Traditionally, the Irish have earned something of a reputation abroad as story-tellers. The dewy myths, the little people, a horse and its cart, plodding carefully between one thatched cottage and the next. It seemed that a carelessly woven tale related in a gentle brogue was always expected of me, when I first arrived in the California. That and knowing every Irish other person that had ever spoken to an American. Though mostly that part was true. Usually I was related to them.
After a period of being quietly mortified by the stereotypes and the broad assumptions made by my new American friends, I started to take them in the spirit in which they were intended. Especially since there was often a whiskey proffered, to wash down the taller tales. In a matter of weeks I was starting to see the appeal of perpetuating the stories, of painting Ireland in broad green strokes where there was always a comely maiden dancing at the nearest crossroads. After all, if you were from a country where everyone was your friend, then you were everybody’s friend. I briefly considered a career working for the Irish tourist board.
At the height of my incredulity though, I met Chris. He was young; a tall, broad shouldered army cadet, who having politely enquired what time it was, nearly whooped with joy at the realisation I was Irish. For once he wasn’t related to anyone I knew, he had no deep-seated yearning to see green fields stretched as far as the eye could see. He just liked the accent.
“Say something… say anything” he grinned while staring at my mouth, as if he expected to see shamrock sprouting there.
“In Irish or in English?” I enquired, completely amused.
Chris did the closest thing to a Looney Tunes double-take as I have ever seen in my life.
“In Irish? You guys have your own language?! I thought Irish was just English spoken in a funny accent.”
I trotted out a few of the standard phrases. Since I was toying with the idea of working with Bord Failte, I even went as far as to say a few lines of the National Anthem. In case it might make a good story for the job interview.
“You’re just making it up as you go along!” he exclaimed.
And here, standing at the moral crossroads with a comely maiden of my own dancing merrily behind me, I decided there was absolutely no fun in taking the high road.
“Of course you’d think that,” I nodded sympathetically “it’s not like many camera crews make it to my side of the water. Without electricity it’s hard to get any sort of realistic portrayal of the place.”
My new friend’s jaw dropped a perceptible inch.
“No electricity?”
“No, no real need of it though. Agriculture does fine on the back of a good horse.”
His mouth, at this point, formed a perfect O. He looked ready to launch into a heartfelt rendition of “Oh Danny Boy”.
“So, you guys use… a lot of candles at night then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I retorted, “we’re not primitive. We have oil lamps.”
“Wait. How did you get here? How did you react when you found out about airplanes?!”
I was so completely wrapped in the lie at this point; it was a soft wool blanket and I was prepared to settle into it for the night.
“I was furious! I’d just spent 30 days on a large boat crossing in ridiculous weather, and someone tells me I could have been flying at 34,000 feet with a stewardess bringing me hot towels.”
“You’re kidding” he spluttered, looking around for his friends to share his new-found wisdom.
And as he beckoned to a platoon of fertile minds, all just waiting for that right idea to be sown …I started to feel cheap. Yes. It had been a good lie and an entertaining one, but it was an easy untruth dropped on an unsuspecting target.
“I’m kidding.” I nodded, with a sheepish grin. “Of course I’m kidding.”
“I knew it!” he yelled, slamming his fist on the bar in triumph. “I knew there was no such thing as an Irish language!”
Ni thagann ciall roimh aois, cinnte. I bought him a whiskey, by means of an apology. Then I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me, and politely excused myself. I figured it was kinder to lie than to say I just couldn’t look him in the eye without laughing.
This post was written as part of The Great Cake* Experiment. To see what other, very talented writers did with the same topic, visit the website here.
