listener, and it approximates poetry. Neither prose nor poetry, thought nor action, stories are both.12 Perhaps song performance lies on a similar continuum between relatively “narrative” and relatively “lyric” poles; different regional traditions as well as different singers and indeed songs in a given region would then occupy different positions on this continuum. As we shall see, Joe Heaney understood melodic ornamentation in this way, as one aspect of narrative performance—as part of telling a story. 11. See Williams (1985) for a formal analysis of Joe Heaney’s style of ornamentation. Williams argues that Heaney tends to ornament unstressed syllables; she emphasizes the importance of the interaction between rubato and ornamentation in creating poetic tension (stress and release) within the lines of a song. 12. See also Ó Crualaoich (1989); Linzee (1984) analyzes ornamentation in Joe Heaney’s storytelling. 340 Embodiment: “pulse” and “drone” Joe Heaney used two terms to talk about how a singer keeps continuity in a song while singing it, the “pulse” and the “drone” or “nyah.” These are quasiphysical entities that a singer “has,” and Joe often mentioned them at the same time. Well you see it’s like a bee, when it’s going into the hive. In sean-nós singing, which is old style singing, there’s supposed to be the drone of the ancient pipes in the voice, accompanying the song. Some people have it, and some don’t. I’ve been accused of having it, it’s a great honor to be accused of having it Ewan Macoll told me I had it. Peggy Seeger told me I had it, ... I don’t put there it’s just there. [Does that help you sing better?] Well it helps me balance my voice better. Well I can hold on to the next line better by having this following you know, following the words I’m saying. Or preceding the words I’m saying. I keep a link with the lines you know, by doing that. The lines are linked to one another. It’s like telling a story. You’ve got to put grace notes in a story even to tell it, with a bit of exaggeration. I mean it’s no use telling a story the way it was—you’ve got to put something on to it. And help it along. [So even when you stop singing to take a breath or something you still hear the drones?] I still have it...even when I stop to talk, it still helps me to carry on with the same, almost the same note as I stopped on you know (Heaney 78-15.3). There is, we suspect, “a bit of exaggeration” in this account itself! But it accurately describes the role of nasalization in sean-nós, and makes sense as a phenomenological account from the singer’s perspective. Likewise with Joe’s description of the “pulse:” My father told me, “when you’re singing a song, start softly, build up a climax, and come down—slowly, easily toward the end—because remember, in folk music there is no beat, it’s just got a pulse; and the minute you lose that pulse you’re dead, the song is dead. You can lose a beat,” he said, and survive—but the pulse, no.” That’s the advice he gave me. 341 A pulse, you know, it’s something that goes evenly more or less, you know, with no sort of loudness all the time, or no sort of down all the time. It’s a thing that keeps going, and when it stops that’s dead, whatever they’re doing is dead. It keeps the same moment, you know; going the same way all the time. You don’t run away with something. You don’t beat (Quoted in Cowdery 1990:35). It is hard to imagine Joe’s father using a term like “folk music,” and indeed in an interview in Irish,13 we hear Joe say: ...Mar a dúirt an Béarlóir fadó, “In folk music there’s no beat—there’s only a pulse.” (...As the English-speaker said long ago, “In folk music there’s no beat—there’s only a pulse.”) My suspicion is that this “pulse” is a musicological term that made sense to Joe, both as a description of what singing felt like and rhetorically as ammunition in his ongoing war against the Irish ballad boom, Liam Clancy, and the tendency to put a regular beat and guitar accompaniment on every possible song. Joe seemed to identify the pulse of a song with its poetic meter,14 and in this respect it is interesting to compare his idea with one found in Irish folklore about poetry and poets, féith na filíochta (the vein of poetry). As Ó hÓgáin (1979, 1982) has shown, folk stories often portrayed this literally as a physical vein which poets had; when the poet was seized by an emotional poetic frenzy, the pulsing of this vein would produce poetry, its pulse corresponding to the poetic meter. Thus, poetry is portrayed in the tradition as being a direct physical artifact of the poet’s body and emotions. And since this poetry was sung, (Ó Madagáin 1985), we have 13. Interviewed by Mike P. Ó Conghaile, Raidió na Gaeltachta. Archived as tape R 779, An Teanglann, Roinn na Nua-Ghaeilge, Coláiste na hOllscoile, Baile Átha Cliath. 14. cf. Williams 1985 342 evidence for a folk understanding in which song creates a direct connection over time between singer and poet, via the pulse. What Joe called “style” is a slowly developed habitual relationship to songs and stories. He denied that he learned “ornaments” at the same time as songs, saying: First of all you’ve got to learn the song and develop your own style. I mean, as the saying goes, you’ve got to walk before you run. The main thing is to learn the song and what the song is all about. And then, develop your own style in doing it, and then you’ll—there’s nobody living that can tell anyone where to put grace notes in a song. You just do it yourself. It takes years. [78-15.1] Ornamentation is a question of time, coming from the desire to “hold on” to lines. Joe relates the importance of a line to its place in the “story” to interviewer Esther Warkov: EW: Are slower songs more highly ornamented than the faster songs? JH: Oh yes, much more, much more. Well you see the point was, that the ornamentation came from you see that the people wanted to hold onto this particular line. They didn’t want to let it go. They wanted to hold onto it as long as they could. Different lines in a song are different, sung differently to other lines in a song, some verses tells you of the tragedy and other verses tells, why did it happen and they vary, like that—the same way you sing any version of a song. [78-15.1] Singing involves an act of orientation—putting oneself in the place of the song’s protagonist: EW: How did you know, when you were singing something, if it wasn’t good? JH: Sure, I judge it by the way I feel. Now, ‘do I feel this, or don’t I?’ That’s the question I ask myself all the time. Do I feel this song, do I put myself in the man’s name that this particular song was written about. Am I suffering the labors he did, can I go through that or 343 have that picture before me; if I can’t follow that man, the journey he took, whether he was in bondage or slavery, I don’t follow the song and I don’t do it justice, and I know I don’t if I don’t do that. And that’s what I had, that’s technique [unclear] in the song and I had to listen and listen and develop my own style eventually in my own particular way and that’s how I do it now. But I listened to the way that they were doing it you see and you see the keening and the lament right through the song in a sad song. And this is what I was trying to get, which I eventually did, and did it my own way. And I’m doing it my own way for the last, oh, for the last 20 years I suppose. And it took me twenty, twenty-five for me to develop that properly. EW: ...so in the process of developing your style, the main emphasis was on how well you could really picture the whole... JH: How well I could live, live the song. It’s like drawing a picture. If you don’t have the blueprint of what you’re doing you see you’ll never get anywhere. And that’s the same with a song, start softly, build up a climax, and come right down again. EW: Would you ever take one line out of a song and sing that over and over...? JH: No. ...You’ve got to do the whole—The first important thing about a song is, know the story. What the story is all about—and that’s very, very important. And then you’re doing the song the same as if you were telling the story. Each line varies, but you’ve got to put them all together so they’ll make sense. I mean, it’s no use trying to get one line, because one line follows the other and it’s before another line so they’ve got to knit into one another. [78-15.2] Joe speaks about singing both in terms of empathy (“live the song”) and craft (“drawing a picture,” “knitting” lines together). But empathy takes the upper hand, “playing the act” of going through the character’s life. As Joe imagines it, the act of singing establishes a parallel between the singer’s and the protagonist’s lives and agonies, and between these common experiences and the melodic form of the song. At a recital he was asked to sing a verse of a song without, and then with ornamentation. After trying this (without much success), with The Rocks of Bawn, he offered this explanation: 344 There’s a big difference in them two verses of that. In one of them you’re in a hurry to go somewhere and the other one, you’re playing the act, you’re working exactly what Sweeney was doing, you’re going through the same thing that he was going through, before the song was ever made. You have the picture before you of the man going through this agony, and if he’d stop for one minute, somebody else would get the job. And that’s exactly the picture you must follow when you’re singing an old song. Especially if it’s a sad one. Now if it’s a love song or an old man marrying a young woman that’s a different story you can do what you like with them, because they deserve it in the first place. ...you’ve got to have the picture before you. And always have that picture and then you’ll do the song properly then. [78-15.10] For Joe, the meaning of a song’s “story” — events of long ago in the lives of the song’s protagonists—becomes manifest in the melodic form of the song when it is properly sung. Joe often used the word “story” to refer, not to any specific narrative, but to the narrative meaning of a song in general, condensed or distilled into music. The essence of song, then, is similar to what Paul Friedrich (1986:39) has called the “master trope” of poetry: “to create felt consubstantiality between music, language and myth.” There is a sense, in the tradition, that “stories” are the physical marks or effects of events and can substitute for the events themselves. Such is the sense of the term “scéal” in Máirtín Ó Cadhain’s (1967:42, 45, my translation) short story, An tSraith ar Lár: ‘Seanbhróig chiréibthe mé,’ adúirt sé leis féin. ‘Má bhain mé scéalta as an saol ní gan poill a fhágáil ionam é.’ (‘I’m an old tattered shoe’ he said to himself. ‘If I got stories out of life it wasn’t without it leaving holes in me.’) 345 Ó Cadhain’s character, reflecting at the end of his life, understands his own body as a collection of “scéalta:” Ba mhó de scéalta danra gach méir, cluais, cois, polláire agus súil leis. Níl méir ag gabháil leis nár bhris teanachair gliomaigh... (Every finger, ear, foot, nostril and eye of his was a greater cruel story. He didn’t have a finger going that hadn’t been broken by a lobster’s pincers...) This understanding is evident in Joe Heaney’s sense of the identity of songs, stories, and the lives of singers and listeners. The most important thing about the song tradition to Joe Heaney was that “songs tell stories.” But these “stories” lie hidden beneath the surface of the song itself: Well you see, nobody ever asked you to sing a song. ‘Abair amhrán’. Say a song. You know what I mean? Therefore, you’re telling the story in a nice way. Because, when most of these songs were composed, the people couldn’t express their views orally so they had to put it in verse. And that told the tragic tale, what was it an emigration song, or a boating song— a boat tragedy like Anach Chuain, or something like that, these conveyed the message and without telling the story the song was lost. That’s why it’s always advisable to say a little bit about the song before you start doing it you know. [78-15.1] ...they’re turning back the clock, to when this time was—and each song tells a story. Because when most of the songs were composed, the people couldn’t speak about their feelings they had to put it over in song so people wouldn’t understand what they were saying. The common enemy, wouldn’t understand what they were talking. [78-15.5] What emerges from Joe Heaney’s account is a view of singing as a kind of ritual. The central act of singing what Joe called “laments” is the act of visualization and 346 empathy that leads the singer to “hold on to” lines. The finalization (Bakhtin 1986; Hanks 1996:243-244) of the lament as a particular type or genre of singing—what makes it different from other kinds of singing, was for Joe Heaney this imaginative act. The absence of this act “kills” or “destroys” a song, by failing to “do justice” to it as a song or to its protagonists. Laments praise, as opposed to satires—what Joe had in mind when he mentioned “a love song or an old man marrying a young woman”—where “you can do what you like with them, because they deserve it in the first place.” “Sean-nós” as a genre The use of the term sean-nós (“old-style”) as a name for both a style of singing and a repertoire of songs seems to have developed in the milieu of the Irish language revival movement, which sponsors singing competitions, most notably, as part of An t–Oireachtas, the annual Irish-language festival. The term itself is thus of fairly recent vintage (Mac Con Iomaire 1994, Ó Laoire 1996), and it is a matter of considerable ongoing debate what is and is not “true” sean-nós song. However, this does not compromise its validity either as a term or as a genre if one follows Bakhtin (1986) in maintaining that genres develop as a process in social discourse and embody an aesthetics and world-view as well. The reflexivity of the term sean-nós, as defined both from “inside” and “outside” the tradition, is also characteristic of the phenomenon of genre in general. The semantics of the term, meaning something “old” as distinct from the new, is in 347 keeping with this reflexivity (e.g., the term “novel” for another famous speech genre). Joe’s career as a singer and exponent of Irish singing both developed out of and greatly influenced the development of sean-nós as a genre. Lillis Ó Laoire (1996) argues that sean-nós singing has been “transformed from a form of folksong little known and understood and practiced by Irish-speakers in rural areas, to a powerful national identity symbol, representing a different cultural and political agenda to that which was accepted as the contemporary norm”—effecting its “exaltation to a mystified high-art discourse.” Given all this, it is interesting to discover that in his interviews, Joe rarely used the term, focusing instead on what he called (in English) “laments” as an exemplary subset of songs which he felt embodied the essence of the tradition. His main examples of “laments” were religious songs such as Caoineadh na dTrí Muire, (“The Lament of the Three Marys”) which he recorded and made famous, but which were considered, both locally in Carna and more generally throughout Ireland as being women’s songs. In fact these sacred songs were felt to function as both as prayers and as direct substitutes for the caoineadh (“keening,” women’s funeral lament) which was suppressed by the Church (Partridge 1983). “Lament” was the term Joe used in English for the caoineadh. Thus we find one of the major exponents of sean-nós as a genre basing his understanding of its aesthetics on forms which echo, replace or imitate other forms which are completely outside of that genre.15 I would like to argue that we should understand Joe Heaney’s 15. See Hanks 1987 for a discussion of creative ambiguity between genres. 348 statements about singing as, in part, a strong dialogic response to the ongoing discourses about singing, in Ireland and elsewhere, including the attempts (largely by those born outside of the Gaeltacht) to define and regiment sean-nós as a genre. “Laments” and caoineadh Joe Heaney’s interpretation of “lament” singing as a kind of ritual is an innovation which follows and builds on formal elements in the song texts themselves (such as their being composed as first-person utterances) as well as on traditional song performance and traditional understandings of the nature of poetry and speech in general. One element which seems to be innovative is the strong connection Joe felt between song performance and caoineadh (“keening”), women’s mortuary ritual oratory. His main examples of a “lament” were religious songs such as Caoineadh na dTrí Muire, (The Lament of the Three Marys), which portrays the Passion of Christ via a conversation between Mary and Christ; Joe recorded it and made it as famous as it made him. These sacred songs, however, were considered, both locally in Carna and more generally throughout Ireland as being women’s songs, and were felt to function as both as prayers and as direct substitutes for the caoineadh, which was suppressed by the Church (Partridge 1983). “Lament” was also the term Joe used in English for the caoineadh itself. When asked about the “social setting” of Caoineadh na dTrí Muire, Joe described it as the lamentation for Christ at Lent: 349 JH: ...most laments, you know, were sung during funerals and all that people crying after the dead one you know. There used to be what you’d call keening women in Ireland, years and years ago who used to cry at every wake, they were specialized, and crying over the dead person and telling about his good points, never his bad ones. and even at the graveyard, they used to cry until the last sod was put over the dead person. Now the lament, the óchón, óchón, well that followed through the lament I sang yesterday, the “three Marys” you know. The setting of that was especially during Lent, every Friday during Lent the gathering, or even if somebody came in off the street or from the next house that came in, while this was on, they’d take part, sit down around and take part in it. By taking part I meant, by keeping silent until the lament was over. Which sometimes took a long time because, whoever was singing the lament put everything they had into it—and it was usually a woman. They left nothing out, every thing, and the sadness and sorrow of their own life helped them to make it even better. EW: Did the people who were taking part become emotional? JH: Oh they would, most of them would you know, they would especially if the older people, would become emotional they’d cry, because this is something that they could see, as the person carried on. They could see what was happening, the event taking place which was the real meaning of the song anyway to follow a story to follow a path, until you come to the turn. [...] Óchón, that means, that’s really the saddest part; that means, ‘my sorrow’, óchón, óchón. ...That was used at all laments, and as I said before, there were special women for this. Now they didn’t have to be related to the person. They’d come and cry over the man waked on the bed. And they did this with everybody, now they were crying their own dead, you know. But they were using this to cry their own dead, because this was part of their job. They weren’t paid to do it, they just did it. They specialized in it. [78-15.3] Joe Heaney rarely used the term sean-nós to refer to the song tradition, but focused instead on what he called (in English) “laments” as an exemplary subset of songs which he felt embodied the essence of the tradition. Furthermore, it is clear from his accounts that Joe felt that song performance was profoundly related to caoineadh. Caoineadh na dTrí Muire, with its refrain of “ochón, agus ochón 350 ó,” is only the most obvious example of this, but as Joe said, “you see the keening and the lament right through the song in a sad song.” Joe intuited a connection between what he called “lamentable”-ness as a quality of a song and melodic ornamentation, ie., “holding on” to lines of a song and drawing them out with grace notes. He used the same words to described the desire to “hold on” to the dead at wakes and funerals. By making this connection he perhaps exaggerated the role of ornamentation, transforming both his own style of singing and, through his wide influence on other singers, the tradition itself. He was well aware of this—when asked about the difference between the way he sang and the way his father sang he answered that he was ... a bit slower with the slow songs; I hold onto them longer than he used to do.... He was inclined to sing them a bit faster... EW: Do you sing the songs more highly ornamented than they used to sing them? JH: More ornamented. I remember well. I was telling you about Easter Sunday [ie., Caoineadh na dTrí Muire]. Well. I ornamented that meself in the first place you know. That used to be sung without ornamentations. And I do it my way and I get my own ornamentations into it. And, they tell me it’s twice as good a song with that than without it. By his own account, what Joe Heaney did with Caoineadh na dTrí Muire was to take it farther into the genre of ordinary song, ie., treating it more as a song (rather than a prayer for certain occasions) by ornamenting it melodically. At the same time, by doing this he borrowed some of its original context, using the song as the basis for his own fame as a singer of laments, having intuited (or perhaps, as Bourdieu (1977) would put it, misrecognized) the relation between melodic 351 ornamentation and the secret of a song’s “story,” exaggerating its role in the process. Songs as commodities? ...I still love the songs and I wanted to do them better and better and better and better. Do justice to the songs and that’s the only way of presenting them is to keep them in the form that they were. If you can’t add anything on, don’t take anything away that’s my policy I would never compromise with groups, or people who’s running before they can walk. They run away with great songs, destroy them and then leave them down and take another one and do the same with them... Only for the old people who kept the songs alive, only where they were so preserved, in one area of Ireland, especially the poor areas, they wouldn’t be alive today because they’d be destroyed and distorted and cut up to smithereens (Heaney 78-15.2). ...There’s no way I can do them as good as I want to do them. Even to myself. I want to do them justice over justice. ...Because I love the spirit of the songs and I understand why the songs were composed in the first place. And nobody knows who composed the half of them you see. Although collectors came around with tape recorders and what have you, and they collected the songs, the people who gave them the songs never got a penny out of them. And the collectors sold books, you know, because the craze was on since 1966. ...Everybody wanted songs, to get these guitars and all that, groups over groups, and finally they’re running out of names for groups in Ireland. There are three hundred ninety groups. They’re all doing the same thing (Heaney 78-15.2). Joe Heaney might seem an unlikely crusader against the commodification of traditional song. More than any other singer, he was responsible for creating a market for recordings of sean-nós song. He was a major participant in the folksong revival of the 1960’s and proudly claimed to have given songs such as The Seven Drunken Nights to Liam Clancy. But he was strongly critical of certain 352 musical alterations, most notably the addition of accompaniment to sean-nós songs, especially to the songs he called “laments.” Joe saw accompaniment as “killing” a song, eliminating the possibility of “holding on” to lines and ornamenting them. Any accompaniment which imposed a regular “beat” would reduce the possibilities for rubato, the ornamental drawing out of lines of a song. Joe saw this as exploitation, reducing a song to a commodity and severing the essential connection between singer, song, listeners, and story. I find it fascinating that Joe Heaney criticized the commercialization of songs in these terms, which link formal changes in musical structure, a severing of social relationships, and a new conception of time. Mauss (1967:34-5) characterized the transition from gift exchange to barter and market systems in terms of the elimination of the element of time from exchange. In Ireland, Glassie (1982) has shown the importance of several genres of talk, storytelling, and song as elements in a system of exchange which also included food, music, and labor. Elsewhere in Europe, on the Greek periphery, Seremetakis (1991) argued for a “women’s imaginary” based on memory, shared substance, death ritual and laments, in opposition to discourses of modernization. I believe that Joe Heaney’s comments are best understood against this background, and that what he was arguing for was a specific reality, of the nature of songs as texts and of practices of singing and listening, which is at odds with the forms that texts, singing and listening take under relations of market-governed production and consumption. 353 Performance “Dancing in those shoes is like trying to play a bodhrán with a piece of rubber.” Thus spoke Máirtín Mac Donncha, dancer, poet, singer, “character” and social conscience of Ráth Cairn. Máirtín was conducting a workshop in “damhsa ar an sean-nós” (solo step dancing) in the hall built by the local co-op, Comharchumann Ráth Cairn. His students were mostly local children (who picked up the steps effortlessly), a few adults, and one hapless Yank wearing the wrong shoes. While demonstrating various steps to us, Máirtín called out a series of names, the names of people “whose” steps they were. So dancing, at least in Máirtín’s case, could involve quotation, as with so many other kinds of performance. At a music session more than a year after this (27/7/96), in the Club in Ráth Cairn, a local person, returned on holiday from the United States, asked Máirtín to dance, and as part of his dance he did a step I had never noticed before, which turned out to be from the dancing of this woman’s late husband’s father, long deceased. She recognized and appreciated this gesture, which was clearly directed at her. On occasions like this the dead are made present in performance. People talk in small groups, the silences retreating as the occasion warms up. Conversational topics ripen until someone sums them up with a concise, witty statement that draws laughter and approval from the others. People begin to quote others, animating their voices, framing their statements with “...mar a déarfadh/dúirt X...” (“...as X would say/ said...” -- see Chapter 6). These quoted others, not present, are often the “old people,” the local dead. The 354 insertion of quoted others into conversation continues into the telling of stories (“yarns”16), which have a similar structure to these conversations: the teller relates a narrative, building a dramatic scene for the punch line: a witty, apt, powerful, or hilariously pathetic sentence spoken by the main character, directly quoted. Sometimes these stories are told in Irish, with the punchline delivered in English “because he was speaking English at the time” — but the real reason is that wit is untranslatable, and that in this kind of quotation, as with poetry, it is the actual form of the utterance that counts. Henry Glassie (1982) and Gearóid Ó Crualaoich (1992) have shown the pervasiveness in Ireland of this type of talk, and of this general pattern of conversation, as the first step in transforming an ordinary occasion into an occasion of perfomance. Such occasions may continue with the participants reaching further back in time and deeper into the culture’s symbolic universe,17 as the characters quoted now are the poets (such as Raiftearaí, Aindí Ó Ceallaigh, Colm de Bhailís, Máire ní Chlochartaigh), and their words, sung as songs, eclipse and replace the accompanying naratives. Singing breaks through the isolated groups of talkers, more or less uniting all those present, and transcending the conversational base. Shared understandings that were worked out explicitly in conversation are now left unspoken, and quotation is no longer explicitly framed as such. The silence that now returns is more that 16. Called “bids” in Fermanagh (Glassie 1982). 17. cf. Ó Crualaoich (1989). 355 of the unsayable rather than of the unsaid, of what Gibbons (1996) terms “allegory.” Now we are at the situation described by Joe Heaney, the ritual-like use of song to project the joys and sufferings of the poets onto one’s own personal history of hopes and sorrows. But while this certainly happens, there seems to me to be much more going on. The conversational impulse is too strong, and except on very rare occasions, this simple projection is overlain with what could perhaps be be called “carnival.” Allegorical lamination of contexts Irvine (1996:146) proposes that the complexity of reported speech performance is best understood as the lamination of two or more sets of participant relations, for example the “I” and “you” of the here and now interaction and that of the reported speech event. She proposes that all instances of speech involve a set of basic participation relations consisting of Speaker, Addressee, and Third parties. Complex pragmatic effects then derive from signs implicating other participation frames as alternative or supplementary deictic fields. One such complexity concerns how the participation frame which is grammatically constituted relates to a field which is visually suggested (visually evidenced at least by who is present/absent, but also manipulated through body position, gesture, and gaze). Special effects and combinations are also accomplished by person-switches and by code-switches, as well as by a presumptive history of discourses. These example suggest to me that the complex laminations of participant roles are best thought of as the result of multiple framing processes. 356 One can come up with many examples in Irish song performance of this complexity being mediated through “body position, gesture, and gaze.” Performers often disengage themselves visually from their audience—by averting their gaze, pulling a hat down over the forehead, not standing up or moving to the “front” of the performance (often there is not any “front”), etc.; likewise listeners may not look directly at performers. All these gestures may serve to keep the reported context of the song, the dramatic encounter between its characters, separate from the here-now event of performance, a separate world. Audience silence, so beloved by Joe Heaney, can perform the same function, as can the singer’s speaking the last few words of a song (Ó Canainn 1978; Shields 1993:121). On the other hand, singers can, subtly or dramatically, direct songs “at” a particular audience member, by looking directly at them, taking their hand, or by choice of songs whose narrative backgrounds or performance histories or even a proper name or place-name in their texts, can be made to connect them in some way with that person. All of this can also be instigated by the “target” or by other audience members. The “complex pragmatic effects” alluded to by Irvine take over as comments on the song and compliments to the singer begin to flow. Depending on the mood of the occasion, the whole interaction may be carnivalised with singers even changing words in the song to meet the needs of the moment. I have heard Máirtín change the penultimate line of Joe Heaney’s macaronic song One Morning in June from “Then we will take the road home with all speed” to “Then we will take the road 357 home from Áth Buí.” Inserting the Irish name of Athboy, the nearest town to Ráth Cairn, humorously localises the song and casts it retrospectively as a Ráth Cairn person’s voice—a local accent, as it were. Irvine (1996:148-49) discusses this type of situation in terms of “leakage” between participation frames—the distinction between the quoting and quoted contexts is blurred, or one is projected onto the other. As Irvine shows, the variety of forms and functions of “leakage” (including sometimes its near-total avoidance) are great, and offer valuable insights into the specific local workings of culture. Joe Heaney’s account of singing is an example of this leakage or projection, ie., between the singer’s life and that of Sweeney, or in the case of the singers of Lenten laments for whom “the sadness and sorrow of their own life helped them to make it even better.” Angela Bourke (Partridge 1983:101-103) has shown that these sacred songs, which portrayed Mary as an Irish bean chaointe (keening woman), could substitute for the caoineadh at wakes and funerals. Note that their effectiveness in this case involved a leakage between the “original” context (Mary keening Christ) and the performance context (women mourning the dead). By projection, the power and ritual efficacy of the caoineadh (suppressed by the Church) was brought to bear on the present, while not violating the letter of the Church’s law. At the same time, songs like Caoineadh na dTrí Muire gave a retrospective charter and authorization for keening: in Christ’s words (in Joe Heaney’s version), Tá mná mo chaointe le breith fós, a Mháithrín; ie., “There are women yet to be born who will keen me, Mother.” Thus the singer in 358 the here-and-now sings Christ’s words, which refer back to the singer and portray her singing as the keening of Christ, and by projection, as the keening of the here-and-now dead. Another kind of “leakage” occurs when a song has more than one “story,” or a “story” with more than one reading as in the so-called “political” aisling genre. Part of what Joe Heaney called the “secret” of these songs is that there is more than one participation framework, ie. more than one possible set of characters in the dialogue—two lovers conversing or a poet being addressed by the goddess of sovereignty (Éire herself). For these songs, a “literal” reading on any of these levels fails to do the songs justice, flattening out their true meaning, which happens between all the various possible readings—meanings from one framework leak into those from another. What Luke Gibbons terms “allegory” is the sum of contingent (ie, indexical) relationships between an instantiation of a text (in a particular performance for example) and the set of its various other instantiations, historically true, imagined, or implied: For allegory to retain its critical valency, it is vital that there is an instability of reference and contestation of meaning to the point where it may not be at all clear where the figural ends, and the literal begins. ... [T]he instability of reference is such that it may not always be possible, on textual grounds alone, to decide whether a work is functioning allegorically or not, and hence we have to go ‘outside’ the text itself, to its historical conditions of meaning, in order to give full scope to its semantic potential. The multiple references are not, in the strict sense, inherent in the text, nor are they simply added by ingenious critics in retropect: rather they derive from the historical contiguity of the text to other narratives and symbolic forms that are working their way through the culture. (Gibbons 1996:20-21, his emphasis). 359 Allegory involves complex relations within discourse histories. In Gibbons’ example, taken from James Joyce’s story The Dead, Gretta hears the singing of a ballad, The Lass of Aughrim, and is overwhelmed by memories of Michael Furey, the childhood love who died for her sake and who used to sing that same song. The song, heard by chance, carries memories of Michael, but also of the West of Ireland that Gretta left behind her when she left for Dublin. It also carries memories of the defeat of the Gaelic order in the Battle of Aughrim, and the theme of the peasant woman forsaken by a nobleman (Gibbons 1996:144). There is an additional complexity: The Lass of Aughrim, (a local version of Lord Gregory) is sung in the words of the woman, who stands outside in the rain addressing her lover. Michael Furey used to sing this to Gretta, and then died from exposure after he himelf stood in the rain waiting to see her on the eve of her departure to Dublin. Joyce’s story powerfully brings together three sets of relationships—the lovers in the ballad, Michael and Gretta, and Gretta and her husband Gabriel Conroy. To these sets of relationships must be added Joyce’s own relationhip with his wife, Nora, who came from Galway and who used to sing The Lass of Aughrim to Joyce (Ellmann 1982:248, 286). As Gibbons argues, the contingency of relations in allegory—the veiling of reference—as well as their multiplicity and complexity, is what gives allegory its ability to convey powerful and complex emotions. I would like to suggest that this is but one instance of a more general phenomenon in which an enigmatic form is the manifestation of an underlying narrative or memory of a person, and 360 embodies its sublimated essence. Perhaps the best example of this is in the role of place-names in cultures such as that of rural Ireland, and in the Irish Gaeltacht in particular. Here, particular places in the landscape are named and connected to historical narratives (seanchas) of events which happened there or were connected to that place in some way. The moral force of these stories is sublimated into the places themselves: Every bend in the road, every lane, bush, hill, outcrop and almost every rock was a living thing to us with a personality of its own [...] They were part of our dead: our visible history. […] A few years ago I was speaking in America to a woman who hadn’t seen for sixty years the townland where we were both raised. There was no field or path, rock on the shore, hillock or gully on the mountain, that she couldn’t name without any hesitation. She had that place going around in her head for sixty years. I have it also. I don’t recognse some of the younger generation now, but I recognise the clay and the rocks and I remember the stories that worked every square inch of clay and rock inseparably into my character, for ever. (Ó Cadhain 1969:8; my translation). The power of these stories seems to be augmented by the very contingency of their relationship to their visible manifestations in places—it is the place that is affecting, and it is the place that becomes part of a person’s moral character. As for Máirtín Ó Cadhain, so also for Nick Thompson, a Western Apache living in Cibeque, Arizona, who compared stories to arrows shot at those who stray from right behavior: ... you won’t forget that story. You’re going to see the place where it happened, maybe every day if it’s nearby and close to Cibeque. If you don’t see it, you’re going to hear its name and see it in your mind. It doesn’t matter if you get old—that place will keep on stalking you like the one who shot you with the story. Maybe that person will die. Even so, that place will keep on stalking you. It’s like that person is still alive. Even if we go far away from here to 361 some big city, places around here keep stalking us. If you live wrong, you will hear the names and see the places in your mind. They keep on stalking you, even if you go across oceans. The names of all those places are good. They make you remember how to live right, so you want to replace yourself again. (Basso 1990:125). As with allegory in Ireland, the power of Western Apache place names derives from the complexity of their references: to mental images of the places themselves, to stories of events which happened there, to the tellers of those stories, and to a person’s own moral conduct, or lack of it, which lead to his “targeting” by the storyteller. Once again we have a situation where multiple contexts are linked by one enigmatic form, which becomes a powerful instrument of expression. Narrative, naming, and dance music The examples I have discussed so far all involve processes where forms are linked in discourse to other times, places, and persons. It is important to note that these linkages are not automatically given, but are created and reaffirmed in discourse, through a process of remembering and attribution. It is equally possible to ignore, forget, deny, or dismiss the histories of forms. Both tendencies are evident among Irish traditional musicians. Quite possibly the majority of musicians don’t know the names, origins, or histories of the majority of the tunes they play.18 The names of dance tunes would seem to be as arbitrary and 18. This situation is changing as most tunes are now learned from commercial recordings or printed texts, which usually include names; ironically, while strenghtening the relation between tunes and names, it weakens what I argue below is the traditional function of naming. 362 nonsensical as those of racehorses (although both types of naming are governed by implicit conventions). This should alert us to the fact that naming, like quotation, is a social practice rather than a given; we should turn our attention to what is done or accomplished by naming tunes. As with proverbs, the parodies and humourous tune titles play upon the underlying assumptions about naming. “Hold the candle Mary while I shave the gander’s leg’, “The hoor in the nettles’, “upstairs in a tent’, and the like all refer to absurd or unimaginable stories. Names like “Tell her I am’, “Ask my father’, and so on are quotations which refer back to conversations; they function exactly like the quoted punchlines of “yarns” or “bids.” Without belaboring the point: naming tunes is part of the “crack;” dance music is thus to varying extents caught up in the same processes of quotation, projection, and allegory we have seen elsewhere. Very commonly names of tunes identify persons—musicians who composed the tunes, or more likely, who impressed their own distinctive personal form on them. Naming functions like quotation to carry images of persons along with distinctive forms. This brings up another important function of naming: As Cowdery (1990) has shown, traditional dance tunes form continua, with large “families” of related melodies blending into one another. Added to this is the improvisational nature of performance (which includes improvising on the basic melody as well as ornamentation) and the borrowing of phrases or whole parts from other tunes. Dance music exists, then, in a kind of perpetual flux, with the distinction between one “tune” and another being somewhat arbitrary. Naming acts to take a particular version and 363 give it an identity, making it more text-like, more able to be re-performed elsewhere as the “same” tune. The use of names has the power to invoke other persons or occasions. Another name for the processes I have been discussing might be “myth.” As Barthes (1972) maintains, myth acts to discover the “essences” of its objects. In Joe Heaney’s account of singing, for example, we discover a common form in both the musical surface of a song performance and in the persons and events of the song’s “story.” This common form is a shared substance, a consubstantiality; some aspect of the past is made really present in performance. Micho Russel (R.I.P.) from Doolin, Co. Clare was well-known for narrating (or mythologizing) tunes. John Williams (a Chicago musician) once told me that Micho liked to play the hornpipe “Napoleon crossing the Rhine,” while maintaining that “you can hear the drums and the keening of the dead” in the music of the tune. Once so prepared, it is quite easy to hear it, but it is doubtful that one would hear the same things with any of the other names the tune goes under! Sound symbolism acts as condensed narrative. It is worth noting here also the process of transmission: John taught me the tune while telling stories about the musician he learned it from, along with Micho’s own “story” about the tune. Conclusions Scholarly inquiry into the “sean-nós” tradition has quite consistently focused on ornamentation (see for example Bodley 1973, Williams 1985, Linzee 364 1984, Coleman 1996). Likewise, the popular media in Ireland as well as the folk and Gaelic revival movements have taken ornamentation as a sign of the uniqueness, antiquity, or “other”-ness of the tradition.19 This has led some critics to comment on the “fetishization” of ornamentation (Lillis Ó Laoire, personal communication, 1996; Vallely 1996). In anthropological literature the term “fetish” is used to refer to a process where material forms are felt to embody social relationships. For Marx in his analysis of commodity fetishism, the commodity not only embodies but substitutes for and conceals the exploitative social relations of its production under capitalism (Taussig 1980). Ignoring for the moment the negative connotations of the term, its accuracy and usefulness is apparent; style is a type of fetish to the degree in which it is felt to embody the essence of others. In Ireland, attention to style forms the basis of what Bauman (1992) terms traditionalization. For scholars (including this writer), “traditionalization has overwhelmingly been a resource of intellectual outsiders, a means of selectively valorizing, legitimizing, and managing aspects of culture frequently not their own...” (Bauman 1992:140). For enthusiasts and the popular press it is often a means of valorizing the romantic distance or otherness of the tradition and its bearers as well, perhaps as a symbol of national or regional identity. But as Bauman shows (1996:141), traditionalization is also practiced by the bearers and transmitters of tradition, being 19. Bob Quinn’s film The Atlantean goes so far as to use ornamentation in sean-nós singing as evidence for the non-Irish origins of Connemara’s people and traditions. 365 ...a complimentary strategy at the folk level, the active construction of links tying the present to the past. Oral tradition, in these active and local terms, is a particular strategic form of the contextualization of speech vis-à-vis other speech, a way that those who use spoken art forms as equipment for living invest what they say with social meaning, efficacy, and value. In this chapter I have argued that in Irish tradition, not just speech but all expressive forms are part of this process. The process of transmission is intensely personal—style is the immediately felt presence of others, and of other stories, in one’s own thoughts, deeds, and performances. Quotation can be used negatively (as in the case of “mar a déarfá”) to distance oneself from or acknowledge the stylistic inappropriateness of something one is saying. More typically though, quotation, attribution, and narratization tie the present occasion to other occasions and persons. The song tradition as a form of discourse is thus an important site for the social construction of the subject and subjectivity in general. Direct poetic discourse with its potential for masking and projection offers a surprising range of possibilities for the subject (Ó Baoill 1990; Ní Annracháin 1994). In the song tradition, allegory allows a great expansion of and subtlety of expression; with it one can “say” what is otherwise emotionally, intellectually or politically unsayable. CHAPTER NINE CONCLUSION Constructions of the person and personal constructions One way of approaching basic phenomenon described in this dissertation is to see it as the complex social and historical playing out of the principle that Máirtín Ó Cadhain called his “psychology” (aigneolaíocht)—the idea that speech is the mirror of the soul. As should be clear by now, this apparently simple metaphor conceals myriad complexities (Fernandez 1986, ch. 6). Such a mirror could be dark and obscure, offering us nothing but a view of its own obdurate self. Or it could be bright and polished, offering a clear view of a luminous world within. “A person’s own speech” could turn out to be Joyce’s “cracked lookingglass of a servant” (Kiberd 1996), reflecting a hopelessly divided postcolonial self. Or it could turn out to only reflect back a distanced image of the anthropological observer (Fabian 1983). Yet again, it could be the gateway to a cosmological or literary Otherworld (Chapters 5 and 7), more real than the world itself. Before I break this metaphor, incurring not only the wrath of the reader but years of bad luck for myself, I should mention something about speech, which might even illuminate the nature of mirrors. This is the unavoidably 366 367 dialogic nature of even the most private thoughts. With speech, one is always engaged, minimally or maximally, with another. This brings up the most disturbing thing to me about mirrors: Ever since I was a child, looking in a mirror always seemed like looking into the back of a mask (this was my solution to the trick question of why mirrors “reverse” left and right, but not up and down). As Fernandez (1986:166) reminds us, not only do mirrors enable selfobjectification—the ability to relate to ourselves as objects, but objects themselves act like mirrors. We discover ourselves “by recognizing a convincing association with objects which reflect us... which we are well satisfied to let stand for us.” With this, at least, we can change metaphors. Fogelson (1982:72-7) notes the utility of the mask metaphor in comparing ethno-theories of the self. Mauss saw a universal principle of the development of human nature in the transformation of the Greco-Roman conception of persona or mask: Originally a mythic representation (personalité mythique), the mask in later Roman drama comes to signify a social personality (personne moral). The implication is that the mythic mask is a manifestation of a religiously-based collective representation, while the latter use of masks has become desacralized and represents a differentiated social status. Fogelson notes that Mauss’ theory carries the debatable assumption that “because primitive society is undifferentiated, therefore individual personality and selfhood must be similarly undifferentiated.” Such societies are characterized by mechanical solidarity. Implicit in this is the assumption that “primitive” peoples cannot form an articulate philosophy of self or of individuality. But we cannot assume this before looking at the ethno-logic of 368 specific other cultures (whether or not we care to label them “primitive”—a most mirror-like term). Fogelson notes that we should not assume that other cultures have the same sense of masks as disguises that we do. Iroquois false faces were social persons in the Maussian sense. The wearer of the mask unites with this person rather than impersonating it. Furthermore, it might be more accurate to say that the false face spirit “impersonates the mask wearer” than the other way around. Arguably, the direct voice of lyric sing in the Irish sean-nós tradition functions somewhat like a mask, but in a way distinct from the forms of masking mentioned above. As Joe Heaney maintained, singers sing lyric songs “in the name” of the songs’ protagonists. But the performance of direct speech does not necessarily imply direct access to quoted others. As we have seen, quotation in conversation and poetic satire can involve typification—taking persons as obdurate objects, making them stand in for social types. But quotation in lyric song affects a calibration of point of view, the coordination of common experience and suffering. It implies the transparency of poetry as a visionary medium. But at the same time, lyric poetry is felt to perform an obscuring role, sometimes relying almost exclusively on indexical relationships in allegory. Such conceptions reinforce a sense of the opacity of language. The poetic tradition frequently identifies linguistic opacity with misrule. In a failed political collectivity, poets must speak allusively or even 369 nonsensically, as in the aisling (vision) genre or in satire. I was often told that certain songs were obscure because they were composed in colonial times; thus they carried “secret” allegorical meanings. In parodic verbal art (as opposed to some forms of political satire) speech is directly represented as a mirror of social relations. Thus, Ó Neachtain’s satire on bureaucratic speakers of “standard” Irish (Chapter 6), or Ó Cadhain’s portrait of the class ambitions of Nóra Sheáinín (Chapter 7), directly connect these characters’ speaking styles with their social and political positions and cultural values. Maybe the best way to think about language forms in the Gaeltacht is that they are felt to embody selves. The question of whether or not language is a semiotically transparent medium belongs to discourses that are much more salient elsewhere—in academia, or in the discourses of nation-builders (Chapter 6). Throughout this dissertation, Gaeltacht people, even the great and learned Máirtín Ó Cadhain, have had one thing in common—when they have to reflect on what makes the Gaeltacht tick, they end up spending a lot of time talking about things, rather than language per se—bonfires, tunes, pigs, rabbits, bicycles, dance steps, candles, bags of flour. Or shops, pubs, churches, grants, cooperatives, money, land. Even when they do mention speech, it is usually also speech in the form of concrete things: songs, proverbs, particular words, names, accents, stories. 370 But even more than with objects, these things made of talk have to do with people, and after a while, when you get to know them, they start to feel a lot like people themselves. Rather than, with Sapir, calling speech a personality trait, ask in what ways these speech-objects are like miniature personalities themselves. In this sense, language-things are a lot like Fogelson’s living Iroquois masks. They are carved out of living things and have a life of their own. And we can put them on for ritual purposes, though this carries risks. I don’t know if they need to be fed. In what I’ve been calling a personalist regime of language, speech forms as valued (and dis-valued) objects are invested with social life. To switch metaphors again, they are like icebergs. Enigmatic surface forms stand in for more or less hidden narratives, complexes of social relations, histories. These surface forms aren’t necessarily linguistic—dance steps and bits of music do the same thing. These objects, especially the more elaborate forms of speech-objects, like songs, have another notable feature: they are felt to contain time, to exist in more than one time, and sometimes, in more than one history. And this inherent temporality has a lot to do with emotion and sentiment. Like persons, songs won’t give up their histories. They have the temporal shiftiness characteristic of allegorical objects (Chapter 5). A song like Caoineadh na dTrí Muire (Chapter 8) is “nothing but” the words of a conversation between Mary and her son. But it also always has to do with other relationships, and other conversations that are going 371 on, both in the past and in the here-and-now. Songs reside in history, and bind together disparate histories. This has a lot to do with feeling. Eamon Ó Conghaile, a storyteller from Carna and a neighbor of Joe Heaney’s, wrote this about the Irish language and sean-nós singing: Without fear of contradiction I would go so far as saying that nowhere else in the world can folk songs of deeper feeling be found than those of the Gaelic language. But this is not surprising, for the people who composed them were deeply romantic people living in possibly the most romantic setting in the world such as Connemara, Tír Chonaill, Muigheo, Ciarraí etc. with their toes in the sea and their backs to the mountains. Yes, and more, they were masters of a language of love and emotion intertwining with Religion, strong principles, honour and devotion. A language so full of expression that all that was needed was “ábhar” for “údar” [subject-matter for an author]. He wrote this for the program of a local boat festival in what is now a predominantly English-speaking village (Kinvara) in Co. Galway. Starting off in English, he gives an unabashedly romantic picture of the Gaeltacht. Then he switches into Irish to talk about the nitty-gritty of sean-nós song. I translate what follows: And the subject [ábhar] that caused the most trouble, strife, and sorrow was the same subject which settles matters [between people] and forgives every misdeed. Love. There are three kinds of love song: lamenting love, seductive love, and tortured heartbroken love. The lament songs are very popular because they remind us of the sadness and sorrow of life, and because of the story connected to the song itself and the way the talk is put into it, it is able to 372 change our spirits [or disposition] even without being sung [literally, without any voice added to it] (Ó Conghaile 1985:5).1 Here is a different picture. Although still going along in a fairly romantic vein, Ó Conghaile shows “us” (the Irish speakers, since he’s writing in Irish now) what makes sean-nós songs tick. They are made of three different kinds of talk: First is “the story connected to the song.” This is what is often called its údar, its “authority,” but literally speaking, its authors. So these stories are closely connected to people, and we suspect they may, in some ways, stand in for the people themselves. Then there is “the talk that is put into” the songs, what makes them texts. And this is the speech of these people, preserved as song-texts. Finally, he mentions a “voice” (guth), which can be “added to” (curtha leis) the song. This is the musical voice of a singer—another concrete linguistic form which is really an aspect of a person. So songs are full of people, if not actually person-like themselves. But the main thing is that they move us. In words very close to those used by his former neighbor in Carna, Joe Heaney (Chapter 8), Ó Conghaile tells us that songs “remind us of the sadness and sorrow of life.” We can’t help taking these songs, which are aspects of other people, and relating allegorically to them, treating them as indexes of other suffering. 1. Agus bhí an t-ábhar is mó a tharraing trioblóid, achrann agus crá croí agus an t-ábhar céanna a dhéannan réiteach agus a mhaitheann gach mí-ghníomh. An Grá. Tá trí chineál de na h amhráin grá ann. An grá caointeach, an grá mealltach agus an grá céasta cráite. Tá an-tóir ar na h-amhráin chaointeach mar go gcuireann siad brón agus buairt an tsaoil i gcuimhne dhúinn agus de bharr an scéil a bhaineann leis an amhrán fhéin agus an chaoí a bhfuil an chaint curtha ann, tá sé i ríocht athrú meannamna a chur orainn fiú is gan guth ar bith a bheith curtha leis. 373 This is why songs are “able to change our spirits.” The word he uses for spirits, meanmna, also means disposition, inclination or desire. The implication here is that songs have the power to affect our emotional dispositions—not just our immediate feelings, but our habits of feeling or tendencies to feel. This may answer Fogelson’s question about the nature and roles of masking as ethno-psychologies. In Irish-speaking culture, the treatment of language forms as objects which are also, in some way, persons, implies a whole ethno-psychology. Songs, as portable and performable things made of that most powerful, durable and valuable material (Chapter 4), poetic speech, embody sentiment. Switching gears again, we can ask how the sean-nós tradition embodies sentiment. Taken in themselves, Sean-nós songs exemplify persons and their emotional responses to situations. A penumbra of ‘stories’ about a song acts as a meta-text; stories identify the subject of a song and by contextualizing it, give an explanatory interpretation of the meaning and appropriateness of a song’s utterances. A series of performances over time amounts to an evolving social interpretation of a text, as a developing (but not necessarily coherent) symbol in social discourse. Such a description of sentiment privileges the role of meta-discourses which socially ‘construct’ the meaning of the text. One of the most challenging aspects of Peirce’s semiotic, however, is to regard semiosis as due to the agency of the sign itself rather than to the agency of an interpreter (Ransdell 1992). Peirce 374 does not distinguish radically between the subject and object of semiosis; the subject or self is only a moment in a wider process—-the locus of “ignorance and error” when the functioning of habit is interrupted by the surprising facts of the world. In the encounter between performers and song-texts, the constraints of the material leave a degree of agency inherent in the texts themselves: Indexical elements in the text project singers and listeners into the point of view of a song’s protagonist(s). At the same time, songs are mysterious, “edifying by puzzlement” to use Fernandez’ (1986:181) term. The indeterminacy and sketchiness of song’s texts pushes performers and audiences to make indexical connection to other contexts. As in a riddle, the images of these sermons send us elsewhere to obtain our answers. They are rich in images which must, however, be contextualized by extension into other areas of Fang culture. The interpretive task is, therefore, to move back and forth between text and context. As incomplete symbols, sean-nós texts invite interpreters to connect with familiar objects. Thus sean-nós texts construct their own contexts, including within themselves our own emotional and imaginative musings as well. These same texts are the product of a culture of speaking with a tradition of extemporaneous verse composition and of a sense of poetic discourse as being fundamentally dialogic and dramatic, as a powerful response to a situation in medias res. Learning to sing and appreciate the songs introduces one into a world of Joycean epiphany, of indexical icons which call forth images of other persons, times and places. These are what Peirce would call degenerate aspects of a 375 symbolic order which is never fully realized as an explicit argument -- the future of sean-nós is located in the past. We learn how to feel from our cultural world, insofar as it is the manifestation of sentiment, which is to say, embodied (ways of) feeling. The analysis of voice developed in this dissertation represents a preliminary exploration of an Irish ethnopsychology. We have seen how the personalist regime of Gaeltacht discourse objectifies and valorizes the voice, speech and actions of particular persons, socially constructing personhood and laying down a set of possibilities for action, though and feeling. At the same time, the analysis of voice has helped us come to grips with the role of the unique individual in linguistic culture and society. “Language” and community This project was originally conceived, in part, as a study of the role of poets and poetic speech in promoting metalinguistic consciousness in a local community. But the metalinguistic consciousness I discovered was not consciousness of abstract grammar. The speakers we have encountered have only occasionally reflected on “languages” as objects in themselves, abstracted from their social life and functions. Instead, we have seen how political and ideological conflicts have been mediated by various types of performance, giving participants a heightened awareness of connections between ways of speaking and forms of sociality—ways of being in the world and being in community. 376 Terms like nádúr (nature), dúchas (heritage or patrimony), gaelach (the quality of being Irish) are used in reference to a set of ways of speaking which are conceived first and foremost as forms of sociality. Bilingual speakers often attend more closely to differences in forms of (linguistic) sociality than they do to differences in “language” considered in the abstract. Notions about the nature of both “Irish” and “English” language thus emerge from a wider, more or less shared, culture of speaking. Gaeltacht communities are thus part of what Silverstein (1998:407) terms a wider “speech community” in which “there are perduring, presupposable regularities of discursive interaction.”2 This dissertation represents a step towards understanding the nature and history of Irish society as such a complex speech community. Irish-speaking communities and the nation-state On another level, this dissertation is a holistic study of the imaginative responses of a minority language community to its incorporation in a modern nation-state. As a case study, it calls into question the givenness of things like languages and communities. The boundedness of Ráth Cairn as a community represents a temporary compromise between Gaeltacht activism and the logic of the State, which seeks to geographically define Irish-speaking populations. The state’s practice is backed by the mythology of the nation, for which the Gaeltacht 2. As opposed to “language communities” constituted by group “allegiance to a determinate denotational code.” 377 is a sacred space, removed from the centers of power. From this point of view, the Gaeltacht is seen as a natural, static “treasure,” “storehouse,” or “national asset,” functioning as a retribalization center where children are sent to learn Irish and absorb the national essence. Ráth Cairn, as a consciously created rural Irish-speaking community located in the prosperous East, does not fit well into this framework. Its founders saw themselves as breaking free from the “Black Pig’s Dyke” that romantic nationalism puts around Irish-speakers. The experience of Irish speakers calls into question the validity of Benedict Anderson’s (1983) theories for analyzing the Irish situation. The Irish state has never been able to achieve the political unification, economic independence, or linguistic revival felt to be the nation-state’s due. The lack of fit between romantic, “Gaelic” nationalism and the ideology of modernization (reinforced by the exigencies Ireland’s place in the world system) is too great. The result in a linguistic and cultural stratification in which the Irish language is formally and functionally divided in two. On the one hand, Irish takes the form of a regimented “national” language, used in formal and “symbolic” contexts by the state. On the other hand, Irish as it lives in Gaeltacht communities is constituted as a reflexively “local” and personal entity, in opposition to the languages and practices of the state. Irish as a “national” language gets very little support from either habitually monoglot English speakers or from Gaeltacht people. Urban Irish speakers tend to be aligned with the language in a particularly “local” form, while maintaining social relationships with one or 378 more particular Gaeltacht localities. Habitual users of Irish, both urban and rural, reject the Andersonian ideology of modernization that seeks social and national unity in the unity of a single regimented code—an official national standard register. Ireland’s consolidation as an imagined community—through “printcapitalism,” broadcast media, and the growth of the modern state—has occurred almost exclusively through English. At the same time, this consolidation has been ideologically dependent on the revival of the Irish language and the continuing symbolic role of Irish-speaking communities. But as Haeri (1997:79596) demonstrates for the case of Classical Arabic in Egypt, the Irish language is “embedded in histories and ideologies that may challenge the hegemony of the state.” Irish-speaking communities have not fully assimilated, either to the anglophone norms of surrounding communities or to state institutions which attempt to regiment standard Irish as “state speech.” Nor has the Gaeltacht surrendered its moral and historical high ground. As this dissertation shows, the discursive culture of the Gaeltacht is a site of resistance to the national narrative of modernization. The Gaeltacht has its own histories. Gaeltacht activism—whether aiming to establish new communities like Ráth Cairn, broadcast media like Raidió na Gaeltachta, forms of social organization such as local coops, or new literary forms like Cré na Cille—succeeds to the extent that it calls in the symbolic debts owed to the Gaeltacht by the nation-state while developing and extending the historical forms of Gaeltacht discourse. 379 The Irish language, in its various “local” and “national” forms, represents symbolic capital in Bourdieu’s (1991) sense. But in contrast to the prestigious standard registers of other European languages, Irish as symbolic capital is not very readily convertible to straightforward economic capital. As Johnny Chóil Mhaidhc put it (Chapter 4), Gaeltacht wits don’t become millionaires. Likewise, the economic value of controlling the bureaucratic register of standard Irish isn’t what it used to be. 3 These facts are symptoms of the Irish state’s failure to consolidate itself either territorially, ideologically or linguistically—its failure to unify its own economic, “symbolic,” or linguistic markets. More fundamentally, Bourdieu’s economism, while perhaps offering an explanation of the historical decline of Irish, doesn’t get us very far in explaining the historical maintenance of Irish—the reality of Irish-language discourse and sociality as a symbolic system which, in Peirce’s (1976 4:243-4) phrase, has the power to “create defenders and animate them with strength.” In response, this dissertation has aimed to show ways that both “language” and “community” are performatively constituted in discourse. Irish-speakers in Gaeltacht communities often participate in a cognitive universe which is at odds with both romantic nationalism and the modern nation-state. Several chapters of this dissertation have explored the incongruity between Irish-speakers’ relationships to time and space and the Andersonian 3. The system of mandatory Irish exams for entry to third-level education, the Civil Service, and the teaching profession has been almost completely phased out. 380 “homogenized, empty, linear” space-time of the nation-state and the ideology of modernization. We have seen Ráth Cairn people’s attempts to imaginatively come to grips with their anomalous position within the nation-state—how they used the framework and resources of their own verbal-artistic traditions to critique the social relations they found operating in County Meath in the 1930s. We have used the concept of “voice” as a tool to map out a complex dialogue between Irish speakers, their nation, and their state. Poetic voice occupies the center of a personalist regime of language. As Chapter 4 demonstrates, poetry since the middle ages has been identified with direct speech. The use of direct voice is a typical constitutive principle, not just of poetry but of textuality in general. On the most mundane level, this amounts to saying little more than that “texts” are typically associated with “authors.” But particular cultures go far beyond this in their elaborations of specific practices and beliefs about authorship and textual authority in general. As Chapter 8 shows, these practices and beliefs about authorship have their counterparts in practices and beliefs involving the performance of poetic texts. As a whole, these textual practices engage with a felt sense of the material or substantial nature of language as constitutive of human sociality. This dissertation thus contributes, in a small way, to a better understanding of the historical development of what Jameson (1981) termed “the ideology of form” in Irish-speaking culture. The main contribution of this dissertation is its attempt to relate the aesthetics of both ordinary talk and verbal art to political action and the historical 381 experience of both a nation-state and a small rural community. We have seen that even in a small relatively homogenous state like Ireland, there are several conflicting discourses at work—that everything is contested, that, as Bakhtin says, in language, culture, and even within the person, everything takes place on the boundaries. This dissertation thus represents an attempt to write a Bakhtinian ethnography of both a minority language community and the nationstate it engages with. Theories of modernity and the ideology of modernization Romantic and nativist views of the Gaeltacht tend to ignore the fact that it seems to have been “modern” for a very long time. The Irish monastic regime generated a series of ideological and discursive oppositions between “pagan” versus “Christian” and “oral” versus “literate” elements of Irish culture, which it historicized in a manner that prefigured the ideology of modernization. Later, Ireland became the first modern colony and the ideological template for future colonies (and anticolonial movements) worldwide. During the famine of the midNineteenth Century, Ireland became the testing ground for new theories of political economy. All of these events happened when the island was predominantly Irish-speaking. In the late Nineteenth and throughout the Twentieth Century, Irish-speaking populations experienced the dislocations of emigration to as great or to a greater degree than predominantly Englishspeaking populations. 382 In spite of or because of their long historical experience of modernity, Irish-speakers continue to resist and subvert the ideologies of modernization promulgated by the Irish nation-state. Thus we have seen how Ráth Cairn storytellers reversed the ideological association of the West with backwardness (Chapter 5). We have examined the role of indexicality and allegory in poetry, narrative, and lyric song (Chapters 4, 5 and 8), noting how verbal artists use these elements to situate discourse in a time opposed to the “homogenous, empty time” of modernism. We have noted strategies of encompassment in which English-language forms are possessed by Irish-language discourse (Chapter 6). We have seen how ideologies of linguistic standardization and linguistic purism are both subverted and directly challenged in the satiric verbal art of the Gaeltacht (Chapters 2, 6, and 7). And we have seen, in the work of Máirtín Ó Cadhain, an alternative literary “modernism,” developed directly out of Irish-language discourse, which is at odds with both the romanticization of the Gaeltacht by conservative nationalism and the ideology of progress promoted by the Irish state. Ireland has also been central to theories of modernity and post-modernity. The works of “modernist” writers like Beckett and Joyce has inspired generations of theorists and literary critics, many of whom remained ignorant of the degree to which these works are grounded in a wider Irish culture of speaking. Recently, critics such as Kiberd (1993, 1996), Lloyd (1993), and Gibbons (1996) have demonstrated the extent to which Irish literary modernism is embedded in 383 discourses eccentric to those of European modernism. The work of these critics demonstrates the need to reevaluate the relationship between “tradition” and “modernity” to arrive at a better understanding of the possibilities for agency offered by linguistic cultures, like those in Ireland, which are embedded in the long-term historical experience of colonization and resistance (cf. Comaroff 1992). Such a critique would also necessarily challenge various entrenched theoretical dichotomies—the aesthetic and the political, reason and emotion, rhetoric and social action. This dissertation is a contribution to such a project. Along with Glassie’s (1982) study of the linguistic culture of a community in Co. 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