No birdies...

The things in which we find identity

The rat appeared as a furry blur of energy; from no-where, now, there it was, separated from us only by some passive glass, furiously scaling the thick wooden post that held up the bird table.

Its body wove through the trestle that held the table secure at the top of the post; a Tom Cruise of rats, it seemed to defy gravity and claw upside down along the underside of the table out to the peanut feeder that hung on the edge, onto which it leapt and managed somehow to get inside, and then swung marvelously and precariously as it devoured everything inside. And then it made its remorseless way around the table top, cleaning up everything left as bird offerings with ruthless thoroughness.

We stared, rapt and fixed to our spots inside the glass; you couldn’t look away; this was a badass rat. One has to admire excellence in whatever field of endeavour.

Then we looked at each other, and the glance said everything; my wife turned and walked away.

The bird table had to go; and responsibility for all this was mine.

It was a quick enough thing in the end, years of sitting in the ground had made the post half rotten, and, with a bit of grunting and huffing, it all came away.

The rat obstacle course of goodies was gone, but so would be the birds.

My wife loved the wild birds and still does, but now there was nothing to bring them anymore.

The following spring, summer and autumn, all seemed more silent. And this continued for a year or more. You get used to anything, and things were just left as they were – what was to be done; we’re not going to have rats perform acrobatics outside the window again now, are we?

Last year, Christmas was coming and I had an idea to do some research. I came upon a clever, very tall system on a very narrow metal pole, just over 10mm in diameter of powder-coated tubular steel, thin and sheer; unscalable. Rat-proof.

Two metres up this impregnable pole, slender metal arms extend out to looped hooks where feeders hang, loomimg in mid-air, unreachable by the earth-bound.

It seems I had found the perfect gift for my wife to ensure the return of birds to our garden. And I thought that I would add to it an annual membership of Birdwatch Ireland.

Both arrived for Christmas and were gleefully and excitedly received; my wife really had been missing having the birds around. The feeding station went up between Christmas and New Year, and soon the birds returned.

Now, I am quite sure that there is currently a SEAL Team of rats in the undergrowth strategising on how to get up this sucker, but, unless this is the final incentive that rat evolution needs to actually develop flight, the bird feeders should be safe, for now…

My wife was particularly taken by a couple of things that came with the Birdwatch Ireland membership pack; a birdy tote bag and a birdy buff in particular – sure, they are only gorgeous.

Because, you see, my wife now identifies as a birder, someone who loves wild birds and everything about them, and these little tokens she can carry and wear to enable her to manifest this identity make her feel good in small but not insignificant ways.

And I am jealous.

For I have no birdies…

For many years now, I have been learning the Irish language as an adult learner, and it is something that has become absolutely central to my sense of identity in ways that I have not, perhaps cannot, express clearly.

And I have not come across anything that scratches this complex identity itch for me in the neat way in which my wife has been able to with the things in her life that enable her to identify as a lover of wild birds; though perhaps she too agonises endlessly about it, I must ask her…

Because the question of identity and the Irish language is something that involves an endless unravelling for me, at the centre of which I feel there must remain some uncomfortable and unresolved questions.

And the only way I know of how to explore and seek to understand this issue and these questions is by writing about them.

I did this a number of years ago in a twenty-one day writing series, the product of which you can find here. That led to the establishment of a podcast I called The Language Question; a podcast about our relationship with the Irish Language and its role in our identity, which you can find here.

The podcast has lain dormant for a little while since I concluded Season 1, as I had to drop everything to focus on completing a master’s degree in Modern Irish last year. But as that is now finally and thankfully done, I am about to return with Season 2 of the podcast.

And before I do, I have decided to return to another series of twenty-one days of writing here now, to reexamine this question of: The Irish Language and Its Role in Irish Identity.

You may ask, why, if I have already done this exercise in a previous series, am I simply repeating it?

Well, we can never jump in this same Heraclitean river twice; for we are not the same person, and it is not the same river.

Since I last wrote this series I have completed a Higher Diploma in Modern Irish and then an MA in Modern Irish in UCC and I have spent a couple of years speaking to some extraordinary guests on the podcast on the issue.

So, before returning to speak to more such wonderful people on this subject of endless fascination for me, I think it would be useful to try and work out what I think about it all at this stage in the first place.

I would be honoured if you would join me.

P.S. I will be writing on weekdays, Monday to Friday, taking weekends off and I’ll be starting on Tuesday, 10 February. Please Subscribe above if you would like to join me in this exploration of the Irish language and how it relates to identity for an Irish person.

P.P.S. This is Day 0, you can see Day 1 here.