The thing I love most about Ireland is the storytellers. Obviously, since I’m here studying Irish writing, but beyond that, many of people I meet are born storytellers, including our Irish writing professors whose lectures are good stories. Outside of them, though, the locals don’t mind taking the piss out of Americans (mocking). This can be everything from the publican in the local pub saying they don’t have toilets (don’t ask for the bathroom) to the taxi drivers telling tall tales about American tourists looking for leprechauns. I often reprocess these conversations later, because there are layers to the layers to get to the bottom of the message. The other evening, I heard one such story.
I asked my temporary neighbor Joe what he did before he retired. He worked in a warehouse, and then, his tone changed. He stood up straighter and spoke in an animated tone. This was a performance as he told me about taking the piss out of his boss. But in the middle of it, he said something about invisible borders.
Traveling in Ireland, you cross many invisible borders, the first of which is the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. Signs mark the highway when you cross from one to the other, but it’s invisible in the sense that there is no checkpoint between north and south. Beyond that border, there are additional invisible borders. Or as Joe said, “I’m not just talking about the invisible border between the six counties [Northern Ireland] and the rest” of the island. There’s also the invisible border between the island of Ireland and Great Britain. But he confirmed he wasn’t even talking about that one.
“When you go up to Belfast,” he said, his tone lowering, deep & quiet, “you have invisible borders between one street and the next. Streets you don’t walk down.”
The tone and the performance made me wonder. Was this a real thing or is this just a piss-take to mess with the American?
On the bus tour we took at Christmas, the driver said that certain flags or emblems were symbolic of a town being Unionist or Catholic, which remains an invisible border 25 years after the Good Friday Agreement. That supports Joe’s invisible borders comment, but whenever I’ve gone to Belfast to visit my son, I’ve felt perfectly safe walking around, even at night. There are remnants of the Troubles if you look, like concertina wire over some fences, bullet holes in buildings, and most recently, posters against the new invisible border caused by Brexit.
Tensions remain, so yes, there are likely more invisible borders that people shouldn’t cross, streets you don’t walk down, as Joe said.
All of which made me wonder about invisible borders in the U.S. The Mason Dixon Line, North & South, East & West, etc. And within a town, the invisible borders locals know not to cross but Google doesn’t recognize. Once, when driving across the country, the kids and I pulled over for gas in the outskirts of a large metropolitan area. Within 2 blocks we passed four cop cars patrolling the area. Derelict houses, boarded up businesses, graffiti, and a general sense of decay. Cement barriers blocked traffic on the side streets. To use Joe’s term, we walked down the wrong street.
Joe, like many here, is a born storyteller. His story had characters, a basic plot, and a surprise conflict with the invisible borders in his workplace. And the message lingered for me to consider later, to reflect on the invisible borders in my life, lines others shouldn’t cross.
The other thing it’s done is made me consider my own storytelling skills. Does my voice and tone change when I begin a new story? Do I stand up taller? Do I consider details that are visible and invisible? Do my characters have lines others shouldn’t cross? Does the setting have streets they shouldn’t walk down? How many meanings can one story have?
These questions create the layers of story underneath the story that are an indelible part of Irish writing. They’re helping me to see the complexity of Irish culture and showing me how I can use that lens to see the complexity of other cultures, including my own. And they’re making me a stronger writer.
An American adventurer and writer, Rich Ridgeway, said that the “best journeys in life are those that answer questions you never thought to ask.” Ireland is answering questions for me as it takes me to unexpected places. The journey continues.
Join me on my Irish adventure. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’ll end up, but I promise it won’t be boring. More pictures are up on Instagram.