Slotting People Into Place

One Sunday, I found myself having lunch in a golf club. It’s not the sort of place I’d expect to find myself in. They’re usually places where the respectable burghers of a town congregate. But I had been invited by a friend whose family qualified as respectable burghers, with roots going back more than one generation.

Whereas I was a ‘blow-in,’ a word we use in Ireland to describe someone who has moved to a town from somewhere else. You can live in a town for thirty years or more and still be considered a blow-in. Having lived in this seaside town for a mere six years, I was definitely still a blow-in, the sweet grass of my native inland place still clinging to my skin.

The golf club was a comfortable, homely place, and despite my blow-in status, I was able to pass through its doors without incident. I sat at a table covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and enjoyed a tasty lunch of deep fried Brie, bantering with my friend and her three lively boys.

posh table
Eating with the respectable burghers

An Encounter

As our lunch came to an end, a woman approached the table and my friend greeted her by name. I knew of the woman, but hadn’t met her before. After the woman admired my friend’s three boys, she turned her attention to me.

‘And who is this?’ she asked.

My friend, a sunny-side-up kind of person, introduced me as ‘a great writer.’

‘Might I have your surname?’ she asked.

I gave her the required information, while red dots danced across my line of vision.

‘Derbhile was in Toastmasters (a public speaking organisation) with your daughter,’ said my sweet dove of a friend.

‘Oh, you’re one of those,’ she said.

‘That’s right,’ I said, grinning. ‘You have me now.’

Satisfied that she had the information she needed, she withdrew.

What’s In A Name

You may wonder why I bristled at the woman’s question. After all, a surname is hardly classified information. My surname is readily available on my official documents, business cards and social media profiles. But I knew why she was asking the question – so that she could slot me into the town’s hierarchy.

It’s human nature to try and define people, to assess how much like us they are. And some people will define you by your place of origin and family name. Such people love to recite a litany of names to each other, and to outline how those names are connected to each other. The problem is that they don’t look beyond the name, to the richness of the person’s story. Once they have placed you, they are satisfied.

Making a Connection

In a situation where we don’t know people, it’s often necessary to ask for a person’s name and where they’re from, to break the ice. But if we really want to connect with people, then couldn’t we use those questions as a springboard that will help you dive into a broader conversation. I’d rather know whether someone has an unhealthy penchant for Club Milks or likes swimming in a cold sea than what town they come from.

 

If the woman had asked how my friend and I had met, for example, she would still have received the information she wanted. I would have told her how we met in Toastmasters and how this had indirectly brought me to my new hometown. We would have made a connection, no matter how slight.

But afterwards, I remembered what my husband had told me about the woman, that she had arrived in the town as a young school teacher from a windswept coastal town on the other side of the country. Perhaps, all these years later, she was still a little anxious about her own blow-in status. Perhaps she was defining herself by the same narrow criteria. But when you broaden the criteria by which you connect with people, you can put down deeper roots.

 

On Being An Aunt

We all know Jane Austen as a great writer. But to her family, she was Aunt Jane, and that was how she liked it. She thought it was far more important to be a brilliant aunt than a brilliant writer. And you know what? She’s dead right.

An Unlikely Aunt

I never thought of myself as aunt material. The sound of small children makes me want to put my fingers in my ears. In younger years, when they invaded my mother’s house, I barricaded myself in my room.

Even now, if there’s a baby sitting near me in a café, you will not find me cooing at it. Instead, I’ll be praying that it stays silent long enough for me to enjoy my brew in peace. And they’re conversation killers. Once they enter a room, they draw all the oxygen towards them.

When my sister announced that she was going to make me an aunt, I burst into tears. But when the baby arrived and she placed him in my arms, I fell in love. Even though he spewed all over me. As he grew, so did our relationship. With a little guidance, I got the hang of how to play with him. All you had to do was get down on the floor. Meet him at his level. Ask him what he was up to. And give him lots of cuddles.

Aunts Then and Now

In my own childhood, aunts didn’t get down on the floor. They patted you on the head and said, ‘Aren’t you after getting tall. We’ll have to put a pot on your head to stop you growing. What class are you in at school now? And who’s your teacher?’

Duty done, they disappeared to the kitchen to chat to your mother. Or they’d issue you with instructions, usually ending with the words: like a good little girl. Like, ‘Would you ever go in and get me my handbag, like a good little girl.’ When they re-emerged at the end of the visit, they palmed coins into your hand and told you to, ‘go and buy an ice-cream for yourself.’

The Aunt Template

But I did have an aunt template that I could follow. I had one aunt with no children, who happened to be my godmother. She filled my life with trips to the pantomime, excursions to castles and exotic food. She took me on shopping trips and I came home laden with clothes and books. She showed me that aunts could bring a little fairy dust into a child’s life.

Aunts can do the things that parents are too stressed to do. They don’t carry that weight of responsibility, and have full licence to act the maggot. I have perfected the art of blowing the perfect raspberry.

I roll down hills. I bump down stairs, bum first. I watch contraptions being built. When my nephew visits, I fill him with hot fat, sugar and caffeine, all the things he’s not allowed eat at home. I make myself slightly sick on the hurdy gurdies (fairground rides for non-Irish readers). And I give myself bum burn on the water slides.

Mad Aunt on Bumpers
Bumping around on the hurdie gurdies

A Thoroughly Modern Aunt

In the past, parents could rely on a council of elders to help them raise their children. But the modern aunt is not cast in that role. They give no instructions to do things like a good little girl. If I did, I doubt my nephews would listen. I’ve made far too many snorting sounds and danced too many crazy dances to ever be taken seriously. Still, it’s a privilege to watch them grow up from the sidelines. And it’s a privilege that I’ve been allowed a small role in shaping them as people.

I’m now an aunt twice over, and with the changing shape of our family, I’m expecting more additions to the brood in the coming years. And I hope to make auntship, as Jane Austen called it, an artform. The presence of these babies will be all-consuming, and my relationships with my siblings will go on the back burner.

But there will be new people in my life to fill the gap. And I know I need to have children in my life, to stop me going vinegary in my later years. And I won’t be the aunt who tells them how tall they’ve grown. I’ll be too busy rolling down hills and dancing silly dances, laughing all the while.

The Promise of Companionship

The man was sitting alone in the bar, at a big table, with several empty seats surrounding him. He shifted his papers and moved glasses away to make room for us, though it wasn’t necessary – the table was big enough for us all. He sat at one end, and we sat at the other. While our conversation flowed, he drank a pint and read his paper.

As he neared the end of his pint, a woman approached him. A scarf was knotted around her neck. As she enveloped him in a warm embrace, a curtain of brown hair brushed against the man’s shoulders.

‘It’s great to see you,’ she said in an American accented voice.

And then she was gone.

empty beer glass
The promise of companionship withdrawn

 

The man brought a second pint to the table and then settled down with his paper. He appeared content. Yet from across the table, we felt the rush of cold air her absence left, the promise of companionship dangled before the man, then snatched away.