Writing work
Green Around the Gills:
An orginal short story commission I wrote for the launch night of ‘There’s a Lot I Haven’t Asked’, an immersive podcast revolving around stories from the Irish diaspora in Manchester.
I woke up thinking the whole world was on fire. Hypnotic orange light stained the morning and skirts of fire poked out from behind the terrace houses opposite ours. We could smell the burning wood, and in my half-awoken slumber I thought the sun had risen already and we had missed our flight. They had lit the bonfire a day early. A defiant event after being told it was too big for their celebration the next night. The commotion and rumble was soon behind us as we lugged our bags into a taxi and headed for George Best airport. I felt drunk on lack of sleep and the fumes from the fires.
I hated the July smoke. It left a foul taste in my mouth all summer. We always escaped the city around that time. Diverting from the torchings and the tension. I didn’t like the marches either. The low rumble of the drums through the house, the street shut off from traffic. The people setting up camp outside our house. We lived there but it felt like on loan. I resided in an area that was interpreted for myself by others. The connotations, murals, flags and marches. A taunting reminder. For me, it was the pure inconvenience of it all. I was embarrassed to call that street home.
It was the last summer I lived there. I was on the brink of becoming a woman and could feel myself developing - my image slowly rising to the surface day by day. Half in bloom, I felt like I was stepping into adulthood with two left feet. The days were long and I was feral in the summer heat. I had tunnel vision for my future, for the excitement and prospects I was going to experience across the pond come September. I wanted to leave Belfast behind and become something new. I spent that summer dreaming about who I would become.
When we returned from our holiday, flags still lined our street. My mother hated it the most, reprimanding the men that tied them to the lampposts outside our house. I thought the flags were tacky but I never asked further questions. I had my own internal commotions. I thought my own aspirations and conflicts were more important. I thought I knew everything worth knowing.
I didn’t understand why the people living here were constantly wrestling with the past. It felt like no one had moved on and that they just had other avenues for their rage or pride. They clung onto colours to represent them while I longed for an empty canvas. A place that had no subconscious connotations or dated traditions. No right or wrong ways of pronouncing letters or place names. I wanted to collect my old selves and burn them on the wooden pallets.
When I moved to Manchester, I loved how the city felt like anyones for the taking. We had an understanding. It was the clean slate I longed for but I wore my guilt and shame jostled about inside me. Was I on enemy soil? I was confused about my nationality and beliefs and became a portable museum of who other people told me I was. I had a dual identity and could switch at anyones’ command. I played both hands.
I felt like a fraud calling myself Irish. I felt so separated from the people of the republic. My accent harsher and less melodic. I didn’t relate to the jolly stereotype. But I didn’t relate to the English either. Who could begin to understand my complicated relationship with where I was from? I longed for home and the people who recognised this dubiety. I learnt why they call it homesickness. It was completely nauseating. The place I had claimed to have outgrown and wanted to run away from was so deeply engrained in me. Stitched into the grooves of my fingertips. I spent a year green around the gills.
My cultural identity was stripped from me from day dot. I never had a chance or reason to learn the language. I longed for what could have been if things were different. If I knew the right questions and could recognise the right answers. I would go back and stand my ground. I’d create a new narrative. I would contribute more to the community, to a better future there. Instead, I’m just another person that left it behind to burn. I thought it was someone else’s concern.
Now I’ve become a walking canvas, painted with colours and symbols that represent me. Proof that I haven’t ‘taken the soup’. I understand now why people cling to traditions and emblems. It’s the human condition to adorn ourselves with symbols of belonging. Wearing our beliefs and pride on the outside. It’s a plea for home and community. I have a lot of pride being from this country.
I sometimes feel like an outsider now when I visit home. Or like an empty-handed tourist, escaping the manual labour but feeding off of the fruits. I’ve recovered from my homesickness and found a new place to belong. But I know both sides of Belfast will always be a part of me. Ulster’s red hand rests on my left shoulder, the claddagh on my right ring finger. Snug as a gun. Reminding me of home.
- Betsy Bailie