What it is to be Irish
~ Amy O'Riordan
I was born in a country Where you asked where someone was from Just to find the thread between you — where it was "a small world", not small minds.
I was raised where the kettle was always on, Where someone’s granny had The Cure — For the Burn, The Bone, The Grief.
Where every auld fella was a seanchaí, And every table a Parliament. More politics spilled on kitchen tables, Than in Dáil Éireann, or the Seanad.
Where 'us' versus 'them' Began at the Clash of the Ash Two halves of harmless banter And tribal slagging stopped At the end of the match.
Where hands told their own history — Lace, leather, rushes, Iron, ink, dough. Agus Sméara dubha, Straight off the bushes.
Where craft was not a pastime, But power in pattern. Memory made solid. Passed from hand to hand, Mouth to mouth.
Where the bean feasa left bread at a widow’s door, Or a skelp of butter for the Good Neighbours, "So the sun might stay A few days more…"
Where language was power, And power was quiet. Shared in corners, Between neighbours and kin. During an evening house visit, Or in line for the pension.
Where we carried each other. "Ar scáth a chéile…" Where we come together, Wedding, wake, nó féile.
I was born in this country. "Born and bred" as we say. Does that make me better? Nope - not tomorrow, nor today.
The blood in my veins runs red, Like the mouth of the Badbh —
And dries down, Peat-brown, Before it's kept lit in the fire.
My tears sting like salt, Like the seas 'round this island.
The breeze I breathe Is a céad míle fáilte.
Inhaling kinship. Exhaling friendship. Not choking on lines, Drawn on the land.
For I know what it is to be Irish. Truly, I do.
And I will not stand silent As self-proclaimed "patriots" Forget their own Great Hunger — Seeking to just feed or shelter those Wearing the same skin colour.
Where they sell fear as heritage, Where rage wears a Tricolour Like it's warpaint. Abused as a cover, Then used to spread hate.
I will not stand silent While minds are re-colonised Told to harden, To hate, To blame. And despise.
Where history is bent To cultivate cruelty. Where slogans wear sheep’s wool And wolves preach of purity.
Where “No Blacks, No Dogs” Variants are heard They forget that “No Irish” Came right after those words.
Yes, an cuimhinn leat?
We used to be the ones, Despised and rejected, Pushed into the slums.
Where memory is buried Beneath concreted convenience. Where the seanchaí’s voice Is paved over By home-grown extremists.
Where the bean feasa’s wisdom is openly mocked, The table is no longer set for the stranger, And their right to hospitality is blocked, All the while we're told "It's Them who's a danger!"
But here I will stand, On the path of the Rebel, With the hands of a Healer, In the spirit of Meitheal.
For to be truly Irish Was never to shut doors. It was to shelter. To feed. To share what is yours.
And I will fight, With tooth and with nail — Not to keep others out, But to bring Everyone in.
Mise, agus sibhse, Inár n-Éirinn.
