Scott De Buitléir's Blog, page 4

Gearrscéal: Caife

Dóibh siúd a thabharfadh faoi ndeara í, bhí cuma deas go leor ar Áine. Bheadh an blús bán iarnáilte go deas aici; cnaipe amháin ar oscailt chun a muinice airgid a thaispeáint. Uaireadóir airgid ar chaol a láimhe chlé, brístí dubha agus bróga dubha dheasa. Bheadh a cuid gruaige déanta suas aici go stíleach freisin, don chuid is mó den am. Bhí sí stíleach, agus shíl sí féin go raibh sí cairdiúil do dhaoine – nó bhí súil aici go raibh an chuma sin uirthi.

Mar sin féin, ní raibh cairdeas ná caidreamh aici le héinne eile san oifig. Bheannódh sí d’éinne a shiúlfadh thar a deasc ar maidin, agus déarfaidís heileo ar ais di, ach b’in an méid. Ní bheadh lón aici sa chaifé leis ‘na cailíní’, níor chaithfeadh sí toinín le Josie nó Gráinne lasmuigh de chúldhoras an fhoirgnimh, agus níor fhaighfeadh sí cuireadh chun teacht chun an tí tábhairne tráthnóna Dé hAoine. Bheadh daoine na hoifige dea-bhéasach d’Áine, ní raibh sí mar chuid den ngrúpa riamh.

Buaileadh an guthán ar a deasc, á tabhairt amach as a cuid smaointe.

“Good morning, Digital Distribution.” Obair gan smaoineamh a bhí ann sa phost sin, dar léi.

“Oh yes, Mr. Reynolds, just one moment please,” a dúirt sí go béasach i ndiaidh tamaillín, sula gcuir sí an duine ar aghaidh chuig bainisteoir na hoifige. Cliant mór a bhí i Mr. Reynolds, agus nascfadh a ghlaoch leis an mbainisteoir gan chúis a bheith de dhíth air. Bhí an nós sin ar eolas aici le fada. Bhí mórán ar eolas aici. Bhí a fhios aici go n-ólfadh an bainisteoir – Gerry – lattè gach maidin. Bhí a fhios aici nach bhfreagródh Catherine sa rannóg poiblíochta aon ríomhphost go dtí an tráthnóna. Bhí gach duine san oifig beagnach cinnte go raibh rud éigin ar siúl idir Gerry agus a rúnaí, ach bhí a fhios ag Áine nárbh pháirtnéir gnó amháin é Mr. Reynolds, ach páirtnéir den gcatagóir eile a bhí ann chomh maith. Ba chosúil nár thuig éinne eile san oifig é sin ach Áine.

Bhí sí tuisceanach den gcaidreamh idir Gerry agus Mr. Reynolds. Bhí sí tuisceanach den mhodh oibre a bhí ag Catherine i bPoiblíocht. B’é an t-aon rud nár thuig sí, áfach, ná cén fáth go raibh sí scartha amach ó dhream na hoifige. Bhí sí nua go leor sa phost sin, ach níor cheap sí go mbéidís chomh mí-fháiltiúil sin di.

D’imigh an lá, beagán ar bheagán. Chaith sí am lóin ina haonar i gcaifé beag deas ar Shráid Mhic Liam, ag ithe ceapaire sailéid agus ag léamh úrscéil a d’aimsigh sí i dteach a máthar. Rinne sí dearmad fúithi féin san uair a bhí aici le haghaidh lóin, caillte i leabhar agus cupán caife taobh léi.

“Gabh mo leithscéal,” a dúirt fear a bhí ina sheasamh in aice leis an mbord ab fhearr léi sa chaifé. “Níl aon chathaoir eile saor anseo – am lóin, tuigeann tú.” Thaispeáin sé miongháire cuthaileach. “Árbh fhéidir liom suí síos in aice leat?”

“Ó,” a d’fhreagair Áine, nach raibh ag súil le bheith ag caint le héinne, go háirithe i ndiaidh do mhuintir na hoifige a bheith chomh ciúin di ar feadh na maidine. “Cinnte, tá go leor spáis anseo.” Bhog sí a cupán caife a bhí i lár an bhoird agus tharraing sé an chathaoir amach agus shuí síos, a cheapaire á chur ar a chuid nua den mbord. D’fhéach Áine air go scioptha; fear árd a bhí ann le cuma aclaí go leor aige, ar nós go raibh sé ina imreoir rugbaí. Bhí gruaig dhubh agus súile ghlasa aige, é gléasta i gculaith deas gnó, le léine liath agus carbhat dubh. Tháinig freastalaí an chaifé chuige chun cupán caife a thabhairt dó lena ól leis an gceapaire.

“Go ra’ maith agat,” a dúirt sé leis go béasach, ag taispeáint an mhiongháire céanna arís. Thóg sé an cupán go cúramach as lámha an fhreastalaí, sula gcas sé i dtreo Áine.

“Bhíos ag súil leis seo ar feadh na maidine!”

“Nach bhfuil meaisín caife ann san áir a oibríonn tú,” a d’fhiafraigh Áine, agus miongháire uirthi.

“Tá, ach níl an caife sin go deas ar chor ar bith. Stuif uafásach instant atá acu, agus i ndiaidh dom tréimhse a chaitheamh ar an Mór-Roinn, is deacair maireachtáil gan fhíorchaife – go háirithe má tá tú gafa leis, cosúil liomsa!”

“Cá raibh tú, mar sin?”

“Páras, ar feadh seal,” a d’fhreagair an fear, “ach bhí orm oibriú ar feadh leathbhliana in Amstardam, freisin. Ní raibh mo chuid Ollainise go han-mhaith, ach d’fhoghlaim mé go tapaidh conas caife a ordú.” Rinne an fear gáire roimh bhreathnú ar chlúdach an leabhair a bhí i lámha Áine.

“Scéal maith atá ann ansin,” a dúirt sé, agus é ag cur siúcra isteach ina chaife bán. “Léigh mé féin é bliain nó dhó ó shin.”

Bhí ionadh ar Áine é sin a chloisteáil ó fhear óg – é ar chomhaois léi, in aon chor – dá leithéid. Chas sí an leabhar chun breathnú ar an gclúdach; ba léir uaidh go raibh an leabhar cuíosach sean, agus é dírithe ar mhná. Ba thrua mór di, a cheap sí, má bhí sé aerach.

“Fuair mise é ó theach mo Mham; ceapaim go raibh sé aici ó bhí sí níos óige. Conas a raibh sé agatsa?”

“Bhí orm é a léamh do mo chúrsa Béarla san ollscoil,” a d’fhreagair sé, ag casadh na siúcra ina chaife.

Buaileadh guthán an fhir óig, agus thóg sé amach as a phóca seaicéid é. Thosaigh sé ag caint leis an duine ansin, ag tabhairt seans d’Áine tuilleadh dá húrscéal a léamh. D’ól sí braonán dá caife féin agus í ag léamh, ag tabhairt sreac-fhéachaint ar an bhfear óg gach nóiméad nó dhó. Ní raibh aon dabht ann go raibh sé dathúil, agus ba dheas é go raibh sé sásta labhairt léi. Thaispeáin sé sin di go raibh sé cairdiúil agus dea-bhéasach, nó, nach raibh sé ach ag iarraidh a scíth a ligint san aon áit a bhí saor sa chaifé. Pé scéal é, bhí sí sásta an comhluadar a bheith aici, cé gurb stráinséir é. I ndiaidh nóiméid, dúirt sé slán leis an té lena raibh sé ag caint ar an nguthán, agus chuir sé ar ais ina phóca é.

“So, céard a cheapann tú faoin leabhar sin,” a dúirt sé le hÁine, i ndiaidh dó braon caife a ól.

“Go maith… tá sé cineáilín mall i bpáirteanna, ach tá scéal maith ann.”

“Cén caibidil ar a bhfuil tú?”

“A ceathair,” a d’fhreagair sí. “Is dóigh go bhfuil eolas maith agat air, má tá sé déanta agat san ollscoil.”

“Bhí,” a dúirt sé, “ach rinne mé cúpla bliain ó shin é. Ní chuimhin liom mórán faoi, seachas an deireadh. Ach, ní dhéarfaidh mé faic leatsa faoi sin.” Rinne siad beirt gáire beag.

“Mise Tony.”

“Áine.”

“Deas bualadh leat, a Áine,” arsa Tony, sular fhéach sé ar a uaireadóir. “Caithimse dul ar ais chuig an oifig, ach an mbeidh tú anseo amárach ag am lóin?”

“Seans maith go mbeadh, cén fáth?”

“B’fhéidir go mbeinn in ann caife a cheannach duit, agus bheifeá in ann an scéal sin a chur i gcuimhne dom?”

Tháinig miongháire ar aghaidh Áine mar a d’fhéach sí anuas ar an mbord, meascán d’áthas agus náire uirthi. “Ba bhreá liom é sin, cinnte.”

“Iontach! Feicfidh mé amárach thú mar sin,” a dúirt Tony, agus chas sé i dtreo an dorais.

I ndiaidh é sin, ba chuma le hÁine muna labharfadh éinne ina hoifig léi.

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Poem: Prayer

We are uneasy, living
in such mundane luxury as this:

The privilege of stasis,
waiting on the last to die
like the first-born sons of Egypt
while we at home watch dust build
over dust, ashes to ashes.

We, rich
– for now –
in hygiene and health
know not the pain of that final Facetime,
a window without closure,
yet we’re all in this together.

While heretics sacrifice
humanity to false gods,
not in search of promised land
but to maim our immortal soul
and take from us our hope and love

And yet, throughout, we faithful pray
for salvation, sought in how we stay
and wait for the glory of a warm embrace.

Cork, 1 February 2021

Allowing Myself to Recalibrate

When I left radio (somewhat publicly) in 2015, I thought I needed to abandon part of myself.

I was almost a year into my new career in digital marketing, and doing well at it, noticing that I enjoyed using my communications skills at something new. Even better, I was getting paid for it, which was a major bonus in comparison to the work I had done for digital radio. At the same time, the efforts put into another digital project, EILE Magazine, paid off in the sense that we covered the marriage equality campaign as an independent LGBT media platform, and although it has continued to this day as a voluntary effort, it was not possible to turn it into a business for various reasons. In short, I learned and accepted that my financial future was not in Irish media.

Fast forward to today, and I realise that I’ve grown so much since I made the decision to leave the media behind. I’ve relocated twice more, travelled the world, written and published several books, bought a house with my partner, and settled down in a beautiful part of the world. I’ve been extremely fortunate in many of my life experiences and opportunities, and I’ve little to complain about.

And yet, if I’m honest, I’ve missed being in front of a microphone and producing.

That got me thinking; if I wanted to produce something again, without the restraints of radio (length of broadcast, schedule, getting to a studio), what would I like to do? Well, I’d like to do what I normally enjoy doing with people; getting lost in deep and meaningful conversations, learning about the experiences of others, and feeling connected to them.

Recalibrate is my effort to do just that. I’ve reached out to chat with friends who each have a wonderful story to tell, from faith to politics, and from learning about diversity to becoming an entrepreneur. The episodes will be released every Monday, with two episodes currently available; Finding Faith with community & political activist, and blogger, Stephen Spillane, and on Race, Community, and Discovering Your Voice, with Claire Bale, blogger of That’s A Bit Racey.

Let me know what you think if you listen to any of the series! You can find Recalibrate on the following podcast platforms:

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A New Dawn

It’s New Year’s Day, 2021, and I’m at home in Dublin. My mother is practising the fiddle in the living room, and my father is singing to himself in the kitchen as he prepares a late lunch. It is a cold but beautiful day outside, with the clear sky reflecting its colour off Dublin Bay, and despite the arrival of Ireland’s third lockdown, there are many people walking along the Clontarf seafront.

Having worked on a new project for most of the afternoon in my bedroom, I walked down to the seafront myself after some food, and listened to Ólafur Arnalds on Spotify as I looked over Dublin Bay, across to the port and the Dublin & Wicklow Mountains in the distance. A walk on the seafront is nothing new to me, but that moment of serenity, between the music and the beautiful evening, was a special way for me to celebrate the new year. I was home for both Christmas and the New Year celebrations, having missed out on being there for my parents’ birthdays due to the previous lockdowns. That made this latest visit all the more important and special, and made me all the more grateful, too.

I managed to get out for a walk just as the last of the light was beginning to fade.

I don’t need to tell you, dear reader, that 2020 was a horrible year for so many of us, for countless reasons. It did, however, give me a newfound sense of gratitude, and a desire not to take those smaller moments for granted, from hugging a relative or loved one, to breathing a sigh of relief by the sea. I learned a few things about myself, as well, although some lessons need repeating, like in acknowledging one’s strength and appreciating those around you, and those who want to reach out to you, too.

One of the things I learned more recently was to trust myself more. I know that my talents and work-related “comfort zone” lies in communications, and I spent more than enough years in radio to know that sound editing, interviewing, and audio production comes pretty naturally to me.

When I left RTÉ in 2015, I seemed to have a promising career in marketing ahead of me, and I decided to close that media chapter of my career when I moved to England. I withdrew myself from any radio appearances over time, thinking that it was no longer something I wanted to do, and preferred instead to avoid the limelight and enjoy being a nobody (in the nicest sense of the word) in my new home of Nottingham.

Gradually, I’ve come to the realisation that I don’t need to turn my back entirely on those talents just because I don’t work in media anymore. My writing skills remained active since leaving freelance journalism, and I’ve written plenty more since then, but the audio production skills were neglected. I’m glad that I’ve decided to return to that world in some way, with the launch of my new podcast, Recalibrate.

This new podcast series is born from when I would ask myself whether or not I was on the right path in my life, or what my role was meant to be in my community and society. With Recalibrate, I interview some inspiring friends about their own connections to community, how they’ve grown as a person, and found their own path at times when they may have felt off-course. It’s an exciting new project for me, and one that I’m glad to be doing, so I hope you’ll give it a listen – let me know what you think if you do!

Listen to the series trailer for Recallibrate here.

Personally, I’m going into 2021 with a mixture of hope and trepidation. With our home in Cork finally renovated, there are only a few more things that need to be completed before we can relax. With the arrival of the Covid-19 vaccines, there’s a chance that life will return to some level of normality by the end of this year, and we can travel, hug, and catch-up with friends again like before. There’s also a more immediate anxiety, however, knowing that once I leave Dublin to return to Cork, I won’t be allowed back to see my parents (or anyone else) until March at the earliest. I’ll spend another birthday in Cork, and I’m just as likely to have only a Skype call with my mother to celebrate her birthday.

That’s what makes the next few days more special before I return to Cork, but nevertheless, I’m grateful for those smaller moments, and the chance to see a brighter day.

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Finding Your Political Voice for 2021

As this horrific and frightening year comes to an end, it may be difficult to fully comprehend how bad 2020 has been for our communities, our country, and the world at large. Such descriptions sound melodramatic, and yet in 2020, we have experienced a pandemic that has not been seen since the Spanish Flu over a hundred years ago. For a small country, we pride ourselves on our tight-knit community spirit, where even urbanites rally together to support one another when needed. It’s no exaggeration, in that case, that over 2,000 deaths in Ireland feels like a traumatic event, especially when that has affected every county, city, and community. 

When such a global event takes place, one can be forgiven for dismissing political differences as fairly unimportant. “We’re all in this together”, we were told by our leaders and local representatives, yet the reality seemed to be quite different at times. Many who died from COVID-19 had only a hospital nurse to hold their hand at their deathbed, while funerals were viewed via webcast for those who weren’t able to attend or travel, even if they were in the same town. Those who took tests ended up waiting weeks for a result, thanks to a backlog which developed from poor planning, but also a vastly under-resourced health system. 

When a brief return to normality seemed possible, we dropped that community spirit for a series of bickering over which industry was the most important, the most fragile, or the most in need of reduced restrictions. It didn’t help, of course, that those same political leaders who called for support and solidarity were the same ones who ended up not only arguing with their own health advisers, but also publicly undermining their authority. Meanwhile, displays of partying and joy were demonised, either for being reckless or simply selfish in the face of a global health crisis, yet others were keen to shut the critics up as being uptight do-gooders. In other words, our resolve and community spirit broke down when we could take no more, snapping at one another in exhausted frustration. 

Experience in Scandals

It is safe to say, therefore, that this year has brought out the best and worst in us all. While no-one can be held responsible for the emergence of a new viral strain, how our nation has reacted to, and acted in, a pandemic is very much down to the decisions made in Leinster House. We have seen our new government fumble at each hurdle, from a viral test backlog of 40,000, to the horrific abandonment of Debenhams workers, to the cohort of government representatives ignoring their own health advice by congregating for a golf tournament. Indeed, with each fall, we have lost our faith in the competence and integrity of our supposed leaders. Despite the long-standing experience of Fine Gael and Fianna Fáil taking turns in power, and the potential for positive social and environmental change that the Greens promised, the 33rd Dáil we waited so long for has only added to the difficulties and disappointments we feared would happen, despite coming into power during the height of the Coronavirus situation. 

As a republic, however, we must ask ourselves how we’ve chosen to make ourselves suffer like this. These men and women are elected by us, and they are therefore from us. Yet when parties like Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael may seem like the tried and tested choice for business owners like publicans or retailers, the experience of those industries this year has been nothing but devastating. Smaller business owners, sole traders, or casual workers, meanwhile, don’t always have the same political ‘go-to’ choice, and yet they have been exposed to even more economic hardship, with the Pandemic Unemployment Payment being thrown out like an unreliable lifebuoy. Sometimes it just about keeps the endangered afloat, sometimes the air has been let out of it, and sometimes it’s not within reach at all. 

Heart and Head 

How we, as voters, are motivated by both logic and emotion is at the core of our politics, yet the latter is often portrayed as unintelligent. I argue, instead, quite the opposite: Our compassion for our family, friends, and wider community should drive us to want a better world, and our logic should settle on the best proposal to bring that into effect. Instead, our principles are based on the remnants of Thatcherite politics: Focus on oneself first and foremost, economy over ecology, and portray those who rely on the State as welfare-cheating scroungers. Caring for anyone else has been, for decades now, portrayed as some form of expensive weakness in our civic character, but we can only change that tune for the better if we recognise and admit it first. Ireland is not as warm, as caring, or tolerant as we make it out to be. 

That can change, and there have always been organisations and societies in this country that campaigned for better socio-economic conditions. We must ask ourselves why many of us have lost faith in the power of their vote, even despite the reports of Green Waves or the impact of the most recent “Vote Left, Transfer Left” trend. We have seen parties like the Greens be almost torn apart while deliberating over whether or not to enter government, and whether they made the right choice or not is for others to decide, but I wonder what is truly needed to make a change. 

I believe your own voice needs to be heard, but how you make that decision is up to you. Do you want this country to be led with principles in practice? Do you want to see a green economy come to life, like previously shown to work in countries like Denmark, the Netherlands, or Germany? Do you think our current state of affairs in housing, healthcare, and community support are severely out of kilter? As this annus horribilis finally comes to an end, make yourself a New Year’s resolution to find the optimist in yourself once more, and find a way to make your voice heard, to prove that we really should be all in this together. 

This article was originally published in the print edition of Cork’s Echo newspaper on 9 December 2020, under the title “Find a way for your voice to be heard”.

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5 Life Lessons I’ve Learned from 2020

It’s fairly safe to say that there are many of us who have been negatively affected by the events this year brought upon us. Like something from a dystopian novel that couldn’t possibly happen in real life, we’ve experienced a global pandemic, lockdowns of varying levels, protests and civil unrest, extreme weather events, and plenty of other news headlines and events that have tested us like never before.

For me, personally, the horrors of this year kicked off in January, if not a little earlier. Having bought a new home last year, the first builder we took on turned out to be completely unable to finish the job, and we had to find help from friends and other, more reliable, tradesmen to pick up the slack. In March, however, the Irish government announced our first lockdown, which brought any progress to a halt for almost two months. Our new home had been a barely-habitable building since we had bought it the previous summer, but we then had to deal with living on a building site under lockdown, with only being able to shop or go for walks within a two-kilometre (mile and a quarter) radius.

Fast-forward about eight months, and my partner & I are still living on a building site, now in the middle of a second lockdown (although at the time of writing, we have a five-kilometre radius – what freedom…), although the house is looking more like a home with each week that passes, thankfully. While our living conditions haven’t been ideal for sitting out a pandemic, I’m far too aware that we’re very lucky in comparison to others whose lives have changed this year; either losing their jobs, or worse, losing loved ones – or even their own lives.

With that in mind, I’ve meditated a little on what positive lessons I’ve learned from this year, in spite (or maybe because) of the negative and stressful periods I’ve experienced in 2020. They may not exactly be groundbreaking, but they are tenets that I believe have proven themselves to be true this year, especially for me.

1: Never Underestimate Your Resilience and Strength

“Oh, I could never go through that.”

It’s a line many of us have said in the past: Listening to the harrowing experiences of others, and wondering how they managed to make it out the other side to tell the tale. For me, I never thought that I’d spend a year living in only the (badly finished) garage-conversion apartment on our property, while the main house and the garden were covered in rubble, dirt, and various building supplies and tools.

This post is meant to be about the positives, so I won’t write the several paragraphs needed to really describe how terrible things have felt. We’re almost through the pain by now, though, and somehow, my head remains held high. I know we will have a beautiful house, even though it won’t be exactly as we hoped it would look for another while. We’ll move in soon and finish the small jobs like painting and decorating, and start to finally live in our home. My hope lasted throughout, even when I needed a day or two of sleeping in late, Netflix, pizza, and anything else to give some moment of comfort.

2: Forgive (If You’re Ready)

For years, I looked back on those I knew from my childhood with a certain resentment. With the exception of only one or two people, any reminder of someone I knew from back then would leave a bad taste in my mouth, with lingering memories of homophobic bullying, or being made fun of for one reason or another. In short, I’ve never let go of memories from unhappy times, or those who may have caused them.

This year, however, there were a few moments which prompted me to look back at that time in my life. One of them was during the summer, when I managed to get back to my childhood home of Clontarf for a few days of escape from the building site in Cork. While out for a walk, I noticed the pride flag flying beside a popular café on Bull Island. It evoked a weird reaction in me: Growing up gay in Clontarf was no different from many other suburbs in Dublin, in that some people had no issue with it, and some were very quick to make me a target. Shortly after I came out in school, though, someone threw a sheep’s heart against my front door. It turned out that someone I thought was a friend was dared by some of his friends to do it, but his willingness to do it shows his own homophobia – and of course, he never apologised.

I continue to be angry at that man (as he is by now) and whoever dared him into doing it; not because it was an attack against me, but because it was an attack on my parents, too. I’ll never forget my father cleaning the blood from the door, and my mother shaking in worry for me, thinking my life was in danger.

[image error]Happy Out, the café on Bull Island off the Clontarf coastline, that flew the pride flag during the summer.

Seeing the pride flag flying in Clontarf, however, taught me that life moves on. There is now a generation of people, either living in Clontarf or visiting from somewhere else in the city, that would walk past that café and feel accepted and welcome. I even felt more welcome, and I had walked that same path since I was a young child. While I can never forgive the prankster, seeing the flag also taught me that many others will have learned and moved on from those horrid, childish moments, and those who were more neutral towards me don’t deserve the same level of resentment. I am hardly innocent, either, but forgiveness is sometimes slowly discovered.

3: Don’t Ostracise Yourself

This is connected with the last point a lot, because it’s a tendency I developed from childhood. If you were ever bullied or ostracised as a kid, you might recognise that as an adult, you’ve inadvertedly taught yourself to stay away from the crowd, from team activities, or from joining a fun event or moment.

As a kid, there was a certain social code of conduct (especially in all-boys schools, but outside school too) that most others are almost instinctively tuned in to. If someone in a group makes fun of you, you’re expected ideally to roll with the punches, return their line with one of your own, and don’t take any of it to heart. I was very different; being an only child, I didn’t understand that making fun of your classmates was a common way of people testing your boundaries and seeing if you were “cool” or not. I took most things to heart, as reacted as such, so I seemed to fail any social test. If I tried to be friendly and get involved with other groups, I was made feel unwelcome, and quickly learned not to try again.

As a result, if something seemed like the big thing to do or get involved with at the time, I’d always pull back. The experience came to deeply impact my social life growing up, and conditioned me to avoid taking part in team sports or activities, and avoid groups in general. It even damaged my own sense of adventure – I’ve never really attended a music festival, for example – and I’d instead feel safer on my own or with a select few friends.

In truth, I didn’t really learn how to recognise and deal with it until my thirties, when I decided to get involved with the Cork Hellhounds. That was the moment when I realised that it wasn’t that I was bad at team sports, or preferred to be a bit of a loner, but that I have often ostracised myself, depriving myself the opportunity to get involved for fear of being rejected. That experience isn’t unique to me, but it’s something I have to consciously learn and try to overcome.

4: Connect, No Matter the Distance

So many of us have experienced Zoom fatigue like never before this year, even if our day jobs regularly involve video conference calls. That being said, when so many of us have been disconnected from our friends and family around the world, and travel has become difficult with each country’s version of lockdown, the 21st Century world feels uncharacteristically large.

I miss my regular trips abroad and using my passport whenever I can, but what I miss most of all is the trips from Cork to Dublin to see family and friends there. Normally (or pre-COVID, at least) I would’ve gone ‘home-home’ every two or three weeks, but now I haven’t been back in months. When we moved back to Ireland from England, we thought such long periods between family visits were a thing of the past. Now, once again, every call is all the more important, just like every hug and cuddle once we can finally come together again.

Connecting in other ways is all the more important, too. I’ve taken to writing the occasional letter to my friends in America or Britain, and I’ve enjoyed spending time handwriting a message, instead of the quick-and-easy message on Instagram or Facebook. Sending Christmas cards will be all the more special this year, too, especially if I know I won’t be able to see people as much as before. Hopefully, the letters are only a temporary solution until we get back to some level of normality.

5: Live While You Can

My mother likes to write random things that come into her head in one of the notebooks I bought for her over the years. Earlier this year, she told me over the phone that a thought came to her one night, in the form of advice for me, and she wrote it down in her notebook:

To Scott: Enjoy your life now, because it may not last long, and even if it does, you may not be in a position to enjoy it by then.

This, unexpectedly, left a real impression on me. This year has proven that those carefree moments travelling, or dancing in a club, or laughing with a friend over coffee or a pint, they have all been so wonderful and precious. They will happen again, absolutely, but one cannot take moments like those completely for granted.

If anything, that’s what 2020 should teach us all, especially for the moments we are yet to enjoy.

How I’m Managing to Stay Sane (For Now)

It has been a long while since I’ve had the energy or desire to blog. Not because I didn’t have anything to say (my Twitter can probably attest to that) but rather that there has been a guiding voice in my mind this year that reassures me that I didn’t need to burn myself out – especially this year.

That got me thinking a little to do a blog post that harks back to blogging of long ago, before the age of sponsored posts and influencers telling you which amazing brands are paying them to recommend products you never needed. I remember when blogs were barely a twinkle in a digital marketer’s eye, and we used Blogger and Live Journal to open our innermost thoughts, stories, and nerdiness to anyone who might stumble across it. Still, enough of me showing my age.

2020 and the world’s varying levels of lockdowns have been challenging for so many of us, and there are certainly people who have been affected far worse than I during all of this. That being said, I haven’t been immune from the mental and physical stresses that a global pandemic has brought even the relatively healthy of us, and keeping my head above water has been a struggle at times.

Your House is Your Home (Under Construction)

Buying a house is often one of the most stressful – and yet important – milestones in your life. That is, at least, how my father always described it to me. Thanks to Ireland’s colonial history (and poor property planning post-independence), we have the goal of land ownership embedded deep within our national psyche.

Renting is considered “dead money”, especially when your rights as a tenant aren’t as well protected as they may be in Continental Europe or further afield. The perspective is that your rent pays the landlord’s mortgage, and you get little in return for it than a space which you aren’t likely to be allowed to change or decorate much. Instead, it’s a means to an end; the ultimate goal being the moment you buy a home and start paying your own mortgage instead.

In June 2019, we reached that milestone of buying a house, albeit one that needed a lot of renovation work, as well as the old-fashioned “love & attention” (read: cash) injection to modernise it and make it habitable. It has been a frankly awful experience, thanks to dodgy builders, multiple pandemic lockdowns, and general unexplained delays caused by absent or unreliable tradesmen. Some 16 months after we got the keys to our new house, it is only now that we see the light and the end of the tunnel, and we plan to be settled into our home before Christmas.

Mobile Games

I wouldn’t consider myself a gamer (or even a #gaymer!) but mobile games have kept me calm enough during lockdown… for a little while, at least!

One game I loved instantly was EVE Echoes, the mobile version of the massive role-playing game, EVE Online. The mobile version is a slightly pared-down version of the main game, but it doesn’t lose quality in terms of graphics or style. Based far in the future, you play as a customisable “capsuleer”, a pilot who is genetically engineered to integrate with your chosen spaceship, and be immortal through cloning. It is a space sci-fi lover’s fantasy, and I love it.

Another long-time favourite has been Star Trek: Fleet Command, as well as one that tugs at my childhood heart-strings; Sonic Forces.

Fitness

Keeping fit was never really on the top of my agenda or interests. I attended a secondary school that was known as a “rugby school”, and I occasionally went to the gym on my univeristy campus, but I never caught that gym bunny vibe. In some ways, I didn’t care enough to think I needed it; I was relatively slim during my twenties, without looking weak or unfit. As someone who has almost always shied away from sports, performance was never a priority; any time I did go to the gym was purely to make sure I looked well.

This year changed my perspective, because I hit comfort eating hard during the first lockdown. Pizza, burgers & chips, chocolate, you name it – anything to give me a moment of comfort when living on a building site and being limited to a 2km or 5km radius was just too much for me to handle. By the end of summer, I was the heaviest I had ever been in my life; just over 80kg (12 stone, 8lb). I considered my normal weight to be at least 8kg lighter, and committed to myself to get to the gym regularly with a specific fitness and calorie deficit plan.

At the time of writing, Ireland has just entered its second lockdown, which means that gyms are closed again until the end of November. Reader, it’s Day 2 of Lockdown 2.0, and I’m missing the gym desperately, something I never thought I’d hear myself say. It’s true, though; I managed to lose 5kg (11lb) since the end of August, losing the belly and (most of) my spare tyre in the process. I’m still not as strong or as fit as I want to be, but I’m now in the mindset that fitness isn’t just for aesthetics. It’s a damn good motivator, sure, but I now have a second reason to improve my fitness; rugby.

This is where the second of my “who the Hell have I become?” moments comes in. Back in September, the Gay Project (a Cork-based LGBT community resource centre) hosted the online event, “What Next For All-Inclusive Rugby in Cork?” and I decided to attend purely to show support for the idea of a gay-inclusive rugby team.

For anyone who read Yesterdates, you might remember my short-lived stint playing for the Emerald Warriors. While I enjoyed training with them, it wasn’t the most stable period of my life, and I only lasted a few weeks with them. Listening to the panel of speakers on the virtual event, though, made me wonder if I was finally ready to give it a serious go this time.

I couldn’t be happier that I gave myself that chance. A group of us have come together to establish the Cork Hellhounds, an LGBT-inclusive rugby team. We managed to only get about 3 training sessions in before the second lockdown, but we’ve some online events planned for the next 6 weeks, and also plan to use that time to properly set up the club (paperwork, committee, affiliations, etc.). We’re still a good few months away from playing our first match, but I’ve been blown away by the camaraderie, support, and encouragement shown by the rugby community in Ireland and abroad, especially by other clubs affiliated with International Gay Rugby. Watch this space.

[image error]



Connecting with Community

Although the formation of the Cork Hellhounds is definitely a prime example of connecting with the local community during this year, it’s not the only one.

I’ve also been fortunate enough to get involved with the Social Democrats, both locally and across the country. With the help of Councillors Chris Pender and Owen Hanley, I’ve established an Irish-language group within the party to look at policy and community issues related to the language and the Gaeltachtaí, and we got off to a great start earlier this month. It was great to get the support of Gary Gannon TD for the group, who mentioned it in the Dáil when giving his opinion on amendments to the Official Languages Bill this month.

Lá stairiúil do na @SocDems, agus an chéad chrinniú againn anocht do Ghaeilgeoirí an pháirtí! Go leor pléite againn, idir polasaí teanga a fhorbairt, tacaíocht a thabhairt do ghrúpaí pobail agus Gaeltachta, agus conas dátheangachas praicticiúil a chur chun cinn! #Gaeilge #SocDems pic.twitter.com/pOFMBmWANH

— Scott De Buitléir (@scottdebuitleir) October 6, 2020

I also was delighted to host a virtual panel event for the SocDems to celebrate Cork Pride, titled Where Next for LGBT+ Ireland?. This featured community leaders both in and outside of the party, and discussed Ireland’s progress in terms of LGBTI issues, but also where gaps in social and legal protections remain, and how Ireland can advocate for the LGBT community abroad.

Small Moments of Escape

It feels like ages ago now, but Stephen & I were so lucky to be able to take a few days away from the building site home and relax in County Kerry to recharge the soul.

Luckily, the weather was perfect for those few days, and we managed to fit a lot into the trip, including meet a friend in Kenmare who was doing a cycle around Ireland for charity at the time, as well as visit the Corca Dhuibhne / Dingle Peninsula region, and stop by for a few moments of bliss by Inch Beach. Memories like those will hopefully make the next few weeks more bareable.

[image error]Inch Beach, Co. Kerry

Going into the second lockdown, there’s a lot that could be better, but things could be much, much worse. I’m grateful for the various support networks and outlets that I have available to me, and despite the reality of Zoom fatigue, I’m still happy that there is enough going on to either distract me or keep me going.

Now, where’s that home workout kit I bought…

Unionist Voices in Irish Politics Are Needed, More than Dublin or Belfast May Know

Living in Belfast during my early twenties had a profound effect on how I see Irish identities and politics, and it was an experience I look back upon with fondness. Living just off the Dublin Road in a loyalist part of south-central Belfast, however, meant that there were some flags, murals, and other emblems that would’ve made the inexperienced southerner (as I was when I moved there first) pretty nervous.

During my first few weeks there, when I first walked to a friend’s house in east Belfast, there were so many Union Jack flags tied to streetlight posts that I was afraid to speak, for fear of my Dublin accent giving me away as an outsider. I remember the annoyance and confusion that hit me when a guy called me a “filthy Free Stater” after I turned him down from making a romantic pass at me in the smoking area of the Kremlin. I remember a teenager at another nightclub asking what I thought of Belfast “as someone from abroad”, and telling myself not to react to his drunken attempts to start an argument.

That was only my initial experience on what I knew of the Protestant, unionist, and/or loyalist community in Northern Ireland, and as time went on, it became much more positive than I had anticipated. I became good friends with people from that community, most notably Stephen Donnan and Gareth Russell. It was Stephen who invited me to go as moral support to a beginner’s Irish language class in the East Belfast Mission, and it was wonderful to experience people in the heart of unionist Belfast explore their connections with Irish. Gareth Russell, meanwhile, is a wonderful writer and historian who opened me up to the fascinating history of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, including the linguistic and political actions of a very distant relative of mine. These two people, hailing from different parts of Belfast’s unionist community, are wonderful friends of mine whom I miss greatly during this pandemic, and they – along with others like them – have been positive influences on my life. I also fondly remember interviewing the historian Jason Burke for the Huffington Post years ago, and how he had “no problem calling [himself] Irish, and a lot of [his] band’s members have no problem calling themselves Irish – [they are] Irish citizens of the United Kingdom.”

Considering my experiences of the PUL community in Northern Ireland, my political outlook before Brexit was that the Irish border didn’t matter, and almost didn’t exist to my generation, because all of Ireland was under the EU flag. That is now no longer the case, and while it may be expected for nationalists in the Six Counties to seek representation in Irish politics, Northern Ireland’s unionists should also always be welcome to give their voice to affairs that affect our island. It’s for that reason that I was sorry to see that with the end of Ian Marshall’s seat in Seanad Éireann, it is also the end (for now) of any unionist voice at the table in Dublin’s government.

It may be fair to say, however, that unionist representation in Leinster House is not necessarily needed. Why would you waste a seat on a unionist, one might say, when they may regard a Dublin government as foreign and probably hostile? If a seat were to be offered to any representatives from the north, why not keep it to those who want to see a united Ireland? My answer to such an argument, however, is this: We have had, and continue to have, northern nationalist representation in the Oireachtas with the presence of Niall Ó Donnghaile. If a united Ireland is to ever happen, however, it must require support from – and dialogue with – Northern Ireland’s unionist community. So, why not start that dialogue and representation now? On the other side, if unification never happens, what harm would it do to offer the platform in the name of reconciliation and cooperation?

Elected representatives are able to hold bilateral meetings and arrange cooperation where and when they like, such as through the North-South Ministerial Council and the British-Irish Council. It is, however, a very clear gesture to the PUL community in Northern Ireland (or indeed, those who may live on the Republic’s side of the border) that they are welcome to contribute to our political discourse should they so wish. That gesture does not set out to undermine Stormont’s legitimacy as a devolved institution, but it does recognise, like Burke’s description above, the Irish aspect of their UK citizenship.

Unionist representation in Irish politics would not be regressive, either, nor would it be anachronistic. As Marshall said in an interview with the Irish News in 2019, “Strong unionism is about sitting down with other people who have different views. Weak unionism is about circling the wagons,” and suggested that a stronger unionist leader would see no problem in travelling to Dublin more often.

It is for that same reason, I feel, that the departure of Mike Nesbitt and demise of Basil McCrea from unionist politics were to the detriment of Northern Irish society, as both were relatively progressive politicians who had more confidence in the future and fate of their homeland. I personally didn’t always agree with Mike Nesbitt, for example, but I had a deep respect for his style of leadership and desire to rehumanise politics. A figure like Nesbitt, therefore, would be an ideal candidate to represent (and in many ways, explain) moderate Unionist thoughts on all-Ireland affairs and issues affecting both sides of the border, like agriculture, business, community engagement, and more.

While the latest government has not appointed someone like Ian Marshall, or anyone else from the unionist community to take a seat in the new Oireachtas, I’d personally like to see a new figure step forward in the future to take on such a role. If I were Taoiseach tomorrow, my first choice would be Linda Ervine, who has done incredible work to make the Irish language accessible once again to her community, something I will never forget seeing at the East Belfast Mission years ago. While her work has always focused solely on her love of the language, she is a shining example of the shared heritage and culture of this island’s inhabitants, and proof that divisions and suspicions are not necessary in a 21st Century Ireland.

Time will tell what happens next for the new Irish government and how it interacts with Stormont and Northern Ireland overall, but I certainly hope, for the sake of my friends in Belfast and elsewhere, that we see an example set by extending a warmer welcome to the PUL community. After all, as Carson was a Dubliner, unionism’s own heritage manages to cross today’s borders.

Ireland’s Language Divide Needs a Solution. Fast.

This is the English version of an earlier blog post in Irish: Líonfaimis an Bhearna idir Gaeltacht is Galltacht.

I’ll try to avoid every typical phrase used about the Irish language or the Gaeltacht that you might see from school essays to the comments section on certain news sites. The matter is far too serious to use such platitudes. Instead, I’ll try to tackle the issue head-on to find a potential solution.

I don’t think it can be denied that the State – not just one government, but all of them since independence – has failed the Irish language and its community, not least of which being those living in Gaeltacht areas. Since the start of the Irish language movement, the most successful campaigns were not those initiated by the State, but by the community; calls to establish Gaelscoileanna, TnaG (now TG4), the Falls Road Gaeltacht in Belfast, and many Irish-medium media. When the recent TG4 programme Gaeltacht 2020 reported that only 17,000 people speak Irish daily outside the education system today – a figure no larger than the population of Clonmel – we are now facing a national language emergency.

Even I, for all my interest in the Irish language, am technically not one of those 17,000 speakers (which shows that daily speakers does not equal the total number of fluent speakers). I live in a suburban area with my partner, whose Irish is quite rusty. I work in a multinational tech company which gives me more opportunity to use my French or Danish than my Irish, but the language of the office is still English. With that, the only times I get to use my Irish are when I’m reading or writing (whenever I’m in the mood to) or if I’m chatting with certain friends from my college days. In some ways, Irish is a minority language in my own life, whatever about on a national level, and even that is a pity.

Mind the Gap

The fragility of the language today, however, is not a pity, but highly alarming. As someone living in the Galltacht, I can sometimes forget just how dire the situation can be, and instead, romanticise the Gaeltacht from afar as some linguistic mecca. Instead, the likes of such programmes from TG4 remind us of the reality.

It made me realise, however, that the lack of understanding from English-speakers regarding the Gaeltacht Emergency (as it most certainly is an emergency) is a blocker on any support or awareness. Why should any TD be worried about the death of the Gaeltacht, when the majority of them will focus on where their voters are based, i.e. mostly outside the Gaeltacht? Which politicians are serious about the language community, by speaking to their constituents in their own langauge or – more importantly – listening and acting on their concerns?

If those in the Galltacht are unaware of the real concerns and worries facing Gaeltacht communities, what is to stop the government from once again delegating any pro-active efforts to someone else, and focusing on the concerns of the English-speaking majority instead?

Crossing the Divide

It is not, therefore, that Ireland’s English speakers cannot engage with the Gaeltacht or broader Irish-language communities, but there is neither enough cause nor compassion to. We have heard the phrase, “we’re all in this together”, banded about during the pandemic, which prompts the cynic in me to raise an eyebrow for a few reasons.

As a nation, we have had at least two language communities in Ireland since the 14th Century; the Gaeltacht and the Galltacht. Irish speakers have lived within English-speaking areas since then, as well as English speakers roaming or settling in Irish-speaking strongholds. The social divide between the two, however, has been recorded since well before the Penal Laws. Of course, a lack of understand and a lack of interest are closely related, and even though the likes of Gaeltacht 2020 help to spread the word to the unconverted, more needs to be done to bridge that social divide.

That work starts with action on a community and political level. It starts by presenting the Gaeltacht as a valuable public asset, not just to local communities or to the counties in which they’re located, but across the country from Headford to Howth. It starts by supporting Gaeltacht-based businesses with training, industry networking, and marketing skills, so those companies have the right tools to acquire new customers, partners, and clients. It starts with cooperation outside of the Gaeltacht, in order to demand improvements to infrastructure for all communities, regardless of the community language spoken.

There are many practical ways in which we not just try to preserve the Gaeltacht communities we have today, but reverse the anglicisation suffered by many former Irish-speaking districts over the years. Preservation is no longer enough when our native language community is in such a vulnerable state, but we should instead focused on renewal and revival, and how to truly connect fledgling urban-based groups, like Gaelscoil communities or second-language speakers, with the Gaeltacht more.

It starts with consideration for others, and that should be the foundation for any community.

Collaborating Celts: The Need for a New Celtic Union

When I went to university, I was in a very lucky and privileged position. I had been encouraged by my parents to choose a degree course that I would enjoy, and not just one which may contribute to my career (which, at the time, I was certain would be in broadcasting). My first choice on my CAO form was Business through Irish, a course which I thought would combine my passion for the Irish language with a supposedly practical business degree. When I got my Leaving Cert results, however, I didn’t pass the minimum requirement in maths to get a place on that course, so I went with my second option of Arts at University College Dublin.

I knew that I would study Irish at third level, regardless of the other subjects I would study alongside it to make up my degree. Since I had been ten years old, the language had become a core part of my identity; I stopped using my English surname (Butler) by the time I was in secondary school, and De Buitléir has been on all government documentation since I turned eighteen, including tax documentation and my passport. I latched onto the language during those formative years, defining myself as an Irish-speaker before almost any other label I would use.

Connecting with Cymraeg

During my first year in my Arts degree, I needed to study two other subjects. French was a natural choice for one of those, as it was another language I enjoyed at school. The third choice? As part of its School of Irish, Celtic Studies, and Folklore, UCD also offered Welsh as a subject.

As an 18-year-old, I knew only a little about the Welsh language; that as a fellow Celtic language, it followed a similar grammatical structure to Irish, but its vocabulary and orthography were very different. I also knew that it was in a stronger position than Irish, as it had more speakers. Thinking that I’d at least be able to understand any quirks to Welsh because of my fluency in Irish, I thought it would be interesting to get an insight into another Celtic language and society.

Choosing Welsh became a hugely influential moment in my life, without really realising its import at the time. It added to another formative experience from my school days, when I went on a project trip to Copenhagen and learned about the power and impact small European states could have in the EU. In a similar way, I was learning about a Celtic country through its language, and in doing so, I was opened up to a culture, society, history and political landscape that had many similarities to my own. It became fascinating, and I loved my lecturer’s attitude to print off news articles from BBC Newyddion to use my interest in the media as context for my language studies.

By the end of my first year in college, I needed to drop one of my three subjects and decide which would be my major and minor. Irish would absolutely be my major, I had no doubt of that. Welsh, although an unplanned choice, was quickly becoming a fascinating subject to me. French, however, lost its importance in my mind, a result that wasn’t helped by some condescending lecturers at the time. With the decision to study Irish and Welsh as joint majors, my Arts degree effectively became a Celtic Studies degree in all but name. In my second and third years, I had learned some Scottish Gaelic and Breton; I spent a week at Bangor University in North Wales, and spent time in the Kerry Gaeltacht.

A Political (Delayed) Reaction

During my college years, many friends at the time were members of the Labour Party, but I was still trying to break into the media industry in Ireland, and considered it a duty for broadcasters and journalists to be politically neutral. I also thought that I could contribute to society and political debate through my column writing or journalistic pieces, which typically focused on human interest or civil rights stories. It wasn’t until I was 27 – five years after leaving college – that I left broadcasting altogether, and by then, I was preparing to move to the UK. I reached out to the Nottingham branch of the (British) Labour Party, but I received no word back from them. Feeling dejected, I decided not to bother becoming active in politics again until I returned to Ireland, where I eventually joined the Social Democrats.

What makes the political angle interesting to me now is that since leaving college (and especially since leaving my media career behind) I paid less attention to my once-core interests of Celtic languages (other than Irish) and awareness of the Celtic countries in general. Since moving into marketing and after leaving Ireland in 2015, I started to think of my college education as the pursuit of a naïve and carefree kid, who could afford to just learn languages for the sake of it. Now, I see that such an attitude towards myself is deeply unfair, because those experiences shaped my view on the world to this day.

[image error]A verion of the flag of the Celtic nations, including Galicia in northern Spain.



A Renewed Celtic Society?

Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and Brittany are four of the six modern Celtic countries which maintain their heritage, language, and sense of identity on varying levels. Smaller Celtic countries like the Isle of Man and Cornwall are obviously much smaller, but while the former enjoys a certain level of autonomy from the British state, Cornwall has become a county of England, with its language enjoying no legal status in the UK. I have been of the opinion for many years, however, that the Celtic nations should work together in a similar way to Nordic countries, where social and political cooperation exists on various levels, not least of which being through the Nordic Council and wider-reaching Arctic Council.

A Celtic council, consisting of politicians from the six Celtic nations, could be very possible, however it would potentially go into competition with the British-Irish Council, despite excluding Brittany. Nevertheless, a closer Celtic connection in a post-Brexit world could establish the Celtic countries as no longer being a fringe to the likes of England or France, but a collaborative community in itself.

Elected politicians don’t need to be the only ones to reach out across the Irish or Celtic Seas. While nationalist parties like the SNP, Sinn Féin, and Plaid Cymru have collaborated on events in the past, there’s nothing to stop other parties of aligning affiliations from making connections. The Celtic League, an organisation which works with the likes of Conradh na Gaeilge and Misneach in Ireland or Cymdeithas yr Iaith Gymraeg in Wales, recently announced a Celtic Charter for Housing, calling on better rent control, restrictions on holiday home ownership in minority language communities, and improved strategies for public ownership of social housing. However, while advocacy groups like Cymdeithas, or activist groups like Misneach, are worthwhile to hold politicians to account and scrutiny, it seems unusual for the broader public discussion to be put into a Celtic context, yet socio-political issues in the Nordic region are often compared with and contrasted against their neighbours. Maybe it is time to prompt such thought.

Ymlaen (Forward)

Having recently added my own voice in a digital demonstration for Welsh independence, I find myself reawakening my university education for a new context. My political skills – if I can call them that – are rooted firmly in my understanding of Celtic commonality, our paths along post-colonialism, and our different attitudes to our respective native languages. Political activism in the Celtic countries is traditionally quite socialist and on the left, as it focuses on the welfare of the community, whether rural, working-class, a minority, or any combination of the three. While this is endearing and well-intentioned, only one party has, in my opinion, managed to keep their language community at the heart of its political activism: Plaid Cymru.

Personally, I believe that in the aftermath of Brexit, there is just cause to revisit the concept of Celtic collaboration, especially now that the 6 Celtic countries are no longer under the one European banner. While it would be romantic to use history alone as reason for a new Celtic era, it is pragmatic to learn from one another about how various ideologies and policies have influenced each country for better or worse, and in the event of common challenges, find a common solution. In the same way that smaller states like Ireland, Malta, Denmark, and Latvia, can work together to make their voice bigger in the EU, the Celtic nations can also speak with one voice on an international platform to show solidarity or hail social, political, or economic progress.

If Celtic collaboration was ever to become a model for success like our Nordic neighbours, the best time to start that groundwork is now.

Image credit: amritagrace from Pixabay