To be human is to be a natural-born storyteller, and there are theories about why that is. But one thing that is not up for debate is that storytelling is precious in Irish culture.
If you don’t believe me, watch what happens when someone tells a story badly in an Irish pub. People become frustrated and start coaching them. You’ll hear: “Is that relevant?”, “Get to the point!”, “Well, if you’d told us that first...”.
I vividly remember a moment when a friend of ours (not Irish ), held the floor too long with a rambling, tributary anecdote. The rising tension in the group was broken when one woman broke in: “Bring it home, Mark!”. It became a catchphrase amongst us for when someone was committing a similar offence. (It’s something I still murmur to myself when I find myself rambling ).
Here’s the thing; there’s a difference between expressing yourself and communicating. Both are vitally important to live in this world whilst not losing your marbles. But only one considers the audience.
I’m expressing myself every morning when I write my journal. I think of journaling as essential to my well-being, and a step towards clarifying thought. But the number of people who want to read my journal is very, very small – probably zero. If I want to be paid for sharing my experiences and observations, it is my job make them interesting and engaging for an audience. It’s also what I help other people to do in my role as a story consultant for the film and television industry.
I spend my life thinking about Story. For years, I’ve been asking myself: why are the Irish so good at storytelling? Why did we have such a thing as a Seanchaí? Why do we still greet each other with “Aon scéal agat?/What’s the story”?
Story is a beautiful and magical thing to me so it is sobering to find that the answer lies, unexpectedly, in pain and deprivation. This is because – historically - we were such a poor country. We were deprived of access to the means to express ourselves in other art forms. One needs significant wealth throughout a culture for traditions of ballet, orchestral music, opera, sculpture or oil painting to flourish. But the only thing you need to sing a song or tell a story, is your voice. And look: storytelling and song-writing are the two art forms at which the Irish excel. Craic agus ceol.
When I was in my last year of primary school in Dublin, a teacher from the Galway Gaeltacht who had taught me in fourth class, encouraged my parents to look into a Gael Linn scholarship. I won the scholarship and lived with a family in Indreabhán, and went to the local primary school through Irish for three months.
Ireland was not a wealthy country at the time, but I observed, with the acute attention that comes from being outside the familiar, how little locals were limited by the material paucity of their lives. I saw people who were virtuosos on the feadóg, drawing as much music out of it as Daniel Barenboim did on a grand piano. I saw handball played at the highest level, and thought it was as impressive as anything I saw in the Olympics. I saw ordinary people with no visible means of commanding attention - not especially beautiful or striking and certainly not well-dressed - draw a whole room in, by telling a story, brilliantly.
I remember that atmosphere and how rapt I was not just for story, but also the effect it had on everyone present. I think it was because someone’s pure essence was being expressed. I fell in love with the Irish language in those three months. I learned what it means to me, to be Irish. I became passionately enamoured of the values we in Ireland share.
To this day, I love to see the respect, attention and yes, love we give to people who might be slighted in a culture that cares more about beauty or material achievements. I love to think it is how we maintained a separate identity despite systematic efforts to annex us and eradicate our identity. Our secret weapons: craic agus ceol.
I have so much to thank that generous and engaged teacher for, and yet I do not even recall her first name. To me she was always Iníon Ní Chéadaigh. I see her in my mind’s eye. I hope I may see her again in person one day. It would make a great story.
Mary Kate O Flanagan is MAKING A SHOW OF MYSELF, a one-woman piece of theatre based on her award-winning stories. She comes to The Town Hall Theatre on June 14.
Tickets €20/€18 from www.tht.ie
