“I read your article in the paper a few weeks back.” An older lady has come up to me with a slightly disapproving tone in her voice.
Oh no, I think. Who have I offended now?
Her accent is distinctly Irish, but flecked with Australian cadence. The sort of accent an Irish person might develop after decades of living here in Australia. The earthy notes of a midlands accent occasionally soar off at the end of a word, shooting upwards with the sort of warm climate tonal optimism Australians have. “It was that article about how Irish people say ‘now’ all the time,” she told me, her eyebrows furrowed suspiciously. “I think if Australians read that kind of thing, they won’t take us seriously.”
Well, look. It was the most affectionate article I’ve written in some time. And, in my defence, we really do have countless uses for the word “now”. So much so that there is that viral video online of an Irish dog jolting upright from his rest every time the woman who owns him says “Now!” because he knows it means a new activity is about to happen. I consider the best reply and tell the woman that I think she might be mistaken. I’m pretty sure it was Fintan O’Toole who had written that particular article. While the woman battles a deep instinct that this really doesn’t sound right at all (reasonable), I politely excuse myself to get a drink.
The Irish woman and I are both at the Irish Embassy in Canberra for the annual St Patrick’s Day celebration. It’s a lovely event. People come along festooned in green and you can watch diplomats from around the world primly eat mini bits of Guinness fruit loaf and black pudding on a tiny slice of potato (delicious) and politely avert their gaze from that one guy who has gone full tilt and dyed his beard green. Children perform Irish dance for the gathering, and there is one impossibly tiny little girl among their number whose enthusiasm for the dance slightly outstrips her still developing motor skills and attention span. She freestyles joyfully as the bigger kids stick to their routine. All the respectable grown-ups in the crowd clearly envy her sort of just vibing things out to the music, her little face aglow with happiness.
You have to watch yourself. Anything you do or say will be tied up in their conception of Irishness from then on
Some of the attendees are Irish-born, but Canberra’s supply of more recent Irish immigrants is lower than that of Melbourne, Sydney or even Brisbane. It is a stark reminder that, as an Irish person in Australia, you are sort of handed an unofficial diplomatic post on arrival. This realisation concerns me deeply as I look around at how well-behaved the actual diplomats are and consider my most recent (but not most egregious) instance of identity fraud against a veteran Irish journalist just minutes before.
Wherever you go, the accent gives you away. You become answerable for everything from the political decisions of Irish leaders (“What’s going on over there? Don’t a lot of US troops move through Ireland?”) to “What is this stuff about a Tayto sandwich I saw on TikTok? Who is Tayt O’Sandwich?”
“Yes” is my answer to the first question and “a controversial Irish-American influencer from Philadelphia” my answer to the second.
[ Autumn in Australia: I wonder if you ever get used to it?Opens in new window ]
You field the assumptions of other people, understanding that their lack of familiarity with your place of origin leads them to rely sometimes on tired stereotypes because they aren’t sure what else to say to you.
“A big Guinness drinker then, are you?” my neighbour asks me in the lift later in the day.
“Yes,” I reply, affecting a concerned expression. “It’s a real problem, actually. I’m worried about my liver.”
We descend the remaining seven floors in total silence.
I decide not to tell him I’m a teetotaller.
The problem with national stereotypes, of course, is that they are often rooted in some observable pattern over time. Are all Irish people drinkers? Certainly not. Are our culture and history infused with alcohol? Yes, a bit. If it caught light it might burn blue as a Christmas pudding. People know this about Ireland. Sometimes it’s all they know. As an Irish person abroad, you are kind of pitched into a deeply incompetent nonconsensual ambassadorial role.
You’ll find yourself feeling defensive when a woman you just met bellows, “You don’t have red hair!” and think “and you don’t have an inside voice”.
You’ll find yourself saying things such as “You should try Irish butter!” to a group of Australians you’re having lunch with, when one of them comments approvingly on the perfectly adequate (but not Kerrygold standard) butter in the restaurant. “Are you in the pay of big butter?” one guy will respond sardonically. Fair enough. Why do I feel the need to be out here – 17,400km from Kerry – shifting units for Kerrygold?
You have to watch yourself. Anything you do or say will be tied up in their conception of Irishness from then on. If an Irish person says something bigoted abroad, he will be remembered not as the bigoted guy, but the bigoted Irish guy. If he mistakes a dingo for a domestic dog, as I did recently at the zoo, then he is not the “guy who can’t tell what a dog is” but “the stupid Irish writer who doesn’t recognise a dog when she sees it”. In my defence, there was a sign next to the dingo enclosure announcing that the dingoes take “a walk around the zoo” with their keepers each morning on a lead.
So, you know. My mistake.
I perform my minor diplomatic role gracelessly. Honestly, I don’t want the job, for all it is part of the package when you emigrate. All we can do is rely on Irish thought leaders like Tayt O’Sandwich and Conor McGregor to represent us positively on the global stage.
And if anything goes wrong, I’ve found it helps to just blame it on Fintan O’Toole.
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