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Maeve in America Page 12


  For better or worse, across continents and time zones, the bonds created by affectionate teasing, fortified by the long-term tormenting of one another, only seem to strengthen. I currently have a brother and a sister in the Middle East and a sister in London; everyone else lives in Ireland, specifically in Cobh, where we all grew up. One July day I was on Twitter when a New York Times journalist tweeted that she was in Central Park and there had been an explosion, with at least one person injured. Chatter quickly swirled up through social media of the explosion being some kind of terrorist attack, maybe just the first incident of many that would unfold that day. I thought immediately of my family, that as soon as they heard they would quickly develop that “I’m sure it’s fine . . . but” feeling, the one that comes over us all when we hear about a terrorist attack occurring near a loved one. We have a family WhatsApp group, usually used to share photos of our nieces and nephews. Oh, and one octopus, since my mother learned that WhatsApp is a little more reliable than texts when something is urgent. I sent a message to everyone immediately.

  You might see on the news there’s been a terrorist attack in Central Park, but I’m fine, nowhere near there, loads of love xxx

  Minutes later, the same journalist reported that what had happened was not a terrorist attack, but an accident. An unfortunate man had somehow stepped on a firework in Central Park and injured his leg. After the news had righted itself, it was quickly forgotten on social media. Not so on my family WhatsApp group. One sister wrote six minutes after my initial panicky message, and the replies came flooding in after her.

  Sister 1: Oh I doubt we’ll see it on the news Maeve it was just a fireworks accident

  Sister 2: Are your likkle ears ok after the big naughty bang Sisty?

  Sister 3:

  Sister 1 again: #nowherenearthere

  Sister 2: smh the drama!!! #pray4newyork

  Sister 3:

  And so on and so forth, for many days to follow. I tried everything to make them stop teasing me: threats, guilt, numerous links to various terrible things that happened in New York that week, like murders and robberies and this one rat getting on a subway car and jumping on a sleeping man’s face. None of it helped. They continued to mock me for being a scaredy-cat, an alarmist, for the sheer ego I’d displayed in imagining I may somehow be caught up in a terrorist attack.

  In our hometown, the Cobh Regatta, a series of sailing competitions, happens each August. There’s also a Bonnie Baby Competition, a Kayak Duck Hunt (kayakers compete to catch as many ducks as possible), and a local taxi driver/opera singer performing on the bandstand. Because of the Central Park false alarm, I had reason to dread that year’s regatta. Not for any of the aforementioned activities, but rather because the regatta’s finale is always a gorgeous fireworks display in the harbor. I knew what was coming. I would be in New York, but I counted down the minutes nonetheless. And sure enough, right on time, ten p.m. Irish time, five p.m. New York time, as I sat in a Pret A Manger eating a miserable quinoa salad, the WhatsApp group lit up. Numerous family members sent photos of themselves making scared faces, backlit by fireworks, alongside assurances that although I might see this on the news, they were all fine and sending me #loadsoflove.

  Many months later, there were early reports of a terrorist attack in London. Naturally, for the people involved, I hoped it wasn’t true. I also hoped that it wasn’t true so that my sister who lived there would check in too early and be mocked like I was. Sadly, it was true. As soon as the police commissioner spoke about the attacks on BBC news, my sister deemed it safe enough to check in. Immediately after he confirmed it was the fault of the terrorists, she messaged to reassure the WhatsApp group that she was fine, at home in her apartment and #nowherenearthere. And, like the last line of every cheesy sitcom script, we all laughed, even the dog.

  A joke can be many things: a simple play on words to delight another person, a break from the mundanity of a day, or a code to let someone know that you know what they’re up to, that you approve, that you disapprove. Being funny is a way of being indirect too, skirting around the ugly feelings, not saying what you mean because what you mean is too big, too painful. In our case, the rounds of messages were really saying, Nothing bad will ever happen to you, it simply cannot, because we all love you so much.

  I count myself lucky to come from a funny family like mine, from a funny place like Ireland. I like myself best when I’m being funny. Naturally I am drawn to melancholy, and anxiety is always rapping on my brain-door. Stories of human frailty and cruelty obsess me, so actually deliberately being funny feels wonderfully powerful. Some days being funny just happens, but most days it’s a decision and, if I can muster it, an action. Those days, when it really works, feel incredible. I feel like the boss and creator and queen of this whole Earth. I have a memory of walking toward a podium to do a reading in a theater, and in the memory my skin is shining golden and the light coming from within me makes people stare. I feel so solid on my feet, so secure in the knowledge that all the universal forces will obey me, I could float right up and not be in any danger. I may even need to float up to that open sky because I will fill it all, glowing and expanding the way I am. I’m thrilled that people are paying attention, because I’m about to be funny. I want to hear them too, because I can understand them now. We all commune and it’s right and wise and beautiful that I’m able to share this light at last.

  And then there are other days, more days, when I feel like a prehistoric creature, a sort of giant sunken toad, very still and quiet, concealed underneath layers of silt and murky water. I’m okay, not sad or worried. I’m just there, breathing in and out through my gills. People poke at me with different sticks. Duty sticks, fun sticks, work sticks. Those sticks elicit a reaction that gets harder to reproduce each time. Heavy-lidded, I smile blearily up at the people wielding them. “Oh, hey,” I say, trying to get the thickness out of my voice, like when you answer the phone too soon after sleep. “Sorry, I meant to call you.” Days spent above on the shore become long days of trying to fake it till I make it, make it back down below. How tiring it is, acting like a person on dry land! Words I say that I do not mean, faces I arrange to convince a friend, promises I make just to put something off.

  I cling to jokes when I feel that toad lurking, hoping their buoyancy will keep me above ground, or at least disguise the fact that I’m sinking. Because the toad is so horribly ugly, I’m determined that nobody close to me will find out that it’s there, waiting patiently under the little islands I’m hopping to and from, bound to absorb me. Funniness is the perfect evasion tactic, keeping me afloat for a little while longer, and convincing others I’m safe. That said, time has proven that the people who know me best soon add extreme funniness to the other signs that I am about to enter toad mode, the one-plus-two of unwashed hair and unanswered emails. That’s when the concern sticks appear, prodding and jostling me to react. Sometimes the sticks are useful, I can catch hold of one and haul myself back up to the shore, but sometimes they push me farther down.

  When I can no longer summon the funny, I go quiet. Eventually, all the sticks stop working and, with a minimum of fuss, the toad swallows me whole and we drop back through the swamp and down into the muddy water again, where it’s muffled and cool. On days like that, an adrenaline shot straight to my heart could have only one response. A polite, exhausted, “Oh, thank you, yes, I do feel better.” I stay there, the sticks cannot reach down this far, the voices above are faint and unimportant. My toad brain explains that it’s best for everyone this way, I don’t want to get my slime on their nice dresses, do I? And nobody will ever find out that I’m anything other than a ray of sunshine, a laugh a minute, an easy companion, and a really fun time.

  I read once, in National Geographic, about a city called Vrindavan in India, around a hundred miles south of Delhi, a place known as a “city of widows.” Thousands of widows have moved there, either by choice or because their
community has shunned them for being tainted and burdensome. A psychologist named Vasantha Patri was quoted as saying that many widows are “physically alive but socially dead.” When I read that, a light went on, or rather off, because to me, that is exactly what depression feels like. “Feels like” are the operative words, of course; my situation is a thousand times easier than an unfortunate poverty-stricken widow who has been abandoned by society. And when I’m settled in the silt, if it’s not exactly a self-imposed exile, it’s a toad-imposed one. Nobody outside of the marsh has forced me to shut up about my depression, at least not for a long time. Now it’s just me and the toad, and we don’t want to be a drag.

  You know how, when you’re trying to clean up your act and eat right, the soundest advice is to shop around the perimeter of the grocery store? That that’s where you’ll find the freshest greens and loveliest fruits, where you’ll find everything you need to make a delicious smoothie that everybody enjoys? Well, that’s how I treat emotions: the healthy ones are around the edges, they are easy to identify and so good for you! I vow to never venture into the middle aisles where the bad stuff is. That’s the poison, the indulgent stuff, the bad emotions that can only be used on special occasions, as a treat! But, of course, it’s not up to me to decide what to feel, or is it?

  After a long time in the silence, I forget who is who, me or the toad. Perhaps we’re the same, I note without feeling, as the heaviness grows and I note, again without feeling, that I need help carrying it. Not for the first time, I ask for that help from the same doctor who gave me my vaccinations as a baby, and saw me pass through all the stages my little funny nieces are passing through today. I sit in his office and explain that I’m subterranean once more. He nods his head, gray by now, encourages me to look after myself, and agrees to renew my prescription for antidepressants. I ask him if he remembers vaccinating me, and if he thinks those vaccinations caused this mental illness. I say that to him as a topical joke, because the anti-vaccination movement is picking up steam and I want him to think I’m funny and I want one of us to get a laugh out of this. The doctor duly delivers a laugh, despite, or maybe because of, the croaking recitation of my swampy woes that preceded the joke.

  Small Talk

  IN THE FOUR YEARS I’ve lived in the U.S., I have grown used to excruciatingly sincere exchanges with people. Within minutes of meeting you, they’ll come up with the heavy goods, and expect to see yours in return. I guess what I’m afraid of is that my husband is bored with me. Also, in case you’re wondering what that sound is? I have digestion issues. Americans are good at a great many things: drone warfare, making cherry-flavored jellies taste more like cherries than cherries themselves, optimism. But they struggle with small talk. In Ireland, small talk is just that—I mean, it’s tiny.

  At the beginning of a three-hour train trip from Dublin to Cork, I will spend an average of fifteen minutes comfortably discussing the merits of having a café car on the train with the middle-aged man beside me. I suppose, if you’re peckish, it’s ideal, really. A nice pause. Or if you didn’t have time to bring some food with you from home, it’s absolutely perfect. But the tea costs more than my ticket. Eyes widen and head nods in agreement. But you can’t dip chocolate in your ticket. A chuckle. Nothing meaningful, at least on the surface. After that, we do our work, read our books, look out the window. What the seemingly meaningless exchange means is we can relax. The person we’re inches away from for the afternoon is not dangerous. We can easily say, “’Scuse me,” and not be glared at when we need to get something from the overhead shelf, or go to the famed café car. At the end of the trip we’ll nod and smile, and I won’t be left wondering why his father said that one thing in 1994 that meant he never had the confidence to pursue a career in architecture.

  Every culture has its own version of small talk, another full language that you must learn if you wish to fit in. For one long and miserable year I lived in London, and experimented with the English version of small talk. It’s similar to Ireland’s in its skillful adherence to the proper dimensions of chitchat, that is, they keep it small, but it doesn’t have the same sweet aftertaste, the same warmth. I’m not interested in furthering the whole “the Irish are cuddly servants and the English are frigid colonizers” nonsense, all I’m saying is the small talk is different. The English are, famously, wonderfully reserved and exquisitely polite. I find that remarkable, considering their forefathers used to maraud around the world touching people and objects and countries, shouting, “Tip, I tipped it, I got it! It’s mine now. I own it!” But as I say, the history is unimportant. I’m sticking to the subject of small talk, remember? The following is an example of the carefully managed conversation style they have, in the form of this classic exchange with a production assistant as we waited for a meeting to start.

  Me: This rain! Will it ever end?

  Englishwoman: Well, it must, mustn’t it?

  Me: Hope so, my hair is so frizzy! Anyway, I hate my hair.

  Englishwoman: (faraway tone) To think that we wash our hair in water, but we duck out of the rain to keep it dry.

  She did not respond well to my self-deprecating remark about my hair. An Irish person, even a bald one, would have told me that they hate their hair too. It’s kind of gross, I know, but bonding over low-key self-loathing is an important part of our Constitution and an Irish person can be sued by the state and/or the Church for being “too confident-seeming.” I’m joking, but it was illegal to like yourself before 1979 in one of those “don’t ask, don’t tell” sort of ways. In any case, the Irish actually do share a lot with the British—a penchant for binge drinking, a drizzly climate, and, of course, that famous border.

  I appreciate that we both prefer not to go hard on the personal stuff up top and am convinced that the English are even more closed off than the Irish. I mean, even the throwaway hair comment I made was a little much for my new English friend. These days I think fondly of the careful verbal dances done back in that mildewed little country, particularly when confronted with the straight-talking, all-out-in-the-openness of my new countrymen. If I utter something about hating my hair here, or anything even vaguely down on myself, a kindly American with a concerned face is sure to pipe up with a dozen concerned questions and assurances and perhaps even a “Thank you so much for sharing that with me.”

  Small talk can and must happen everywhere in a city where you don’t know a lot of people. While I reject the label “party animal,” I absolutely accept “party balloon animal,” aka “Yung S’mores,” aka me. I love kids’ parties, and during my first year here as a babysitter I went to lots of them, despite my fear of clowns. I’m not afraid of clowns because of their electric hand buzzers or flowers that spray water or even those pervasive “clowns are murderers” rumors. I’m afraid of clowns because they went to college, and traveled, and sometimes they even worked as actors in France, then they moved to New York to make a life for themselves as a creative person, and now they sell weed or walk dogs to pay rent. I guess I’m afraid of failure. I didn’t go to college, and I was only in France for the pastries, and I moved to New York to make a life for myself as a creative person, so what will happen to me? Anyway, I keep those thoughts to myself at kids’ parties, and focus on the things I love, like the ice-cream cakes shaped like animals, the dearth of boring work talk, and, of course, that special low-level hysteria caused by sugar that I absolutely excel at.

  The last kids’ birthday party I attended was one of those where the adults stick around and it kind of blends into the evening. I was chatting with this one cool-guy dad with a pale ale in his hand, and he opened up within thirty seconds. Something people don’t talk about enough is how hard parenting really is, and sometimes you’re just not going to like your kids. All I’d asked was whether he’d been on the bouncy castle yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, actually, two other people at the same party had said more or less the same thing to me just minutes earlier. Was th
is disgruntled trio just unlucky, with a slew of particularly unlikable children between them? No! They were simply saying what was on their minds. You see, nothing is too personal, there’s nothing people don’t talk about. That should come as a relief to me, growing up in a repressed, Catholic country where my mother explained rape to us as when someone loves you, but you don’t want them to. In truth, this extraordinary level of openness I find in America is a relief, but it also feels like a little loss.

  I understand that openness beats secrecy, taboos should be challenged, and indirectness is baffling. It’s just that I don’t always want to dive right in. When someone opens big, and I don’t feel ready to get among their guts, of course I’m polite about it. I nod along, I try to appreciate their candor, at the same time hoping something will happen to distract them, like maybe their hair will catch fire from a candle or a pug will appear and know some tricks. Those incidents are both wonderful conversation starters. “Oh, what hair spray do you use? It seems flammable,” or “I never knew dogs could read braille.” Sadly, they are also highly unlikely. Long-haired people are ever more aware of the danger of open flames, and pugs are largely both sighted and lazy. I miss the small talk.

  At times, in a new place, I’ve felt like a little billy goat trying to make friends, butting my head against oblivious knees, bleating out all the hits, knowing there is nothing more off-putting than this neediness I’m feeling. When I moved to New York, I was determined not to do this. Instead of being a billy goat, I was a lioness. Potential friends were the billy goats. I would survey them in groups, single out the ones I liked, then pursue them until they got tired enough to slow down and chat. To make real friends you need to get to know somebody, and let them get to know you, so I tried to remember how to do that. I grew up on an island off an island, so many of my friendships have a solid base of familiarity that I don’t remember forming. Many of the people dearest to me have known me since Junior Infants. (In Ireland, first grade is called Junior Infants, and second grade is called Senior Infants, or in some case Low Babies and High Babies. I know!)