Fois

Tha mi a' gabhail fois a-nis, ach sgriobhaidh mi a-ris an dèidh A' Bhliadhna Ur, Nollaig Chridheil dhuibh! I'll be taking a break from writing until after the New Year, Merry Christmas to all!

Tha mi eòlach air...

Ann an Alba, tha sinn ag ràdh gu bheil sinn eòlach air daoine, agus cho fad 's a tha cuimhne agam, air rudan cuideachd, mar tha mi 'eòlach air an òran.' Math tha na faclan agam, agus ma b' urrainn dhomh an t-òrain a' sheinn, ach 's aithne dhomh e, math chluinn mi e turas no dhà. No math tha ceist againn, tha sinn a' faighneachd, 'an aithne dhut 'cuideagan'?' Ann an Èirinn tha iad ag radh, 'ta aithne agam' air dìreach daoine, no ma tha thu rud beag eòlach air a' dhaoine, ach nach eil sibh nur caraidean, faodaidh tu ràdh: 'ta eòlas agam air.'

What would Nelly Kane say?

There is a precipitous road that runs from the heart of Dùn Chaoin, over the hills and into Dingle. It’s a tempting short cut, one that has claimed a life or two. I trace it with my finger from the windows of our sitting room. The only decent connection between Dùn Chaoin and Dingle, running up the hill and vanishing into the occasional outcropping of rock, as mysterious and elusive as my broadband signal, that is sometimes as swift as wireless, others, slow enough to make me want to throw a bottle into the sea off the western edge of the Great Blasket to my relations at home.

The other night I went to a friend’s house for dinner, he grew up with an even mix of English and Irish in the house, and so our conversation switched between the two, haphazard, lazy as a drunk shuffling down Green Street on a Saturday night. We ended up in a philosophical argument about whether or not it’s best to write strictly what you know, or allow the imagination free reign. When I write many things, songs, or the occasional unfortunate poem, they are seldom about myself, but I like to hope, with the right amount of research and a proper dose of imagination, they can come across as authentic.

The argument ended with me hooking up my I-pod to attempt to prove to him that some of the best songs had been written by people that had no familiarity with the set of circumstances, but instead, the insight and empathy to understand, perhaps what that set of circumstances could be like. Gillian Welch’s ‘Caleb Meyer’ filled the white-washed rooms of the cottage, and suddenly there was more than just a turf fire, our words in the smoke, and the peaks of the ‘three sisters’ framed against the sky, but raspy antique parlor guitars, wooden porches, and a broken bottle of moonshine on a bed of orange pine needles.

Gillian Welch did something brilliant with her own twist on a murder ballad in ‘Caleb Myer’. We all know that folklore serves a function, the fairies stole women and children, because honestly, their kind is better of at home, and the banshee screamed to alert of us death yes, but also, to relieve a bit of the anxiety that comes with that transition, the letting go of a life, candle-lit vigils extinguished, rosary beads returned to their drawers. Folklore is folklore on both sides of the Atlantic, and murder ballads in the Appalachian south fulfilled a similar societal need.

Apparently, the Carolinas and Kentucky were chock full of dangerous men and equally foolish women. And of course, many of these foolish women met the same fate, drowned in shallow streams, pushed from steep cliffs, and in one surprising twist of affairs, pushed into the rapids by a jealous sister, only finished off for good by the local mill-owner, lusting for her gold ring. Of course, there really were dangerous men out there, and perhaps Maybell would re-consider that riverside walk with said Tom Dooley after hearing one of said thousand grisly tales.

But honestly, I love what Gillian Welch did with the old story. Nelly Kane is attacked by Caleb Myer, but instead of the typical ending, she finishes him off herself with the broken neck of a moonshine bottle. Gillian Welch grew up in California, I doubt she was ever the victim of an attempted rape and murder in the mountains of Appalachia, but she certainly knows how to put an interesting, and new twist, on an old tale. And it wasn’t just the stonewalls of the room, the fire, and the sound of the sea, a primordial force wiping out the sound of the occasional passing car, but something else, that made me think I was listening to something that had been written a hundred years ago. It was the work of an imagination, coupled with the proper research, and a genuine love for a kind of music, that if not hers by birth, certainly is now by reputation and right. Mrs. Welch simply did her homework, and because of it, wrote something that comes off, to my ears as entirely authentic.

But there is one story in the Appalachians that seems to have no ending: what happened to the language of its settlers? Many families left the Western shores of Scotland during the clearances, and aside from settling in Cape Breton, they also came to the mountains of the American South, if I strain my ear hard enough to an old-time fiddle tune, can I hear, as they say in Cape Breton still, ‘The Gàidhlig in the fiddle?” Who knows, perhaps that is a tale, for another time.

Rudan Beaga

Tha diofair beag bìodach ann eadar an dà chànan, gu h-àraidh air thaobh ‘ann’ agus ‘anns’, Ann an Gàidhlig na h-Alba, tha sinn ag ràdh ‘anns’ nuair a bhios an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘anns an Daingean,’ tha mi ‘anns an Spàinn,’ tha mi ‘anns an Eilean Sgitheanaich.’ Ach, tha mi ‘ann an Alba,’ tha mi ‘ann an Èirinn,’ agus mar sin air adhart. Ann an Gaeilge, tha iad ag ràdh ruideagan mar ‘sa’ nuair a bhios an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘sa Daingean, tha mi ‘sa Albainn, tha mi ‘sa Spàinn, ach ‘i’ nuair nach eil an t-alt ann, tha mi ‘i’ Eirinn, tha mi ‘i’ Dùn Chaoin agus mar sin air adhart. ‘S e na rudan beag bìodach a tha is dhoirbha dhomh-sa!

Lùibìnì

We’re officially living in Dùn Chaoin now. When I wake up in the morning, the Great Blasket lies, sloping gently on the horizon, flashes of sunlight cutting through the fog that lies on its banks, alighting the ruined homes in a brief illusion of habitation. Am Fear Marbh stretches of to the right, a slumbering old man, unamused by the tricks of light thrown up each morning by its easterly neighbor.

This past weekend we went to a singer’s festival in a small Gàidhealtachd an hour from Cork. When Lucia made the call to the Bed and Breakfast, she confessed that she was thrilled to find an Irish-speaking place to stay in the small Gàidhealtachd. The owner of the B & B claimed to know her, ‘Sure I met you at the Oireachtas’ he said ‘I’m writing a Lùibìnì for you and your American friend.’

We had met Sèan at the Oireachtas over a month ago, he and another friend of ours from Coirce Dhuibhne had entered the Lùibìnì competition themselves, only to be ousted by a young duo from the Ring Gàidhealtachd. Lucia told Sèan about her love for Lùibìni and Sèan agreed to write one for us: the first Lùibìni to be performed by foreigners.

The tradition is something I’ve never seen the like of. Two singers, standing side by side, engaging in a sort of musical dialogue, each line ending with the same lilted chorus, and then the other singer picking up the next line, continue the conversation. The subject matter is often humorous, and such is ours, myself admitting that I’m a stranger to the land, surprised to be welcomed to Ireland by and Irish speaking Spanish woman, and Lucia convincing me that I’ll be just fin in Corca Dhuibhne, that the people are friendly, and if I organize a party, all the young women of the peninsula will call in to me. The song ends with me saying I’d rather that the boys come around to visit, which isn’t very far from the truth.

Over the weekend in Sèan’s cozy B&B we spoke nothing but Irish. I managed to tell his wife that I was fine without a third cup of tea, what I wanted for breakfast, that the room was perfectly comfortable, and that I’d spent the last year on the Isle of Skye. When we drove through the streets of the village Lucia stopped to ask directions, more often than not we received baffled responses in English,

This week it’s finally beginning to feel like Christmas in Dingle. Large yellow lights, strung through the town, reflect off the wet sidewalks and the sheen of the building fronts, giving everything a liquid golden glow. We had a week of record low temperatures. Every morning we heat the kettle to pour on our frozen windshields, then settle for cold to avoid explosion. I’m used to this kind of weather, I was raised in N.H., but still the wet wind cuts through me a cold precision that leaves me shivering through the night. Today, finally, the cold seemed to break, and with it a feeling of festivity has finally descended on the town.

It was cold too in the concert hall at the weekend festival. We avoided the room after the first night, but despite the chill, Sèan and our friend Joe ascended the stage to perform their Lùibini to rapturous applause. Afterwards, a group of ten musicians performed the song, Siùil A Rùin, otherwise known as ‘Buttermilk Hill’ back home. One thing that is endlessly fascinating to me is the endless recycling process that is folk music. Buttermilk Hill has no mention in the Irish version of the tune, but a little research reveals that it’s more than likely located somewhere in North Carolina. It seems that that region of the country, the Carolinas, Virginia, Kentucky, are the richest for the exchange of Irish, Scottish, and African music that would later become Bluegrass and Old Time. It’s always a surprise to me, the music that moves me the most is usually something shipped over from the Old Country and dressed in an American bow.

I guess in a few weeks Lucia and I will be putting our own dressing on the Lùibìnì, Sèan’s wife reckons it ought to be entered in the Guinness book of World Records, I’m concerned with little more than getting the words and sounds down right. When we practice in the kitchen at night, Am Fear Marbh listens with his ever-discerning ear, and I swear, from time to time, he actually smiles.

Tha mi cho uaine ri...

Ann an Gàidhlig, math tha sinn ag iarraidh ruideagan a tha aig daoine eile, tha sinn ag ràdh gu bheil farmad oirnn. Ach ann an Gaeilge Corca Dhuibhnne tha iad ag ràdh gu bheil eud ort. Bha seo fùrasda gu leòr dhòmhsa, air sàilleabh gu bheil am facal eud ann ann an Gàidhlig cuideachd, ach cha chanainn gu bheil eud orm, uill, tha mi gu math toilichte le mo bheatha ;), ach tha fios 'am gu bheil am facal eudach cumanta gu leòr, tha mi eòlach air an òran, 'A' Bhean Eudaich' mu dheidhinn dithis phiuthar, aon a' chaidh a' bhàthadh le aon-dhuibh eile. Ach, cho fàd 's a tha sinn air a' chùspair, an seo, chan eil iad a' chuir gu feum am facal uaine airson 'green' ach chlachaidh iad am facal 'glas', mar ann an Alba, tha 'glas' a' ciallachadh 'grey'. Co-dhùi, aig ceann mu dheireadh, tha mi smaointeann gu bheil e nas fhèarr a bhith glas, an àite uaine.

Flashback Episode AKA I Have Three Essays to Write this Week

I wrote this peice over the summer for a magazine about learning Gàidhlig, they weren't crazy about the language, but I'm now happy to publish it here. I'll continue next weekend with further adventures from West Kerry.

My father’s bookshelf is a staple childhood memory. I can remember when my head reached only the third shelf, where the solid spines of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and The Tibetan Book of the Dead stared back at me. Even more clearly I remember my first bedtime stories, there were no forks and spoons, or cats jumping over the moon, but instead, Jane Eyre’s immovable will, Miss Havisham’s twilight romance.

By the time my head reached the sixth shelf, I was a college student, and suddenly, Peig Sayers’ autobiography, and Tomas O’ Crohan’s, The Islandman, stared back at me. Their back covers claimed they were originally written in Irish Gaelic. Our ancestors were from Ireland, but like most of the Gaels that fled during the lean years, they shed their old-world identities like a worn coat. Today, my family has no memory of the Irish tongue, or of what drove our ancestors to finally, and irrevocably, leave their pasts behind.

I can trace all that has happened in my life, the years leading up to my first year at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig and my fluency in Gàidhlig, back to discovering those books, I consider them the stone-drop source of the ripples that have come to an end on the Western shores of Scotland.

I spent a semester abroad in the Gàidhealtachd of Ireland, learned a bit of the language, wrote my senior thesis on Tomas O’Crohan’s memoir, and afterwards, received a grant to go to Cape Breton for a year to learn Gaelic. I played Cape Breton tunes on my fiddle, heard the islander’s singing the Gaelic words to the melodies, and wanted to learn. I applied to Sabhal Mòr Ostaig, and at the end of August, found myself on a train from Glasgow to Mallaig, squinting to make some sort of meaning out of the Gaelic station signs, my ancestor’s own language as foreign to me as brail.

The first few months at Sabhal Mòr Ostaig were extremely difficult. Unlike most of my peers, I hadn’t grown up hearing the language, or gone through Gàidhlig medium education. The sounds and structures of the language were completely new to me. To catch up, I knew what I would have to do, give up the comforts of speaking English, sacrifice my eloquence in my native tongue, and hope that it would eventually come in this new one.

A student from the city might have difficulty adjusting to the rural setting of Sabhal Mòr Ostaig. For me, it was completely conducive to what I wanted to do. There are few distractions, sea and the mountains for inspiration, and enough happening on campus to make you feel that somehow, you’re still at the centre of it all. While many of the students left for the big city on the weekends, I stayed on campus, to be closer to the language, and by Christmas, I’d stopped speaking English completely. What had one been gibberish to me began to take form and sense, what had once seemed insurmountable had shrunk considerably in size.

The real test came when I went to live in Uist for three weeks in February, to work at a Gàidhlig medium primary school. I had to ask myself, would my learner’s Gàidhlig make the cut outside the learning environment of Sabhal Mòr Ostaig? When I arrived on the shores of Lochmaddy, I went into the ferry station to ask about buses, mustering my courage to address the woman behind the desk in the language, ‘Hallo? Ciamar a tha thu an-diugh?’, ‘I’m fine, thanks’, she replied in English. Well, that’s one down I thought. Was she offended by my obvious American blas? Did my brightly patterned Wellies scream tourist? On the taxi ride to my B%B, I was too shy to address the driver in Gàidhlig, luckily, all this would change the second I reached Flòraidh's house.

Small and stout, with a knot of white hair, and a surprisingly youthful face, I received a brisk hug from Flòraidh as soon as I entered the door. She addressed my confidently in Gàidhlig, and I replied back to her the same, apologizing for being late, explaining that I’d had a bit of difficulty finding a lift. ‘Oh, tha thu fileanta!’ She replied in wonder, ‘you’re fluent’, straight from the mouth of a native speaker, my will was restored. My driver, who had begun to edge conspicuously towards the door the second the conversation turned away from English, muttered a quick 's e do bheatha’ in response to our thank you.

The next three weeks passed like a dream. I was thrilled to be in a community where Gàidhlig was natural and alive. I was praised for my language skills, offered support by those who, admittedly at times, had trouble understanding what could inspire an American to come all the way to the Western shores of Scotland to learn the language in the first place.

I must admit, I have trouble answering this common question myself. What I can tell people is that learning Gàidhlig has changed me permanently. It has been said that, ‘to have two languages is to have two souls’. Indeed I feel like the richness of my own life has easily been doubled. I have wonderful new friends I wouldn’t speak a word of English to, deep connections that have been forged through the medium of Gàidhlig, and enough fluency in the language to go to Uist and converse comfortably the islander’s in their native tongue. The language doesn’t live within the walls of the classroom for me, it’s as alive as a fiddle tune and a cup of coffee, and will continue to be so, I hope, regardless of where ever I travel next.

Ann a Gàidhlig tha sinn ag ràdh am gnìomhair, ‘a’ bruidhinn’ nuair a bhios sinn a’ bruidhinn mu dheidhinn còmhradh, ach ann an Gaeilge, tha iad ag ràdh ‘a’ labhairt’ no ‘ag cainnt’, nuair a bhios iad a’ bruidhinn air còmhradh, agus tha an gnìomhair ‘a’ bruidhinn’ a’ ciallachadh, ‘a’ sabaid’! Mar sin, feumaidh tu a bhith faiceallach nuair a bhios tu a’ bruidhinn na Gàidhlig ann an Èirinn! Ach taingeal do Dhia, tha an gnìomhar ‘ag ràdh’ aca cuideachd, agus an gnìomhair ‘ag siubhal’, ach tha ‘ag siubhal’ a’ ciallachadh ‘ag coiseachd’ an seo, nuair ann an Alba, bidh tu a’ siubhal mun cuairt an t-saoghal, is dòcha, agus ag coiseachd suas an rathad.

Static and Rain

For the last week the rain has been driving down in solid sheets. Coming home at night, my headlights can barely cut through the wet curtains that ripple a top the road’s surface like the curtains of a stage; in anticipation of some great production, a monsoon, a tidal wave, complete with orchestral crescendo, quietly gathering it’s strength beyond the the Great Blasket Island and Am Fear Marbh.

When I finally get home my headlights illuminate our squashed vegetable garden. A head of lettuce bobs like a buoy in a wide brown puddle, a flock of misguided sheep scatter like frightened children in the dual spotlights of my car. Every so often my ancient car-radio picks up snippets of conversation from Raidiò na Gaeltachta. I can’t help but think that it’s only symbolic of my understanding of the language, bits and pieces that I can link back to Gàidhlig, or even to English, before the narration fades again into a whirl of static.

Almost four weeks now that I’ve been in the Gàidhealtachd. Lucia tells me I’m fluent. I tell her she’s biased. Still, I can navigate my way around Dingle in the language, from the grocery store, to my favorite Café, to the library and the high-ceilinged rooms of the old nunnery where I Skype in four days a week to the Gàidhlig college up on Skye, the sounds of Gàidhlig as welcome to my ears as the brief silences preceding the rain.

I’ve formed a language bond of Irish/Gàidhlig with more than a handful of people in Dingle, or re-formed, should I say from when I was first here almost four years ago strictly as an English speaker. That initial bond I find the hardest to break. You link the people you know with the language you know them in. The re-acquaintance comes with a certain degree of awkwardness.

And of course, as with everything else, there is also a certain degree of resistance. I’m sure this is true every place on earth that harbors a minority-language, the learner will come up against the extremes of animosity and awe. It’s a heady mix that keeps one feeling, even in a place like Dingle, where half the buildings are shuttered and locked for the winter, and half the population walking again the neon-glinted sidewalks of their city homes, that life is still unfolding to you in its utmost, each experience rich and crisp, your mind sharpened and engaged in the constant challenge of learning and re-learning.

There’s a café near the Diseart building that I love with an open fire, fresh scones, and more often than not a couple from back West engaging in a lively Irish conversation. I’ve passed more than a few mornings eavesdropping. Last week, I went in the late afternoon, elated by a day of speaking the language in town, I asked the woman if the Café was still open in Irish. ‘What?!” She said, I went over the words carefully in my mind, it’s a simple statement, I was right, I was sure of it. I asked her again, slowly, and more clearly, “WHAT!?” I switched over to English, ‘Oops not an Irish speaker,’ I thought. Later, I heard her conversing fluently with two women from Ballyferriter.

Over the weekend, Lucia and I drove to Killarney to see a concert. We passed up the hostel for a swank hotel room at a super-discounted winter rate. The hotel owner, seemingly from some older genteel era, was wearing the same tailored suit the morning of check-out he’d had on the evening of check-in. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but was I hearing the two of you speaking Irish? By God that’s amazing, two foreigners speaking Irish, it’s a pity no one is hear to document this, it would be great press for the hotel, two foreigners who speak Irish, staying with us.’ Lucia gave him her reasoning behind the oddity, yes she was from Spain, but she lived in the Gàidhealtachd, it’s a minority language, it needs all the support it can get, and to top it all off, it’s a lovely sounding language. The hotel-owner agreed with each statement whole-heartedly, and I consoled myself with the thought that every episode of resistance (few and far between that they are) should be coupled with a visit to Killarney.

Mo Dhachaigh

Tha e gu math inntineach a bhith a’ faicinn an diofar eadar an dà chànan Gàidhlig agus Gaeilge. Ann an Gàidhlig tha sinn ag ràdh ‘b’ chòir dhomh’, ach ann an Gaeilge tha iad ag ràdh ruideagan coltach ri ‘b’ cheart dhomh’, tha sin gu math furasda a’ chumail nam inntinn, air sàilleabh gu bheil an aon ciall ann. Ach aon rud a tha doirbh dhomh, 's e sin nach eil am facal dachaigh aca idir. Tha iad ag ràdh am facal ‘baile’ airson dachaigh, ‘tha mi a’ dol a’ bhaile a-nis.’ Chan eil mi builleach cinnteach mur ann facal Corca Dhuibhne no facal cumanta a th’ ann am ‘baile’ ach chan eil sgeul air mo dhachaigh an seo.

Irish on the Moon

We’re moving out to Dùn Chaoin. Dùn Chaoin I think, was never a place to live in, only a place to visit. I can picture it now, the houses thrown up onto the shore as if by a child’s hand, the gentle slope of the Great Blasket Island and Am Fear Marbh, The Dead Man Island, steady on his eternal pyre, the ocean’s funeral dirge.

When Lucia speaks of Dùn Chaoin her eyes light up, and her words run into each other, ‘it will be lovely,’ she tells me in Irish, ‘a real fire, and on Christmas Day when can go down to Krueger’s pub, that’s where everyone goes, and everyone speaks Irish.’ Dùn Chaoin, the most westerly settlement in Ireland still collects a smattering of colorful characters. Louise Mulcachy, the head of the pottery empire, an Irish learner himself, fully fluent now, Matt McCarthy, an American who native speakers mistake as one of their own, and whose passion for the language flourished finally into an Irish language software program.

And of course, the handful of natives whose families have always been there. Tenacious as barnacles they cling to the steep shores, and like all the rest, ignore the claims that the village is losing its sustainability. First when the store left, then when the pub closed, and increasingly through the years, as empty summer homes spring up randomly and regularly across the hills, like pieces of froth thrown from the waves, with as little thought and somehow, the same sense of vulnerability. I like to imagine a strong wind could lift them as easily from their frames as foam from a sandy beach.

Sure I think, people say Dingle is isolated, might as well go all the way. Might as well sit my self-down at the end of the earth again. I wonder what language they speak on the moon? Still, the thought of a real fire, a vibrant, if small community, isn’t without its appeal. And there’s something about being that close to the sea even a mountain girl can appreciate. If I’m close enough, long enough, I can feel the tide start to pull my blood, it’s an intrinsic and natural to me as staring into a fire. I think, I’ve done this before, a thousand times. It’s my blood memory, and the story twists, ends and loops around again in the ladders of my genes.

As for really learning the language, I can’t think of a better place. It’s starting to come quicker to me now, the other night; Lucia brought me with her to the planning meeting for the Pan Celtic Festival to be held in Dingle in the spring. The first half of the meeting was held in Irish, and I understood a good 80% of the conversation. Lucia is introduced as the Galician ambassador, myself for Gàidhlig and the Scots, I assure everyone I’m sure the Scots will be thrilled to have a Northern New Englander represent them. I’m to welcome them to the festival in their language, to make sure they’re happy and mingling with the locals.

A thought crosses my mind, and not for the first time, will I still have Gàidhlig in the spring? Already Irish is starting to encroach into the spaces of my mind that were once solely inhabited by Gàidhlig, I struggle sometimes to find the Gàidhlig equivalent to words that come in Irish now as easily to my tongue as mud to my shoes. But still, when I turn on Coinneach Maciomhair’s radio program or make a call to a friend up north, it all comes flooding back to me. The spaces fill up again with the more familiar tongue, and I feel light and a fresh breeze enters into the rooms and hallways of my mind. They in turn shake off the rust and disuse of winter, like an old home re-opened for the spring.

I hope I won’t have to sacrifice one language for another. I hope the two can be mutually sustaining. In the meantime I’ll move even farther west, hunker down for the winter, and hope to come out the other side speaking something more than a mix of the two. I’ll see what the Pan Celtic festival brings. There are talks of more Bretons, a parade, a display of crafts from each of the nations; something to show the inter-connectedness of it all.

The subject follows me wherever I go. At the Ennis Trad. Festival this past weekend, I had to confess to all why I was in Ireland. Moving to a place like Dùn Chaoin seems to warrant a natural concern. On the cab ride home from the Trad. Disco Friday night, an unexpected cab partner, a young Ennis fellow, seemed impressed that I wanted to learn the language, but concerned that I was moving so far west. In between a smattering of ‘Go away ‘wit ya’s’ he and the cab driver both managed to attain my cell number. ‘We’ll text you!’ they promised, then disappeared in a shower of exhaust and rain, though I was miles away, I could see the sharp slopes of Am Fear Marbh, rising dark and distant, in my mind’s eye.

Ro-Ràdh

Tha mi duilich nach ann ann an Gàidhlig a-mhàin a tha am 'blog' seo. Tha tòrr caraidean agus càirdean agam san Stàitean agus chan eil Gàidhlig aca. Cuideachd, tha e doirbh dhomh a bhith bàrdail ann an Gàidhlig dhan ìre a tha mi ag iarraidh. Tha mi an dóchas gun tig an là, ach chan ann an-diugh co-dhùi. Tha tòrr dhaoine ag ràdh gur e aon cànan a th' ann ann Gàidhlig agus Gaeilge. A-nis, tha mi ag aontachadh leotha. Nuair a dh' fhag mi an t-Sabhal bha mòran a' faireachdainn, gun robh mi a' fàgail Saoghal na Gàidhlig, ach chan ann mar sin a tha e idir, tha mi fhathast a' faighinn cothroman Gàidhlig a' bhruidhinn an seo, agus tha mi a' dèanamh mo dhìcheall beàrn a' chuir eadar an dà chànan. Nuair a bhios ann dà chànan glàn agam, thig mi air ais, gun teagamh!

Come Here and Get your Irish Folks!

I called my friend Lucia minutes before the my plane took off from Glasgow airport. ‘You know as soon as I touch down in Shannon, our English friendship is over’ I told her. She agreed, and that’s how it went, two large suitcases, $400 dollars in over-weight fees, and a new life in a new language.

Now granted, In a sense, I’m cheating. I speak Scottish Gàidhlig, the sister language to Irish. Many of the words, if not similar, are the same, with longer or shorter stresses on different vowels, and a handful of variations of grammar. I spent the past year in a Gàidhlig language immersion college on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. Five hours of class a day, Monday-Thursday, with meals and weekend adventures in the language, the language became as comfortable to me as an old worn sweater, and just as well loved.

For someone with out my background, moving to the Gàidhealtachd for eight months, with the goal of fluency (as is mine), would be a formidable challenge indeed. ‘They won’t speak the language with you if you don’t have it’, Lucia informed me on the way back to West Kerry, dodging pot-holes on the rain-splattered roads outside Dingle centre, the hill over-looking the town has more houses on it each time I return. The language seems to be leaving the town as swiftly as the unspoiled fields that once crowned the village.

I see the challenges my ‘Viking Gàidhlig’ will pose later in the week, when I call my old program director from my undergraduate study abroad, to ask him if I can use the Diseart building, (an old nunnery with Wi-fi access) to attend my on-line Scottish Gàidhlig courses. After a few days living with Lucia, hearing nothing but Irish, I feel confident enough to converse, ‘you’re going to have to speak local Irish or English with me,’ he says. The following day a taxi driver insists I have good Irish, we chat all the way into town, I’m elated, until the end of the trip, when he switches to English to explain his lack of a calibrator.

I’ll need time for adjustment. This first weekend in Ireland was spent in Killarney, at the Oireachtas; a festival through the medium of the language, where everyone speaks Irish, and speaks it was pride. Mohawk guy speaks Irish, spiked-high heels girl speaks Irish, pods of teenyboppers speak Irish, and I spoke something that the Irish speakers identified as vaguely Celtic and, at least, better than English.

My favorite memory of the weekend is a dinner with Griogair Labhruidh, on of Scotland’s best young Gàidhlig singers, Lucia, and an Irish-speaking piper from the Connemara Gàidhealtachd. Our side of the table spoke Scottish Gàidhlig, the other side spoke Irish, and every so often we all came together and muddled along just fine.

This is the change learning a minority language has brought to my life, I have the confidence to approach strangers I know have the language, and know that we’ll have a thing or two to talk about, a deeper bond will form, an instant gratitude on both ends to speak a language that is so often met with perplexity, and unfortunately, from time to time, downright animosity. Now that I’m outside of the Gàidhlig speaking community, meeting another speaker is something akin to spotting an allied badge across a battlefield; it comes with an almost euphoric rush of possibility and relief.

Slowly, at the house, things have been coming alone. I understand almost everything Lucia says now. Here I am, an American learning Irish from a Galician, here I am at the beginning again, training my mind again not to just learn a new language, but to differentiate between two that seem at times to be as intertwined as the herring-boned stone walls outside our home. At this point, I can comfortable say I’m speaking Irish as opposed to Gàidhlig, if still not speaking it well.

So far I’ve met with mixed reactions. At the Oireachtas, I bumped into a group of young guys that understood my Gàidhlig, and limited Irish. After explaining my history and interest in the languages in a hybrid of the two, a church-like hush fell over the throng, ‘fair play dhut’ (dhut-to you). In Killarney for the day this past weekend, the Oireachtas crowd long since departed and the town back to it’s Beurla-based normality, Lucia and I were approached randomly by an elderly woman in a tea-room. ‘It’s lovely to hear the Irish being spoken, my kids were wondering why you were speaking it.’ Why we were speaking it? She had no ideas we were foreigners. Why does speaking Irish make one a novelty in Ireland? Is there not something intrinsically backward in that?

The past year, I’ve grown accustomed to being a novelty. I was a novelty in Scotland for being an American and wanting to speaking Gàidhlig, for refusing to speak English and for wearing vintage clothes. I’m sure I’ll continue to be a novelty here for many of the same reasons. But what about someone raised in the Gàidhealtachd, with Irish as their first tongue. Are they themselves a novelty outside the plastic road- signs that mark the safety-zones for their language? Does that novelty ever wear off?