A printed out, yellowing piece of paper sits on our fridge. Occasionally, an over-enthusiastic yank of the door will send its curled-up edges flying to the ground. The dried-out blob holding it to the door is now doing only a bad impression of a piece of Blu Tack.
On it is an Anne Enright quote: “I am sorry. I cannot invite you home for Christmas because I am Irish and my family is mad.” Other Irish immigrant households across the globe might choose more sentimental nods to the old country. A tasteful Celtic cross here. A “Céad Míle Fáilte” plaque there. Maybe a cushion embroidered with that blessing about roads rising up and the winds being at your back. But we have the Anne Enright quote, which I’ve yet to see on a fridge magnet being sold at Carrolls Irish Gifts.
When not quoting the Booker prizewinner and former Irish Laureate, my mother likes to cite one of the other great minds of our times, Ozzy Osbourne. Particularly that one scene from his noughties reality TV show when, on the matter of his family, the Prince of Darkness says “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I love ‘em all, but they’re all f***ing mad!”
Family life was never meant to be smooth. Growing up, there was acceptance of cousins and uncles and nieces breezing in and out of the doors, helping themselves to the contents of cupboards while telling you that you need to get the walls repainted.
Acceptance of family gatherings so big, one person ends up with a lattice-crossed behind from sitting on the only seat left - a stolen milkcrate. Of this person not talking to this one due to a dispute over a box trailer. Of trying to keep a mental track of what you can and can‘t bring up in front of who. Talks of people doing well, and people doing it hard. The ask of a lend. The offer of help. The begrudging assistance that comes after rolled eyes. The years’ worth of petty disagreements and submerged jealousy ending in an instant when a crisis happens.
There are Australian families like this too, but it seems to be more of a common Irish experience, like bouncy-castle Holy Communions – this messy comfort of a shared life. I had assumed all families were the same. Then I started dating other people, which gave me a thrilling but shocking peephole into how others managed their relatives.
‘I’m just saying I would be a poorer person with less entertaining dinner-party stories if I didn’t have slightly mad uncles with alarming and impressive access to fireworks’
I didn‘t know that you could just never see your cousins. Not because of any great falling out, but rather that it’s just not something you do any more. Like the forgotten Peloton in the attic.
“We don‘t have that much in common,” they explained with a shrug. As if that was a reasonable explanation. As if I hadn‘t spent several enjoyable Christmases chatting to a relative who believes the pyramids were built by aliens while wearing paper hats from the crackers.
Families are not about having things in common (besides DNA and marriage). They’re the random assemblage of kooks that fate and nature has given to you to enjoy and abide. I’m not talking about cases of abuse or serious harm. Then people need to do what they have to in order to heal, including cutting off family. I’m just saying I would be a poorer person with fewer entertaining dinner-party stories if I didn‘t have slightly mad uncles with alarming and impressive access to fireworks.
Moving to Ireland helped me understand my mum. I thought her peculiarities were personal, not cultural. Being interested in the neighbours, being weirdly secretive about things no one cares about and having a hard time dealing with feelings.
We were recently watching Marian Keyes in Sydney explain the nuanced difference between an amadán and eejit. “My mother called us both,” she said. Which made me nudge my own, sitting next to me, who giggled.
[ Brianna Parkins: I fantasise about moving back in with my parentsOpens in new window ]
Mum had used both words so interchangeably to describe us growing up that the neighbours thought they were our names in Irish. As her parents had done to her. “It’s not as harsh as an idiot, it’s a nicer way of calling out the foolishness,” she said in defence. That was after the lady across the road asked if “gobshite” would be a lovely name for a baby girl.
Love in Irish families is more of a doing word than a saying one. I could win a Pulitzer Prize and be met with “and is that the dress you’re wearing?” by mam. But she’d get up at 4am to pick me up from the airport and have a cake baked on the table for me when I got back from the ceremony. Then she’d have all the relatives over to tell them how proud she is – as we all fought to sit on the good chairs.
