making a point of not being English
Grandad September 17th, 2007
I haven’t mentioned my mother much to date.
There are reasons for this that I won’t go into.
My mother was English and proud of the fact. Despite the fact that she lived in Ireland for the best part of 60 years, she always managed to retain the English accent, and would always listen to the BBC rather than RTE.
From the day I spoke my first words [I think they were 'f*ck off'?] I had English expressions and intonation drummed into me. After all, I couldn’t grow up like the coarse Irish peasents around me, could I?
This was all well and good [I didn't know any better], but things changed when I went to school. Back in the fifties, history was taught in a very unbiased manner in Irish schools - the Irish were downtrodden heroes and the English were a bunch of marauding invading imperialistic bastards. The teachers loved telling us about the Plantations and the Famine. They taught us expressions like “burn everything British except their coal”. I had a very balanced education.
However, because I had quite an English accent by that stage, I got a lot of stick. Or rather, I go a lot of compass.
My classmates used to take great delight in waiting for some anti-British lesson to come up, and then they would whisper nasty things at me and then ram a compass into me.
I got the point.
I had to rapidly become more Irish than I actually was. I had to develop a thick Dublin accent and curse the Bloody Brits in every second sentence I spoke. It was a matter of survival.
I have matured [a little] since then. The thick Dublin accent is gone. So too is the English one. I bear no ill will towards the British. What happened in the past is ancient history. But when someone asks me if I’m English, I subconsciously wait for that sharp pain in the buttocks.
So if you want to instil a nationalistic fervour in your children - you can’t beat a jab of a compass up the arse.
- Times past
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I suppose you still have the puncture marks to prove it.
NO I do not wish to see them!
“…you can’t beat a jab of a compass up the arse.”
So say the Christian Brothers. Ah happy days of torture and shame.
Grannymar - Just look at a strawberry!
Manuel - Actually [one of my mother's favourite words!] I was thinking of doing a post on that very subject
Grandad,
As an Englishman in an Irish family I’m sometimes still astonished at the teaching of history here! Prods are seen as incidental and not quite fitting in with the great history of Catholic Ireland, as we are all going to hell, I don’t suppose that matters too much.
What I don’t understand is the complete failure to provide any class analysis of history, the ruling class who exported grain from Ireland in Black ‘47 were the same class who treated working people in England in an appalling way. I can’t imagine the Brothers would have been too much into labour history, but surely there were writers of history who could have provided a view of history that wasn’t simply conservative nationalism?
Education in my day was an act of listening. Questioning was not only discouraged but was seen as a challenge to the teacher’s authority.
That particularly applied to religious teaching, where a question was seen as an act of heresy.
We were taught a very one-sided view of things, and just had to accept it.
I remember the compass ritual very well. First year in secondary school. Not so happy memories.
It still fascinates and depresses me at the prejudices that some people still have. My father was Church of Ireland and my mother was Roman Catholic. Still to this day I get people calling me a “proddy dog”. Despite being neither canine nor Protestant.
When I went to secondary school I had it the other way around. I went to a private school where my father and grandfather had gone. But it was Church of Ireland. Being a christened Catholic now made me a target for a whole new round of prejudices.
You learn to get over them pretty quickly.
You have my full sympathies.
I was picked on for
Being ‘English’
Being tall
Being thin
Having glasses
Being shy
Not playing football or rugby
Happy days
Ah . . pick on the English thing. As invaders down under we too suffer the historical shame of subjugating our indigenous population. They got back at us though by petrol sniffing and causing a shortage . . . I became so embarrassed about being English so I was naturalised. Didn’t hurt as much as a compass in the bum.
Grandad - you have my full understanding.
My other half was picked on at school in England for
Being small
Wearing glasses
Being shy
Having dyslexia
Possessing two left feet (so was useless at ‘rugger’ and cricket).
His family moved to Ireland 40 years ago and he’s now singled out for
Having an English accent
Being a Protestant
Looking like Gerry Adams (uncanny eh)
And after all these years, he still can’t kick a ball to save his life!
Life can be very cruel at times.
Steph - Are you sure we aren’t married?
No. On second thoughts, you said he is small.