Doubt

(For the sake of those who don't speak Irish - see translations at the end)

I still find it funny that there are three words for 'doubt' in Irish - 'amhras', 'agó' and - wait for it - 'dabht'. It's almost as if us Irish ourselves doubted that one word would suffice. Clearly, we as a nation are indecisive to the point where we need a choice of three words in order to say one.

A few days ago, I had my Irish oral exam, which consists of a 15 minute conversation as Gaeilge* in order to gain 40% of the overall mark for my Irish for my Leaving Cert. Piece of cake!

I started getting Irish orals grinds from September onward, in order to build up my confidence. By the time the mock Irish oral came around, I wasn't a bit worried and entirely convinced that I would walk out of the mock feeling like the founding father of the language itself.

How wrong was I, eh?

The examiner grilled me on topics such as how to download music and the plot of The Hunger Games, (I don't think I will ever forget the word 'íoslodáil'** for as long as I live). Let me just reiterate that I had to say all of this AS GAEILGE*** . Picture the scene: a stammering, bumbling mess sweating in her chair like a priest in an orphanage. For once in my life, I was speechless.

"I'm glad it happened to you", she told me when we were críocnaithe****.

I couldn't say I was thrilled myself to be honest.

From then on, bhí mé an-neirbhíseach ar fad*****. Rigorous preparation for the real deal ensued. I learned off an entire paragraph explaining how to download music, as well as the plot of The Hunger Games. I knew the modh coinniollach****** better than I knew myself. I prepared for every worst case scenario, every sticky question she could throw at me. 

The day came, and I was due to be examined at half 2 in the afternoon. I stood outside the room with the guy before me, waiting for him to be called. People who had been examined before me had been asked questions ranging from the Pope, to their opinion on the colour green. Our teachers had frantically given us vocabulary to cover both topics before we were due to be examined. Now, there was no more we could do.

"Sure it's just reading a poem, talking about a picture, bit of a chat", he said.

"Yeah, just a bit of a chat", I said, trying to drown out the voice in mind manically reciting every word of Irish I've ever heard.

Soon, he was called, and then it was just me in the hall, facing the longest 15 minute wait in my life. 

"Verbal diarrhea", I thought of my teacher's advice, "just go in and regurgitate everything".

My friend came out of the exam, awash with relief. 

"You have nothing to worry about. It's fine. Honestly".

As he went to class, I hovered outside the room for a few minutes, braced myself, and went in.

She was a tiny woman, the examiner: blonde, and sitting adjacent to a tape recorder that sounded like it ran on diesel. We greeted each other, I signed my name on the roll, and sat down.

I read my poem and picture so as to move on to the general conversation as quickly as possible. It all just started pouring out of me - I was running high on adrenaline and a single Kalms tablet my friend had given me before I went in, (don't do drugs - not even over-the-counter anti-anxiety tablets made of sugar and little else).

We got on to the topic of music. I informed her I could not live without it, that I had seen The Maine and All Time Low live last year, and after the Leaving Cert, I would be seeing Rihanna and The Killers respectively.

"Agus cad a cheapann tú faoi Rihanna?"******* she asked me, "cén saghas cailín í?"********

I sat, gobsmacked. What did I think of Rihanna?! What kind of person was she?! I scrambled for the information - abusive boyfriend, drug abuse, fashion icon, not particularly partial to wearing clothes ... 

"Is ... cailín deas dathúil í?" ********* I replied, "Eh ... Caitheann sí eadaí ... Eh ... Cool ... " **********

The examiner laughed, at which point I realised that not only had I cocked up my answer, but the examiner now thought I was a lesbian. Great. At least now I might have grounds to appeal my result. Can you imagine? "She failed me because I fancy ladies!"

Before I knew it, it was over. I floated out of the room, as relief flooded my body and left me incapable of saying anything other than - "It went grand!"

I drifted through the hall and sat on the window, stalling before class, content in the thought that I would never have to speak Irish again, unless by choice. Phew!

My result? Irrelevant. I got through it without puking into my examiner's lap - that's achievement enough for me.

* - In Irish

** - Download

*** - In Irish

**** - Finished

***** - I was very nervous

****** - The conditional tense

******* - "What do you think of Rihanna?"

******** - "What kind of girl is she?"

********* - "She is a nice beautiful girl".

********** - "She wears a lot of cool clothes".

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Growing up won't bring us down

"His name's Tulani".

I corrected my nan on the name of one of her South African care-workers - she'd mistakenly referred to him as 'Carrigtwohill'.

"That's it!" She said, pointing and shaking her hand in his direction, as if she'd figured it out on her own. "I knew it had a T in it. I've gone terrible deaf Fionnuala girl".

My nan was now in hospital permanently - sound of mind, frail of heart and body, eyes as blue as a porcelain doll's. The same, however, could not be said about her fellow patients.

"Get out ... Get out ... Get out ... GET OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" A pleasant old 'dear' had greeted us as we entered. Away with the fairies. "She's probably better off", my mam remarked. "Madame Butterfly", my selectively deaf grandmother had called her.

As I sat on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, I allowed myself to take in fully this new environment. Shelves filled with adult nappies, assistance bells at the bedside, jellies on the table, the able patients' knitwork lining the walls ... Is this what awaits me? Is this what we wait for with bated breath? Is this really what I wish for when I complain about my life and long to be older?

In that moment, I felt like I had been wishing my life away. About the way I look, the people I spend my time with and where I spend it ... Yeah, growing is hard. Really hard at times. My secrets had spread faster than glandular fever at a GAA disco. Stress inevitably got the better of me at one stage or another. I was rejected, and in return, I rejected people. My whole landscape of friends had changed radically, to the point where I know longer acknowledge people who I previously invested all of my time into. I had complained previously about 'those people', 'this town', 'that night' ... All for what? For me to get old old and go loopy?

I sat amongst my family, in what was, essentially, an adult crèche and came to my conclusion: if growing old is hard, imagine how bloody hard being old is. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for crappy school, drunken mistakes and horrible people who deserve to have their ears pierced with rusty nails. I have what my nan doesn't - spontaneity and diversity. I made a decision then and there to prolong monotony for as long as possible. Lord knows I can't stop the ageing process but, so help me, I'm going to slow the bastard down before I become my own Madame Butterfly.

"Are you working tonight?" My nan asked.

"Yeah I am".

"Sure God help us!" she said, shaking her head.

God help us indeed.



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The dark rise of celebirty culture

I wrote this for my Leaving Cert Mock/Pre exam. Enjoy!



I woke a few mornings ago to find my social networking sites a-flutter. Torrents of Tweets and posts were sending cyberspace into a frenzy, as well as my phone. What could warrant such a response? I wondered. An end to war? A cure for cancer?

The headlines read:

"KIMYE'S BABY JOY"

If you have no idea what/who Kimye is, you are one of a lucky few. 'Kimye' are composed of Kim Kardashian - American 'socialite', 'actress' 'designer' and sex-tape star - and Kanye West - rapper and occasionally, Taylor Swift's award speech interrupter. The white-trash equivalent of Brangelina, they are Hollywood's most prolific power couple today.

And now, they have managed to successfully reproduce. How thrilling.

How did it come to this, in which, globally, people are celebrating that two run-of-the-mill people are expecting a child/ Since when is this more important that current affairs?

This shows exactly, the rapid, sadistic rise of celebrity culture - officially diagnosed as 'the Kim Kardashian effect'.

Stars without merit are beginning to have a greater influence in modern society. Celebrities dictate how we look, dress, eat, exercise and think. We are more exposed to Hollywood indoctrination than ever before. Products are bought for the face on the box - what else can you attribute to Jennifer Lopez having 12 different perfumes? Not her keen sense of smell, that's for sure.

Celebrities hold power reminiscent of Fascist dictators. We are bombarded with highly sexualised images of D-list celebrities daily, accompanying mundane stories such as, "How My New Puppy Is Changing My Life",  and "Being Filthy Rich Has It's Challenges, I Swear". In a recent straw poll of people agd between 18 and 30 years of age, a mere 10% could identify Nelson Mandela from a photograph. Surprisingly, (or perhaps unsurprisingly), 85% of the group could recognise Simon Cowell. If the children are our future, should I be worried?

So where does that leave us? Just how detrimental is 'the Kim Kardashian effect'?

For starts, we are significantly less intelligent. Recent studies from Cambridge University have show that a lowly 8% of your brain is engaged while watching reality TV. Imagine the potential of that 8%! It could be writing a novella, solving a sudoku puzzle or playing a game of chess, as opposed to "keeping up with the Kardashians".

On top of that, we are more easily manipulated. We are allowing ourselves to be sold ideas and products from shallow, plastic mannequins, who are lucky enough to have famous parents. I myself have been a victim of this. Recently, I purchased a pastel pink mohair jumper from H&M that I had seen singer Lana del Rey model for a recent campaign of theirs. Did I like the jumper? Not particularly. Did it make me look like Lana? Perhaps ... If she shared the same penchant for biscuits as myself. The point is, I bought it, because, sub-consciously, Lana del Rey told me to. Such levels of exploitations are on par with those in a Nike sweatshop in Bangladesh.

Celebrity culture has corrupted our minds. People hold notions now that talent is optional, morals are irrelevant  starving is sexy and dignity no longer exists. We as a nation have become a herd: people with no discernible, unique characteristics. We are sheep, sponging off the personalities of 'the next big thing', in order to satisfy our seemingly inherent and insatiable desire to 'fit in'.

I can only pray that this is a mild overreaction on my part, and this event will act as some sort of a turning point. I have my fingers crossed that the next generation with shun the shine of celebrity and embrace the new age of intelligent thinking. Maybe there will be the next great novella. Maybe there will be a cure for cancer. Maybe the malignant force that is celebrity culture will be eradicated once and for all.

Or maybe not. Glossy rags could continue to be worshipped, the 21st century equivalent of the Holy Bible, and I could continue to lose faith in humanity. After all, Kimye look set to pocket a cool $10 million from selling their baby's first picture.

Baby joy indeed.


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Legacy

"Oh, you're the one who puked all over herself at Christina's!"

While I was doing my best to cheer up a girl I barely knew in the bathroom of a club at the weekend, she quickly remembers how it is that she knows me - being an absolute mess.

I have written about said-puking experience before - if you haven't read it, allow me to redirect you.

What she said got me thinking. You're probably aware having read previous posts that I am extremely conscious as to what people think of me and it affects me a lot. I stopped and asked myself at that moment - what will I be remembered for?

The saying goes that the good you do is never acknowledged, and the bad you do is never forgotten and I can't help but feeling this applies to me. I obsess over the things I have done wrong or am doing wrong. The good pales in comparison to the bad.

Didn't Beyoncé sing something about 'leaving footprints in the sands of time'? I mean, that's all well and good if you're Beyoncé, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not actually Beyoncé. What about me?

Will I be immortalised as 'the girl that puked all over herself at an 18th she was invited to solely because of her boyfriend'? 'That girl that kissed too many boys in one night'? 'That attention-seeking girl who asked about ass tattoos on Twitter'? 'The one who bit that girl in Senior Infants, who broke someone's heart on New Year'a Eve, who constantly told lies, was an awful friend and who laid her dignity on the line for the sake of being liked by shallow spiteful people'?

Maybe not. Maybe I'll be 'the girl that got the highest results in her Junior Cert that one time'. Or 'the girl who loved people to the point of no return'. 'The girl who would do ANYTHING for her friends and family'. 'The one who sang Ave Maria, made stupid Batman impressions and never forgot anybody's birthday'.

Maybe.

Maybe it would just be better to be forgotten.

'The girl that never was'.

My Life In Pictures #1 - My friends are scumbags

Restored (*)

At last. It was hers.

Never had she coveted something so much and for so long as she had this magnificent piece. It had been calling for her from the wall of the gallery for many a year, and after a hard-fought auction she could finally call it her own. A beautiful oil painting set in a gilded frame. A portrait of a man and his wife from the 1800s, in period dress. She counted herself lucky to have found such a rare, unique work of art. Perfection.

Well, that is not entirely true. Art is not without its flaws: artists, collectors and auctioneers alike know that. Tragically, her painting was no exception - exposure to daylight and general wear-and-tear had lead to its condition being less than mint by the time it had made its way to her.

Not that that was going to stop her. She believed she had all the qualities to bring its beauty back to life. Love, affection and plenty of patience were all that were required. How hard could it be? Granted, she had never restored a painting before, but she was committed to the cause. "You were worth the wait, Lord knows you'll be worth the time and effort", she thought to herself.

She dove into the project. As she lacked the first-hand experience, she relied foolishly on the poor advice of others, who knew as little as she did, As well as that, she read a countless number of books on painting restoration. Despite her youth and lack of experience, she believed whole-heartedly she could do her masterpiece justice and give it what it deserved.








She tried. No one could deny her that. Not even the man and the wife in the painting. It became the ultimate labour of love. It is unclear as to where the emphasis lay: 'labour' or 'love'. She had underestimated the necessary investment in restoring such a damaged, but high quality painting. Weeks and months slipped away like paint on canvas. She began to see people less and less. Her own work suffered. Relationships fizzled out. Her devotion to the cause was unquestionable - enslaved by her love for the thing. How could she not be? She was overcome by its beauty. She adored it. She was the envy of all her friends for having it. Only once in a blue moon would you stumble across such a fantastic piece. She refused to give up on it, despite the hardship. They had said it would be hard, so it must have meant she was doing it right. With a heavy heart and her pupils drowned, she persevered.

Where love grows, so do feelings of inadequacy. After faltering on numerous occasions, and feeling she was simply ruining the painting, she grew disillusioned. She no longer felt worthy of owning such a fine piece when she couldn't even restore it. She grew sad at the thought of the man and wife's displeasure of being poorly restored, of being forever hidden behind a sheet never to be admired or desired again. She grew jealous of other artists with their delicate strokes, their perfect ways, their knowledge. Their eyes were filled with love and their blood filled with beauty. She had neither of those traits and she never would. Doubts permeated her weak mind. Was she not cut out for this?

The paintings hold on her was unshakeable. She agonised over its every feature. Any moment not spent painting evoked feelings of guilt within her. Any moment spent painting never felt like enough. Every mistake burned her retina and burrowed its way into her long term memory. Feelings of inadequacy continued to manifest in her mind. Slowly, she began to accept that she was not capable of restoring this priceless painting. She was not the best thing for this. The promises she made could not be kept. Tortured, she made a decision, for better or for worse.








As the furnace flickered in the dark, she thought of how happy she thought it would make her, as if she hadn't before. She had never pictured such a grim ending. Had she loved the idea more than the reality? Her love, time and effort, had it been for nothing? If so, she was entirely to blame. The heat was unbearable.

She watched her tarnished love smoke and burn and her heart ached - but not half as much as it had when she was with it.

Treading water

As someone who has struggled with body issues growing up, I have tried almost every diet and exercise fad under the sun in order to obtain a somewhat satisfactory physique (I'll let you know if that ever happens). I know too much about calories and supposed weight-loss techniques than any average teenager should. Seriously, I cry watching The Biggest Loser - I'm pretty sure I have a problem

So, when my sister suggested I join her and her friend at an aqua aerobics class, I jumped at the chance. I won't bore you with jargon, but basically, it's supposed to be a great all-round workout, and I was just after eating an entire packet of biscuits ...

I would HIGHLY  recommend aqua aerobics for several reasons. Firstly, you will not have the misfortune of seeing any of your friends/schoolmates at the class, and will therefore not be ridiculed for the rest of your life for going to an aqua aerobics class. In fact, you'll probably be the youngest person there. By a country mile.

Secondly, if you're in any way self-conscious, rest-assured: this class will make you feel like a goddess. You are surrounded by overweight middle-aged women (and a man, in my case), in ill-fitting swimsuits, happily bobbing, jumping and running in the pool as if their lives depended it on it. Next to them, you will look like Mila Kunis.

Thirdly, you will more than likely find the whole affair bloody hilarious. Let me set the scene: you are in the pool, surrounded by said middle-aged women and man, following the instructor, while "Maniac" from the movie Flashdance plays loudly in the background. Just before the chorus starts, the instructor orders you to sprint as fast as you can. Now visualise this group of people sprinting like hamsters on wheels for the entire chorus. In water. Yeah. Exactly.

All jokes aside, it is quite tiring and you do work up a sweat; although the last class I went to, a man swam past me, wheezing, "You're far too young and fit to be here!"

So who knows - you might even pick yourself up a hot pensioner if you're lucky!