Jennifer Horgan: I’m so fortunate to live in a country where we sing and laugh together

It didn’t matter; we wanted to come home. The minute we had saved enough for a house deposit, we were off. We loved Ireland. We still love Ireland.

Love necessitates some kind of knowing. When we say we love Ireland, what do we mean? Certain ‘patriots’ seem to have a very clear and simple understanding of Ireland and Irishness. We say they don’t speak for us. So, if we are to speak for ourselves, how will we define our country? Because it matters, doesn’t it? It matters that we speak about what it means to be Irish, especially now.

It goes without saying that Ireland is beautiful and beauty is easy to love.

I noticed a new wildflower all over the hedgerows in Kerry this summer — the evening primrose. I spent the week being charmed by it. The montbretia has yet to arrive and without the flares of orange, the hedgerows appear gentler. The primrose has the most beautiful yellow shade, far lighter than gorse. I picked some one morning on a walk last week, before heading into the local shop where an old man with a thick Kerry accent stood laughing and joking with a young woman from Nigeria working at the till.

It warmed my heart, the soft yellow glow of the wildflowers in my hand, and their two faces, smiling, having the craic. I love Ireland for those small moments of big heart

I went out for dinner that night, in Driftwood, a restaurant at Finian’s Bay, not far from Portmagee. The views are breathtaking and as we approached the restaurant we stopped to take in the luminous red sky behind us. A red sky at night. Once seated inside, I was struck by the giant picture of John F Kennedy on the wall. Ireland’s emigrant son. A man whose ancestors left these shores and, although flawed in ways, shared the values in which most Irish people still believe. Values of fairness and justice.

The image of JFK on a Kerry wall made me sad, thinking of how the civic nationalism of America is being set alight by Donald Trump, egged on by other, lesser men. And it is sad to see the same happening here, with fires being started by those who continue to call themselves patriots, without really understanding or caring enough to define what that means.

Pinning down patriotism

My first draft of this column included a list, an attempt to define Irishness, to pin down my patriotism, scribbled down over the course of my holiday week. It mentioned our landscape, our food, our humour, and our craic. Our native language. Sport. Our loyalty. Our belief in the values of the 1916 proclamation. It was a grand little list, and a reasonable effort. But then I experienced something that made me delete it.

Naturally, it happened in Cork. Arriving back, I saw the perfect example of Irishness at The Everyman last Monday where I had the absolute privilege to watch young people from The Kabin Studio perform alongside the Irish National Opera. The Lisdoonvarna Crew travelled down from Clare to join them, fresh from their All-Ireland win, and classy enough not to mention it. ‘The Sound of the Northside’ is among the best things I have ever seen or heard — no question.

I cried throughout, on and off, wiping my eyes with my cardigan. I yelped; I hollered; I laughed; I sang. My daughter smiled at my unravelling, a tad nervously, but she loved it too.

This diverse group of young people, world famous now for their song ‘The Spark’, and supported by the mightiest musicians, sang in unison, bubbling over with passion and talent; free in their bodies — as if doing it just for themselves, for the sheer life-lived joy of it.

And oh, how they brought the rest of us with them! Every performance felt better than the last, with no interruption to the flow. The lyrics were just so clever, the melodies so moving, the rhythm so transporting, and all of it threaded through with Cork colloquialisms: ‘boy,’ ‘feen,’ ‘daycent,’ amid heartfelt references to their beloved Knocknahenny. It was a celebration of place and belonging and identity and love, and it was quintessentially Irish.

One young person, with the ethereal grace of Kate Bush, performed in Irish. What power! Real, beautiful, raw, Irish power. Another young boy sang about his life in a wheelchair, how he feels like a king. The young people sang their personal battles, bereavements and anxieties, sharing their journeys and the role music and self-belief has had in their stories. It was so obviously collaborative, and inspiring to witness.

Leaving The Everyman with my daughter, I felt dazed, honestly knocked out by the positive force of it. 

I also felt deeply grateful to the performers for reminding me how very, very fortunate I am to live in this beautiful little country where we celebrate humanity, not division, and sing to hold ourselves together 

In that one hour, I was reminded why we made that decision to come home six years ago.

I needed the reminder. Our nation, like the American nation, is being tested, which is why I believe we must be proactive in defining our nation, as if we are starting again, because in a way, in this new age of migration and rapid societal change, we are.

A vocal minority are attempting to steer us off course and towards hatred. Their ethnic nationalism, striving to ‘get foreigners out,’ to keep ‘Ireland for the Irish’ is also impractical. Our population is ageing. We need more people, especially young people, to adequately care for our citizens and to innovate and lead, to carve out our future.

It is not lost on me as a child of two parents with disabilities that all their carers have come from outside Ireland. They have come here, and they have contributed so much, worked so hard, and protected my family so well. Their first live-in carer was Brazilian. The current live-in carer is Serbian. My family could not manage without these wonderful humans.

And they treat my parents with kindness and humour, qualities that feel far more familiar to Irish people than those of the angry men setting properties alight up the country, intimidating people and abusing our gardaí. Angry men who seem so decidedly foreign and unfamiliar to me. Angry men who my ancestors would struggle to understand. Men with no love of humanity. And — no small thing — angry men who are absolutely no craic whatsoever. Men who would have had no place in The Everyman last Monday.

When The New York Times wrote about Cork’s Kabin Crew recently, dancers Austin and Marideth Telenko, better known as Cost ’n’ Mayor online, asked, “Who is teaching the kids in Ireland to spit this kind of fire?” Ireland is teaching them. And ‘this kind of fire’ is an ancient one; it sparks the bonds between us, sparks our poetry and song. It is a fire that is far stronger than any coward can light.