Withered Tap Roots

Irishness and sorrow

Hello Wildlings,

Let me introduce my paternal grandmother - Catherine Theresa Wilkie. She was born on Catherine Street in Cork and lived in MacCurtain Buildings, before moving to Birmingham. She was forced to leave as she became pregnant, I believe she would have been about 16/17 when she gave birth. She was just a child.

I did not know her well and do not have many memories of her and as I am estranged from my father, I rely on an uncle to give me breadcrumbs about her because - here is the thing - the older I become the more I am aware of her non-presence. I have become hungry for something and yet I cannot fully name it.

We did not visit her that often as children. She moved to the Uk and had my Uncle B - I was told that she had asked the doctor how the baby was going to come out … she was so young. Most of her family were forced to move because of the shame attached to her being an un-wed mother and many of them really resented her. The story I heard about her was of her being a bit of a ‘black-sheep.’ Wanton even, yet she was just a child.

She then got pregnant with my father, again she was not married. My dad’s dad was said to be an American GI who was stationed in Birmingham. He wanted my Gran to move back to the States with him - his sister was even asking her about what curtains she would like in her bedroom when she moved over . My gran never went with him. He did not want to take my Uncle B with him and told her she would have to leave him, her first-born son back in the UK. In so many ways she was still a child.

I think that the reason my dad never went to visit as often, was because he was angry at her and he had experienced great shame as a child and playground taunts from other kids. It was his uncles who stepped in to help raise him and his brother - and there were many of them. They were all strong Irish men, Catholics, hard working and they showed him what that meant in a variety of ways, not always pleasant ways from what he told me as a child. Eventually my gran married a man and had twin boys. Her new husband hardly spoke to my dad and Uncle B but my gran said that she would not marry him unless he agreed to adopt them both. He did. I wonder a lot about her. How she was, the life she led, the stories that were told about her. I do not know the truth of her.

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I remember, I remember my dad looking at this photo of me and tearing it in half as I looked too much like her.

What do you do with that?

How can I be hungry for something I never really had ….?

But I am.

I feel - somewhere deep down in marrow and blood and bone - a beating, pulsing part of me that I want to welcome home - the Irish of me.

I want to say Fáilte

Fáilte romhat, a leanbh beag Éireannach, mo bhithbheag Éireannach.

Oh welcome to you, little Irish child, my small Irish being.

Yet my tongue is twisted round with a vine of resistance, it is not allowed to do this - or I will not allow it to do this.

Why?

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This is a picture of my Grans aunt - who I am partly named after. Have I ever told you the story of my name Wildlings…?

When my mom was pregnant with me, she had thought to call me - if I was a girl - Kathleen - after my gran. But there was a problem with that, as we lived in an area where there was a big Irish community and every little girl was called, Kathleen or Catherine, or Theresa or Katie or Kate. So my mom thought, no - not Kathleen. Then she heard that there had been a great aunt, on the Irish side - who was called Canice and my mom thought that name was a bit unusual and nice. So I was to be called Canice.

Then Great Uncle Phillip visited. This is him - I loved him. Look at his eyes! The twinkle did not stay in them, but danced around the room wherever he was and lit it up!

I remember he never sat on the furniture in the house because he was usually visiting after working on the building site and was really dusty - so he would squat down, cigarette in hand - dead comfortable just there, in the corner by the front door. Anyways, he visited when my mom was pregnant with me and my mom told him about calling me Canice. He looked at her and said,

“After the nun with the wooden leg? Why would you be doing that?” - Imagine this being said with a lovely babbling, Cork accent.

And it was true, the woman you see above had been a nun. The story goes that she entered the convent after her husband died and so never took the final vows as she felt it not correct - her having known the pleasures of the flesh and all. Canice was actually the Saints name that she took and she was known as Sister Canice. (Saint Canice himself was supposedly born in Cape Clear ) She must have been diabetic and thats how she lost her leg. From the photo she seemed very happy though - not like my mom when she heard this story. Mom decided she didn’t want to name me after a nun with a wooden leg, so she got a little bit of Kathleen and a little bit of Canice and came up with the name Katrice. Of course there are other Katrice’s in the world but I believe I am the only one who got her name through such a great set of circumstances.

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My uncle Phillip had the best accent. I have a recording of him telling a story and it is beautiful. He was a natural born storyteller. I cannot remember my gran’s voice but she would have had the accent too of course. My dad doesn’t. He trained himself not to.

I wish I had the accent - the Cork accent - I wish it bubbled up through the veins of my blood and danced on my tongue like a babbling stream of delight.

How can I trace pathways within me when the signposts are gone?

How can I follow signposts within me when the pathways have gone?

Am I allowed to be Irish - that is what I am trying to say here.

Am I allowed to breathe up into my mouth, the universe of that world ? Because it is a world, it is a universe.

It is language

a green

a wealth of holy wells

and rituals

and connection

connection

connection.

And I am disconnected. I suddenly find myself disconnected. Why?

Why now?

I know ‘why now.’

Because of the death of a person I never met - though I have met him since his death - through his words and his voice. He was/is called Manchán Magan. Read his work if you can and listen to him being interviewed if you can. He was a beautiful human. Even as I write this, I feel it sounds silly, stupid, strange, yet becoming aware of him and his words uncovered a tap root I never knew I had. A tap root that was dried and brittle and so in need of nourishment. His words helped me see and sense that.

I am talking about endings and I am talking about beginnings and these are always inseparable.

So much of my gran is connected to my dad and so much of my dad is connected to hurt and confusion - and love and regret. Of course the tap root is withered. Of course there was an end and a beginning.

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I remember. I remember the year after I left my husband.

I am driving to Ireland. I am driving my little car on to a ferry for the first time. I am scared. I am on my way to Cape Clear Storytelling Festival where I have been invited to perform. I have no idea that it is where Saint Canice was born.) The ferry takes me to Rosslare. I stay at a B+B the first night then get in my car to drive west towards Cork. I take a few little diversions and on one I see a tiny sign pointing towards ´Our Lady’s Island.’ I do not have time to follow the sign but decide I will stop there on the way back. I do. On the way back I drive to the church and walk around - there is a special walk that follows the shape of the rosary - like you are walking the rosary. I do that - but I do not pray. From the map I see there is a pub further down the road. I drive down the narrow, narrow road and see a roughly drawn sign saying ‘The Well of Our lady.’ There is no place to park so I am forced to continue driving to the pub. I park my car in the car park there and walk about 200 metres back along the road. I am looking but I cannot see the sign anymore. I continue walking - all the way back up to the church. I know I have gone too far. I turn back towards the car, shaking my head. Then I see the sign again. I climb over a small stone wall and cross a field. There is a single path - like a deer path - through the grass. I know people only walk in a single file here. I come to a stile that leads into another field. I climb over and see the well in the middle of this field. I go to walk but stop. I have a strong sense that I should take off my shoes. It is so strong that I do so. I place my keys in my shoe. I feel I cannot take them with me. I walk to the well - Open the gate and

walk

down

the

stone

steps

to the water and the shrine. There is a statue of the Virgin Mary, offerings, candles and photos. I suddenly wonder what I am doing there - why am I here?

I take off a bracelet that is on my wrist and place it by the feet of the statue. I bend and place my finger tips in the water and the muscle memory of making the sign of the cross - of blessing myself - I do automatically

But why am I here? I ask the question.

And words form themselves and lay themselves on my tongue. I speak them.

“I do not want to be scared anymore.”

I gently cry as I head back across the field.

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This is such a profound memory for me and such a gentle one. So where does any of this leave me?

I feel that so much of who I am comes from that rich Irish soil. For God’s sake - I am a storyteller, I am at home on the land, I love words and poetry. My gran was Irish, her mom was a Cronin, her dad was from Scotland - hence the Wilkie surname. Surely to god it should not be this uncomfortable to say that I want to press my tap root into that rich soil and be nourished by it - feel at home there .

I almost feel like I am asking permission. From who though?

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Did I tell you …. did I tell you that when my dad was young the family were forced to live in a caravan and he had a pet jackdaw that sat on his shoulder and a pet squirrel that gran didn’t like as it tried to hide it’s nuts in the sugar bowl and also bit through the pocket of a good coat …? His uncles taught him how to love the land and all the creatures who were his kin.

Did I tell you that after the Birmingham bombs my gran had dog shit put through her letter box?

Being Irish was complex for both of them.

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There are so many tendrils of hurt and tenderness here - here in this place of being Irish, partly Irish …

I have no resolution. I am just gently turning the soil over that tap root and speaking words of love and comfort words I am learning - new words. Irish words.

Táim ag caint go ciúin thar an bhfréamh seo, 
ag aithris focail mar bheatha, 
ag cur focail i mbia don fhreamh. 
Is focail Ghaeilge iad — 
focail atá á bhfoghlaim agam,
 focail is mana ar mo theanga, 
is sólás do mo fhréamhacha.

I am speaking softly over this root,
chanting words as life,
placing words as food for the root.
They are Irish words — words I am learning,
words that are manna on my tongue,
and solace for my roots.

When I need good soil for this root I also turn to the writing of the incredible Kerri ní Dochartaigh, the connection and work done by Marisa Goudy and also check out the wonderful Liz Weir - if possible, go and stay at her barn too, there is a proper ceilidh every Saturday night.

Stay rooted Wildlings.

( I am planning something special for you all - a little storytelling salon before the holiday season takes over. Stay tuned for more information.)