On Being A Fraud

I’m not exactly an adherent to all things Ireland. I despise our deeply embedded culture of alcoholism, I’m not proud of our State’s relationship with the Church, and I’ve never embraced education of the Irish language. I don’t listen to Traditional music, I grew up with an unexplainable hatred of Michael Flatley, and I feel unclean just walking past Carroll’s, the infamous peddler of tacky “Irish” souvenirs. I never even learned the rules of any of the Gaelic games. Yet I love my country. For all it’s flaws, for all it’s culture that I fail to identify with, I’m proud of where I’m from.

Now, a strange thing happens to a person living away from home.

When faced with a culture that differs greatly from your own, there will be pressures, both external and internal, which encourage you to embody these differences. This can happen in any circumstance. People on holiday might find themselves using a stronger version of their accent than usual. They might stitch a flag onto their backpack. They might make an extra special effort during holidays practiced in their home land.

As I said, this might come from within the person themselves. It may be an outlet for homesickness, or for patriotism. It could be a conscious effort to spread your culture, or to teach people about the things you hold dear. Or it can come from the people around you. People who want to know more about other cultures. People who maybe expect to see such differences when talking to someone from your country. To meet these expectations, the temptation might exist to exaggerate ever so slightly. To act the part, as it were.

Irregardless of where a person goes, or how long they spend there, some form of cultural ambassadorship will usually emerge. Now if part of your job description includes the phrase “act as a cultural ambassador”... well things might go further.

There are numerous small ways in which this can manifest itself, such as being served a Guinness for the first time in my life, and then commenting on how it holds up to the real thing back home. Or learning to make Soda Bread for the express purpose of showing people “typical Irish food that we make all the time at home, like”. But maybe the best example is when I introduce myself to new students.

I’m always given a 50 minute period to describe myself and the land I hail from to each group. Luckily, even before meeting me, many students will already know of Ireland for it’s frigid temperatures and ash-cloud spewing volcanoes. So most of my work's done for me, really. After clearing up the fiddly little distinction between the letters “r” and “c”, I can get down to the good stuff. I can tell them all about the important cultural influences that make me who I am. The reasons I take pride in my nationality. The who’s and why’s of the Irish people, their turbulent history and their place in the world.

Usually, it involves teaching them how to pick up the sliotar with a hurley, letting them have a bash on a badhrán and then I wrap things up with a 4 minute video of Riverdance. Sometimes I pass around a small leprechaun doll.

I bought the leprechaun in Carroll’s.

One of my deepest, darkest fears is that I will be found out. It haunts me. It haunts me almost as much as the class I gave entirely in Irish for a teaching demonstration. A class I spent the previous day watching clips of Irish language weather reports in preparation for. A class, for the entirety of which I fought the urge to just talk gibberish. Because nobody would ever know.

So I’m a fraud. But it’s okay. I feel I’ve done my job here, and I’m looking forward to coming home. And then doing the whole thing all over again, from the other side. Because, sure, I’d be happy to explain the rules of Sumo to anyone who asks. Everyone here has a bout or two most mornings before work starts, didn't you know...