Saturday Night

Tuesday, August 30^th 11:30pm, 2016, Somewhere in the West of Ireland.

Dear Reader,

     Guess what? Last Saturday night, I realised that I had never been on a girls’ night out before, despite being 21 now, and quite partial to going out over the past three years. Every night out I’d been on had just always been with a mixed group of people. Luckily, that Saturday night would be a girls’ night out, so I was very excited, and I was also going clubbing for the first time in ages! (That is, if you don’t count the time I went clubbing in Edinburgh, so I’ll rephrase and say that it was the first time in ages that I went clubbing in my home town.)

     Normally, I’m not the biggest fan of clubbing because I don’t like the crowds and the noise and being leered at like a fish in an aquarium. That said, Saturday was such fun.

     I got to catch up with an old friend and meet a new friend, and bump into so many people I’d gone to school with who I hadn’t seen in years. The nightclub was different to how I had imagined it too, as if to say that the songs weren’t all incomprehensible remixes of remixes (Oh God, sorry that I sound like such a hipster) and I could dance to the great songs being played like Whitney Houston, Jackson 5, The Chemical Brothers, and so many more.

It was, of course, one of the best nights out I’ve had in ages, but there was just one thing that made my skin run slick, cold at the end of the night.

It’s something that I’m kind of scared to write about because I don’t think everyone will understand its impact. I believe that people will read about this thing with an ‘o’ shape on their mouths and puzzlement in their eyes, because an action of this kind, that I experienced on Saturday night is so small, subtle, invisible even. You could say it’s not serious at all.

And yet, why do I justify myself?

The best thing to do is to explain this incident in the best way that I can and not to feel like I am the culprit in the situation.

I need to write about it because I know that there are readers who will relate.

And so, here I go.

It was the end of the night and so I was making my way across town with my friends towards the smell of pizza, just minding my own business and daydreaming about peperoni.

But, my inner monologue of pizza toppings was interrupted when a rusty voice flew in beside me, just there, next to my ear.

Hello there, lovesss.

It was a hiss,

from a young man I assume; his hiss meant as a way to address myself and my friends.

     It was not well received on my end. Imagine slick, cold skin; My freckles erupting in goose bumps.

I did not like the feeling.

     Sure, there are times when I am in the supermarket buying milk, and the shopkeeper greets me with a ‘Hello, Love’, but it does not spark the same feeling that rose from the serpent-like hiss of Saturday night. I know that the shopkeeper during the day probably recognises my face, and by addressing me in this way, he is just being friendly and wishing me a nice day. That is completely fine with me.

He calls the woman behind me - Miss, and the man behind him – Chap.

But at night, my ears become more sensitive to strangers in the street who call me these pet names, like something you would say to a cat or a small child.

Darling. Babe. Love. Princess.

These are words that have completely different meanings when chosen to label someone who you really do care about, or at least somebody that you’ve talked to over the course of your Saturday night, given the right context.

It is not something you should say condescendingly to a girl walking past you – a girl you’ve never met before in your life.

What sounds better: Getting pizza or humouring a sleazy stranger?

Yeah, right.

And yet, it’s something that I’ve always found so hard to explain to guys that do this because it is something so small and subtle that you wouldn’t even see it. It is not physical. It leaves no scars.

But, it’s still a problem, because when a girl grinds her teeth to smile back at the strange voice that called her his baby, she is only reinforcing the idea in his head that he can call her anything he wants, just because he can.

What other ideas are floating in his mind?

What else does he think he can do to this girl? To other girls?

Of course, maybe it’s not this guy.

Maybe this guy is the nicest guy in the world, and his only flaw is that he’s impressionable so he’s just parroting what he’s heard another guy say.

He doesn’t mean anything offensive by it at all.

But what if this other guy was parroting a really, really bad guy.

When this bad guy hears these other nice guys parroting his actions, he will think that these actions are acceptable, and if the patriarchy is 100% flawless in his mind, then what’s stopping him from executing his ‘superiority’ in other, far more extreme and harmful ways, than simply calling a stranger his baby?

Well, now, what was once a simple action doesn’t seem quite so simple anymore.

This ‘simple’ action of barking a pet name at a random girl in the street is not the fault of these guys or the girl who grinded her teeth and brushed it off.

They are all collectively to blame, like we all are too for fuelling our society in this way.

-Like me, who up until recently would ignore the strange voice in the street or else just start speaking in a foreign language so that the voice would think I hadn’t understood him.

But something inside of me snapped on Saturday night, and my pizza priorities fell to one side for a moment, and I said:

     ‘Why would you call me that in that way? I don’t even know you, and it’s patronizing!’

It’s only now that I realise that I can’t even describe the face of this stranger, because I, feeling threatened, couldn’t look him in the eye.

His friends nearby, two girls that looked to be about my age scoffed at me and said:

     ‘He was only being polite’

And the three of them walked off together; my heart engulfed in a shrinking feeling.

Polite? Really?

It had felt like I was a sheep dog and a farmer had just whistled my name.

So then this guy and the two girls had created mental chaos, just like the hypothetical nice guys who parroted what they had seen, and the hypothetical nice girl who had grinded her teeth and forced a smile at the voice in the street.

If the voice in the street had been kind, or if it had simply said hello, how are you, I would’ve said hello back.

My friends will tell you that I could talk for Ireland, so yes, kind stranger in the bar, I would love to see a picture of your baby, and good luck with buying a puppy tomorrow! I’m sure you’ll find the cutest one.

But, if you have made me feel threatened, then don’t expect me to engage in conversation. And don’t argue with me about it either.

If you’ve offended me then you don’t get to decide that you haven’t. You just have.

     Now you’re probably thinking that me telling you all of this is entirely useless; that you’ve never done anything like the voice in the street has. Well of course, dear reader, maybe you haven’t, but maybe you’re the girl grinding her teeth and brushing it off.

Next time, you could speak up, and say that

you don’t like the feeling,

and even if the voice in the street does not hear or understand, your best friend by your side will listen to your reasons for speaking up, and she will then realise that it’s important not to encourage the voice, and you will have made a difference in the world, even if it’s only a small one.

Maybe you’re a guy, or maybe you’re a girl, who’s seen the parroting guy in action before. I bet you know him quite well. Maybe you could let him know that his actions are quite damaging and condescending.

He could be the nicest guy in the world, but you need to let him know that you

would not like the feeling,

if you heard the voice in the street speaking to you in that way.

There doesn’t need to be a fist fight or a bellowing argument about it.

You just need to speak up.

     Onwards we marched on Saturday night in any case, because our tummies still hungered for pizza. And in the pizzeria of an Italian name, away from the hustling, bustling crowds, we met a bunch of lovely men and women who offered us slices of pizza and asked us all about our lives. In return, we offered them chips and asked them all about their lives.

I must say that even despite my discomfort when I heard the voice in the street, my expectations for my first ever girls’ night out had been met and surpassed, now that the chef had given us a free pizza.

Not a single pet name was used inappropriately there,

and it gave me hope,

that the hustling, bustling voices in the street had the potential to be as kind as the voices in the pizzeria.

So even now, dear reader, if you read this with an ‘o’ shaped mouth and puzzlement in your eyes, I hope that you will agree that the world is better when we’re looking out for each other.

The pizza tastes better when we’re sharing it, and not trying to prove our superiority above each other.

I know, that even through your puzzled eyes, it would upset you to hear a family member or someone close to you say:

I don’t like the feeling.

So then, why is it different for that girl in the street?

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x

The Little Blue Notebook

Thursday 12:45pm, August 18^th, 2016, Somewhere in the West of Ireland

Dear Reader,

Once again, my bafflement of thoughts comes to you at the later time of… not exactly a week after the last one. Once again, I am without wi-fi, but having said that, it’s not a complaint.

     Of course the internet is always so helpful but sometimes it’s good to be without wi-fi, and it’s healthy not to feel a responsibility towards being connected to everyone at all times. (A certain Italian hit from the summer entitled ‘Vorrei ma non posto’ would perfectly describe my social media detox, because actually watching the sun set is far more pleasant than taking a second-rate fuzzy version of it on a camera phone)

     Being without wi-fi has helped me rediscover my travelling companion, i.e my little blue notebook, where I write with an actual pen rather than the keyboard. I cherish these moments of reflection, even if the pen, inconveniently, has a mind of its own sometimes.

     

I wrote a poem in the little blue notebook recently while I was on a flight to Edinburgh. It seemed to be written in five minutes as Ireland and Scotland are so close together; so when the tea trolley came around, it was almost simultaneously taken back for landing, and I realised that my scrawl had turned into a poem.

     The little blue notebook walked alongside me in Edinburgh, when I marvelled at the castle; imagining feasts in the great hall and listening out for Italian and French tourists to see if I could understand their wonderings. It seemed the perfect city to write in, as if I’d go to live there some time, working on a project of mine.

     Possession of the little blue notebook (or little black notebook, or little notebook of any colour) is the oldest advice any writer could give to another. Ah, but there’s a reason why it’s been repeated for such a long time. It really works. It exists for the people who want to brainstorm, but don’t yet want the pressure of a blank Microsoft Word document gawking at them from behind a screen.

That said, the scribblings of the little blue notebook can eventually lead to marvels. It exists too for the people like myself who always say to themselves: Oh what a nice thought, I must remember it for later or Oh what a cool dream I’ll have to write it down later.

But then we don’t write it down

and we regret it so much,

so that’s why the little blue notebook is essential, especially when ambling down the sun-split cobblestone streets of Old Town in beautiful Edinburgh.

I like to categorize the contents of my personal blue notebook in six ways: General Nonsense, Words of Merit, Poetry, Anecdotes & Memorable Quotes, Thoughts from Places, and Notes from Friends.

1) General Nonsense

It varies.

The best way for me to keep in touch with my good friend Éamonn is to send him a message whenever I wake up from a strange dream, and then we analyse the dream together. The same goes for when he has a weird dream.

Sometimes I’m so fascinated by the dream that I must write it down, along with the analysis, in the little blue notebook.

This section of the little blue notebook can also include penny droplets of random thoughts shot directly from the sky; Those odd little ponderings that only a pen to paper could make sense of, like that time I referred to myself as a camel zombie at Paris Orly Airport. I was exhausted after travelling, and I really wanted to know what a camel zombie would look like.

2) Words of Merit

I want to wrap myself in these words that tease my tongue with hazelnut tastes.

I write down the new words, and the old words I’ve forgotten.

I write down the vocabulary from other languages I want to learn.

I write and I think

that the best way to define a writer, is as a collector of words.

3) Poetry

The Poetry section includes what you would expect it to.

Poems.

Sentences that appeal to the ear.

The clapping rhythm of a train or the roaring crescendo of an airplane often acts as the ostinato to the poetry of my little blue notebook.

Sometimes it begins with only one word, not necessarily written down to spark a poem,

but then the sparks fly,

and before I know it I am in Edinburgh, with words written by the dozen.

4) Anecdotes & Memorable Quotes

Sometimes I look at my friends and question why they don’t have their own stand-up comedy shows because some of the things they say are timeless.

Or sometimes there are those overheard conversations; Snippets of a stranger’s life that make you envision their whole lives and what they must be like as people (like the legendary French lady outside Edinburgh castle who announced proudly to the whole group that she had just gone for a pee)

5) Thoughts from Places

This is possibly my favourite section, because I find it so hard to write about a place if I have never been there; whether it be for a memoir or short story.

And then here is my little blue notebook, with settings saved from Piedmont to Marakesh, ready to meet their protagonists, and ready for me to feel like I’m there again; gushing over the stunning landscapes.

6) Notes from Friends

This section is always full of surprises and unique scripts – those loving messages from the past that make me smile nostalgically and thank the stars that I have such kind friends that transform cities into different towns, just by being in them.

I wrap myself in their words,

their perspectives,

and think about how interesting it is that no one ever reads the same book or sees the same city, because we all see them in different ways,

and it’s afterwards that we share our stories.

*The little blue notebook knows all of this;

my slender,

rectangular writing quarters.

*No wi-fi required.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x

*

Edinburgh

Edin-burr-o

Edin-burr-a

Edin-burg.

How funny my

face must look,

when I play

with sounds.

Or the Italian words

that end in O’s

and A’s.

Cast-ell-o

Ang-ur-ia

For-mag-io

Hazelnut vowels

teasing my tongue

-          -  I want to

wrap myself

in these words.

And listen

to their gentle waves

when I

can’t fall asleep.

I’ll stay warm

in winter,

and shield myself

from a book of

faces,

at times when I

don’t feel so

social.

I’ll crave only

the company of

my cat,

so that,

I can wrap myself

in her purrs,

collecting words

at every stroke

of my fingertips.

Roslyn's Birthday

Saturday, August 6th 2016, 3:00pm, Northern Italy.

Dear Reader,

I played ‘Cheap Thrills’ on the ukulele for the children at work the other day, and a little boy asked me if I was Sia from the radio…

I didn’t say no.

Surprise!

Did you think I’d thrown in the towel and stopped writing? Goodness, no! The words are always there, my friend, even if they’re only written on the air. You don’t necessarily have to pitter patter on the keyboard or put pen to paper to be writing. The stories have been in my head for as long as I’ve known what a story is. They always have, and they always will be. 

And anyway, I’ve been occupied lately with working five days a week and sleeping and/or exploring for those other two days of the week. (Sleep is for the weak weekend.) 

I’m almost at the end of my Italian adventure, the one that started nearly seven weeks ago. Every week we move to a different remote town or peaceful village in the countryside, to teach English to children in summer camps. I surround myself with mountains, and a mouth-watering variety of fresh fruit and vegetables that we can’t grow in Ireland. And I almost wish I’d written it all down to begin with, but I quite like sleeping and I can’t let that fall to one side just because of writing.

That said, I did write a poem on a train while I was on my way to a town called Limone. Black ink erupted all over my hands in the process, (My name’s blurry face, and I care what you think - And yes, I know I reference Twenty One Pilots too much but it's okay!)

 My thoughts poured out with all of the heart-breaking stories from the news that day. So naturally, by the time I arrived in Limone with a friend by my side, my brain no longer burned in sad imagery, and I was content. (It’s the magic of writing, kids!) And no, Limone did not smell like lemons, but it was a very nice town with ear-popping mountains all around.

I leave for Ireland on Tuesday, but I almost don’t want to go back yet. Despite that harrowing train journey I just told you about, I’ve been so happy here. I dream in pizza and focaccia, and when I wake up I go to work and I dance along to the Italia Top 50 that blares out over the speakers, while the children paint drawings of fish, or whatever we decided to paint that day. Teaching English has become a consistent part of my life. Just recently I had a dream that we were making airplanes out of plastic bottles with the children, and when I woke up I was lifting the duvet from my bed over the floor and out nearly as far as the window, because I thought I was handing a sheet of paper to my co-worker on a Monday morning.

It’s different from when I was teaching teenagers in Paris, of course; So different that I couldn’t tell you which situation I prefer.

Children leer,

with wide eyes. They stare with ‘O’ shaped mouths when I sing the songs from Frozen for them. They dance. They request a second song. At lunch, I tell them that if they don’t sit down I’m going to eat all of their desserts, or I tell them that the chef won’t make anything for them.

Whereas,

you can’t tell a teenager that if they tell a lie, their tongue will turn black. They just won’t believe it.

Believe me, I’ve tried telling them.

No, no, I haven’t. That’s a lie.

(Now maybe my tongue will turn black.)

The difference between teaching teenagers and teaching children that has struck me most so far is that teenagers don’t get some sort of birthday perk like kids often seem to at school. They get a night off from doing their homework, or a spin on the teacher’s chair. We had cake at camp when it was one of the kids’ birthdays, and we all sang and drank fizzy orange. 

Then when I went home that day I couldn’t stop thinking about Roslyn’s birthday.

I’ve realised that Roslyn, my novel’s protagonist, has a specific date of birth that I had written in my notes long ago. There are so many things that I write about and then I completely overlook them, so then when I read back over early drafts of chapters, I am as surprised as the oblivious reader would be. Being absentminded like this is not exactly helpful when you’re trying to write a second draft. It’s like trying to solve a mystery when you can’t remember the clues.

However, stumbling upon Roslyn’s birthday couldn’t have been anything other than a pleasant surprise. October 29^th tumbled over in my head like a washing machine, and before I knew it I was trying to decide on how to celebrate a fictional child’s eighth birthday. 

I’m being truthful this time. I swear it! Should you ever meet me, you’ll see that my tongue is definitely not black. That said, I won’t bother pleading my sanity, because we all know I don’t have much of a case in this situation. Still, surely there’s an unwritten rule for writers that deems them all completely mad anyway.

But what would I do for Roslyn’s birthday party?

In her first paragraph she says that she’s never really had a birthday party so she deserves something good, to live up to her imagined expectations. It’s on October 29^th, but Roslyn doesn’t like Halloween. She doesn’t like things to be scary.

I, unlike Roslyn, love Halloween. Normally, on October 29^th of every year, I’m at The Oireachtas. It’s an Irish festival of culture, music, drama, and all of those lovely things. 

I remember three years ago when The Oireachtas was taking place in County Kerry. I was dressed up as an angry bird for the students’ party, so of course launching myself across hall ways whilst making bird noises was the best way to greet people. It was at that Oireachtas that I first met one of my great musical friends, and we queued for what seemed like an eternity at 5 in the morning just to get some chips. You know what they say: Friendships have a foundation, and that foundation is curry sauce. It was also her surname that made Roslyn, Roslyn Murray so now it seems that the Oireachtas would be the perfect place to celebrate Roslyn’s birthday.

Ah, 

but this year The Oireachtas festival falls on something like November 3^rd, so this year, for Roslyn’s birthday, the first of her birthdays that I’ve acknowledged, I’ll be at home, probably doing… Final Year things, a.k.a things perfectly suited for a student in their Final Year of university who capitalizes the first letters of the words ‘Final’ and ‘Year.’ I’ll be doing things like doodling in the margins of my notebook as I try to think of good points to make in my French essays, wondering if the Irish grammar rule I’ve followed my whole life has always been a lie, binge watching the last season of Pretty Little Liars on Netflix with my cat, etc.

Then I’ll think to myself:

Why the hell am I fussing over a birthday for a person who doesn’t exist?

But no,

she does exist somewhere even if we can’t see her. Words provide a vessel for the voices in your head; A black and white dream, turned to life in colour.

So then I think of children, the games they play, and the things that make them laugh.

What would Roslyn like?

Mischief, I’ll bet.

I think of the children in the summer camps and their mischief, not that it will help me in any way, but still, the funny stories linger. 

There was one day at camp when a group of children asked me in mid-conversation if I knew how to speak Italian, so I told them no. They then looked really confused and asked me how I understood everything they had been saying if I couldn’t speak Italian… and woah, my brain, it just froze over, because yes, I had just been understanding and responding to Italian despite never learning Italian before.

 The children generally speak to the teachers in Italian, and we respond entirely in English so that they can get used to hearing the language. So I told the children that I must’ve been able to understand them because I speak French, and a lot of Italian words are similar to French.

Later that same day, a little girl approached me and started speaking really quickly in Italian, and it really seemed to cause distress in this boy and his sister nearby when they exclaimed in Italian:

‘No! Stop speaking to her in Italian. She doesn’t understand! She’s from France!’

I burst out laughing.

But hey, I don’t mind if they think I’m from France.

I heard the children arguing then the following morning when we went out for a stroll. Half of them argued that I was from Ireland, and the other half argued that I was from France. I still don’t know which half won that dispute.

On the first day of camp every week, we split the children into teams and we tell them to give an English name to their team. It always ends in mischief, with names like Hotdogs, or The Best, or The Champions. Then we award each team points whenever they come first in team games, so that by the end of the week the winning team gets a prize. Most children see it as a bit of a laugh, but some of them get mischievously competitive, like the eleven-year-old who asked me if he could write Ireland on his airplane, when we were making airplanes out of plastic bottles. So I said that of course he could write Ireland on his airplane if he really wanted to, but, alas, he only wanted to write Ireland on his airplane because he wanted me to give his team more points.

No, I certainly won’t have team games at Roslyn’s birthday party. They’re just too chaotic!

Then, there is music. We always have music on at work from the Italia Top 50, and like me, Roslyn is always singing to herself. Music will be essential at her birthday party. She was named after a song, after all.

 At the camps, I have witnessed first-hand the effects of this Andiamo a Commandare craze that’s ‘sweeping the nation’, as a news reader from a cartoon would say. Andiamo a Commandare is like the Italian hit of the summer that children go crazy for, even though it’s not entirely appropriate for children, and everyone agrees on how bizarre it is that children have become the number 1 fans of this song. Putting on Andiamo a Commandare and letting the children dance along is one way to keep them calm during a thunderstorm anyway, and it’s thanks to this song that I now know how to say some phrases in Italian such as: ‘I don’t know if I’m crazy or if I’m a genius’, ‘No, I don’t smoke weed’ and ‘I deal mineral water.’

Roslyn will love this song!

And yet,

I know I’m only dreaming and that I can’t have a real party for Roslyn.

Who would blow out the candles on the cake?

However, I’ve already checked the calendar so I know that her birthday will be on a Saturday this year. On that Saturday night, I’ll buy a bottle of Prosecco and I’ll go out with my friends. (I swear they’re actually real this time) We’ll tell strangers that it’s Roslyn’s birthday and we’ll watch their confusion grow as they ask which one of us is Roslyn; A private joke between us to laugh at all night.

And it will be just wonderful, because you, who gave me a second world to live in, deserves nothing but the best. 

Roslyn, this one’s for you.

Ciao,

Madame Mayreed x