Three years back, I moved from Ireland to Texas.  I started teaching high school that same year.  My partner, who had moved with me from Ireland, also began teaching at the same high school that same year.  I am Irish, and he is from Texas. But to complicate matters, he speaks Irish, and I do not.  I have what we call a “cúpla focal” but no more really, than what I have in Spanish, or French, or German.

My students are obsessed with both Ireland and my partner’s and I’s relationship.  It is as if they are both foreign entities.  Our students will often try to derail classroom activities with questions about where we lived and what we are like outside of school.

“Dr. J, what is a word that the Irish use, that Americans don’t?”

“Dr. Flynn, how old is Dr. J.”

“How would you say ‘I love you’ in Irish?”

“What’s Dr. Flynn’s favorite band?”

“How would you say ‘I hate you’ in Irish?”

“What does “partner” mean?”

“Are you going to have babies? You should have babies.  You’d make great parents.”

Some questions we answer, some we do not.  We will sometimes compare notes after work, and chuckle at what it is they want to know, and why we think they want to know it. Sometimes it is like a pitting of “Mum” against “Dad.”  Well, Dr. J wouldn’t tell us, but Dr. Flynn did.  

“Oh, she did, did she?”

Once, I had had a rather upsetting class period, and I went to J to recoup.  My eyes always betray me though, and when I got back to my next class, my students could tell I had been crying.  After I had got them writing, one of them asked to speak with me outside.  She asked me if everything was okay, and she looked very concerned.  She asked what had happened, and I said it was nothing for her to worry about, that I was doing just fine, thank you.  And then her eyes filled up with tears and she asked, “did you and Dr. J break up? Because, I couldn’t bear it!”

I hugged her close to me and said, “Oh dearheart, no. We are fine! This was work related.” She sighed and relaxed, then we went back inside.  

As teachers, we have a interesting kind of relationship with the youth. We aren’t their parents, we aren’t their friends, but we are more than just purveyors of information.    We have a parental relationship of sorts, a mothering kind, but we also see a side to some of our students, that they would never be comfortable showing their parents. Sometimes that is good, and sometimes bad.  

In order to motivate and inspire, we attempt to earn the trust and respect of our students.  I tell my students about myself. I share stories and relate to them when they need me too.  There are also some things I do not share with my students, as it is necessary to create boundaries with them. And certain things they do not have a need to know.  It is a balancing act of holding them close at arm’s length.  

Creating and maintaining that relationship might be called “thorny.” But, it is well worth it.  There is an Irish form of poetry that goes by the same name, “thorny.” In Irish it is droighneach [dray-nach].  I discovered it recently, and I am not sure how my students would react to this, yet.

The droighneach form is interesting and complicated.  It has 9 to 13 syllable lines, an abab cdcd rhyme scheme, quatrain stanzas, but no fixed amount of stanzas.  There are other rules too! The poem includes a dúnadh, which means it ends as it begins – either the same word or line. You can also incorporate alliteration, cross rhymes, and a trisyllabic line ending.  Or, you know, don’t.  It does make me a laugh a little, for this does sound pretty Irish to me.  In Irish there are no words for yes or no.  You “will” or you “won’t” or you “do” or you “don’t.” And many times it is both.  

“Sure, I will or I won’t. We’ll see.”

Attempting this form is difficult.  It is hard to just sit down and write in one sitting.  I found myself even delaying the start for as long as I could.  It was clunky and not quite right, but I kept at it for a few days and I think I did okay. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.

                           Listen Mack
Mack, I can not speak my mother tongue,
Tis true that neither does my mother.
It shatters my sense that I belong
And makes me feel like an imposter.

Neither of us was born in our home
Nor did we roam there till much later.
We shared shame, remorse, feeling disowned.
And we keep moving on in search of a creator.

We’re settled now, ever so slightly
Plunging roots like mad not looking back
This hold on the earth I have lightly
Tis true that so does my mother, Mack.

Your Turn!

Lines: Quatrains
Stanzas: Varies
Rhyme: abab cdcd etc.
Rhythm: 9-13 Syllables
Extras: Trisyllabic ending, Cross Rhyme, Alliteration, and/or a Dúnadh.