Welcome to the first issue of BOX OF VOICES!
Readers will find fiction, poetry and artwork in this very first issue: pieces of work which will make you laugh as well as pieces which will make you think.
CONTENTS
Rapping Wrinklies (fiction) by LISA SILLS
Untitled (poetry) by JENNY RIORDAN
Carpool (artwork) by MICHAEL R
The Dream (fiction) by GEMA MORA
Untitled (fiction) by CONOR F
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Box of Voices - No Comments.
by MICHAEL R
Published in BOX OF VOICES Issue #1.
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Art, Box of Voices - No Comments.
by GEMA MORA
I’m pregnant. It’s the first thing I’m aware of. I’m not looking into a mirror or skimming through
a parenting magazine, but I just know that the entire universe has moulded to fit my
bulging belly through the cloth of my crimson dress.
I’m in a bigger version of my parents’ house, as I usually am in dreams. I can’t see them anywhere but their disappointment is so strong it emanates from the walls like the smell of paint from a bucket. Their disappointment takes over the entire house and lingers there; I’m practically huffing it. And just like it would be with any other drug, I’m getting high in their disappointment and because of it, disappointment intoxicates my baby.
My boyfriend, Slater, sits around with a tense look on his face. His jaw is so tight I can trace the bone all the way behind his ear. Then I see his eyes, his pupils are so focused on the floor I swear it will explode at his will.
He looks as though he’s seen a ghost. In a lot of ways, I think he has. Life as he knew has died. Weekend parties and after school clubs are buried in the past. His future is different now. I can hardly take it: the drugging disappointment, the scared boyfriend. I shift in my seat on the fluffy white couch. I need to move, I need to do something.
But my boyfriend won’t let me move. His arms stretch out stiffly, like he’s waving off the idea of me getting off my seat like he would a fly. Doing something was out of the question.
He’s freaked out, but on some level, he still cares about me.
Then, somehow, I have a baby. I know this only because the bulge that was my stomach has reduced back to its normal size. I walk outside to find out that this house is actually by the sea. There’s a light blue sky and cotton-white clouds in the distance. Being outside, alone, feels wrong, so I walk back in.
Now I’m surrounded by people from my school in a semi-dark living room. The only light seeps in from a glass window. The sun isn’t in a favourable position so a shadow is cast over everybody’s face. Boxes are around me with colourful wrapping paper. I’ll assume those were presents.
I can’t recall anyone in particular, except Sugar, who’s inside my semi-circle of colourful presents. Sugar is my ex-boyfriend, the one before Slater. Even in my dream, his presence is as wonderful as fast acting prune juice. He’s older now, with broad shoulders that are supposed to intimidate me and a scowl deeper than he could ever keep it in real life. He’s inside my semi-circle of presents, but he offers insults instead of gifts. He hates me. He hates me with all his might and he’s telling me this. It’s a lengthy list of reasons featuring full names and vivid examples. All I’m aware of is of how disturbed I feel at this point
and start to move away.
I walk into another room which is lighted a lot more than the previous one. It seems like a main entrance. It has a voluptuous, crystal chandelier, a small table with flowers and a grand staircase leading to another world. Balloons float around me, streamers hang from the ceiling and people jump from wall to wall like street dancers; it’s almost a freaking circus. Everyone is partying but this party is not for me. In fact, I feel a little left out. This noisy and feral world has nothing to offer me anymore; neither as a partygoer or even as an entertainer. I have no place here.
Overwhelmed with a sense of indirect rejection, I storm out of the room. No one notices.
I’m outside now. The boyfriend is there. He’s crouched and peeking into the party through the door’s keyhole like an amateur spy. I know him enough to know that he wants to go to the party. He wants to have fun. The way he must see it, there’s only boredom out here-even with me there. So I nudge my head and tell him to go in. I try to control my voice but I’m at the edge of tears. I tell him to go and finally enjoy himself. I know that’s what he’s been missing out on this whole time.
And he goes in without a second glance at me.
I find my baby and start playing with him. (I actually don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, but I suspect it’s a boy.) I lie on a pool chair and sit him on my lap. I sing to him, hum random tunes and show him shapes that the clouds have designed for our viewing. I tell him that no one can have fun without either of us there. He giggles and smiles and I almost believe myself.
The party extends all through the night and Slater remains inside. I think of the wild partygoers. I think of the way laughs transfer through people; of the way emotions such as joy, curiosity and attraction can fizzle through bodies in just a matter of seconds. I start to worry about just how much fun Slater’s having.
I move to a booth just outside of where the party is going on. There are three other people there- losers like myself. They aren’t a part of the party. Most of them don’t even know how they got there. Just one blink and the bench was their place. Just as I sit down, we’re informed by a slightly drunk girl from the party that there’s going to be a game of dodge ball. The entire party would get their chance to throw their balls at us. This information is meant as a beacon of hope. As long as we’re the victim in their game, it means we’re not forgotten.
But we panic. I panic. I panic for myself and I panic for my baby boy. We all glance at each other and scurry away like mice. We find a closet somewhere in the huge house and hide in there. To kill time, we begin to talk about ourselves. It’s emotional. Mostly about the events that led to us becoming outcasts. And suddenly an old English teacher of mine (of all people) pulls the closet door open. She wants us to come out of our hiding and face the partygoers with chins up high. She says that a game of dodge ball is not just a game but a metaphor to life.
She falls into a powerful speech. It’s one of her best, I have to say. She’d put Obama to shame.
Either moved by her words or eager to shut her up, I comply.
I come out of the closet to find everyone passed out on the ground. It’s dawn by now. Balloons are popped; streamers lay on the floor next to people along with bits of clothes and shoes. I tip toe over the sleeping bodies. I don’t even want to think of where Slater might be, it hurts too much. So I grip my baby and climb the staircase to the other world where everything is clean and just as I would’ve left it in real life.
In my baby’s room, there’s a crib and rocking chair with its back to a beautiful balcony with only a thin white curtain separating it from the room. A blue sky is behind the curtain. I sit on the rocking chair and hold my child tightly. I sing to him until he’s nestled on my chest and fast asleep. There’s only the small rise and fall of his tiny chest. He looks like a doll. With that view, I fall asleep.
My boyfriend walks in; that tense look on his face again. He carefully takes our boy and lays him on his crib. Then he carries my sleeping body to a bed I hadn’t noticed before and lays me there slowly. He slips out of his shoes and unbuttons his shirt. He lies next to me, with a view of our baby in his field of vision, wondering where the hell I was that night and why I hadn’t wanted him there with me.
Published in BOX OF VOICES Issue #1.
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Box of Voices, Fiction - 1 Comment.
by JENNY RIORDAN
Published in BOX OF VOICES Issue #1.
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Box of Voices, Poetry - No Comments.
by LISA SILLS
I should introduce myself: I’m Jane. I was a nurse serving on the British front in 1944, just before the war ended. As a nurse I saw everything, from amputations to dead children, strips of mangled flesh hanging from scorched bodies as bomb after bomb was dropped during Hitler’s reign. The worst injuries came from the incendiary bombs – if one dropped onto your roof and you tried to move it, and you weren’t quick enough, your hand was blown straight off. That’s where two of my fingers and the tip of my nose went.
I should have known better. I nose it now, anyway. Sorry, that was an awful pun.
You’d think that would be the worst thing I’ve seen in my life. What could be worse than cadavers lining the streets, tending to injured person after injured person? Nothing, probably, you’d tell me. You’re wrong.
Here. Or rather, the people here. Some of them are much worse than any war. Why am I here? I’m a victim of circumstance. I grew old – funny sort of circumstance that.
After the war I fell in love with a little English cottage. Dilapidated though the place was, I could see past the broken drainpipes, cracked windows and peeling wallpaper. That house sang to me of idyllic summer afternoons spent in the garden with my fiancé and in the years to come, our children. I had my children, I settled down. I cared for them for decades, nurturing them, teaching them, tending their scrapes and bruises as I had once tended the dying.
And here I am now. 60 years later. 82 years young.
The woman in the bed next to mine is watching the TV, as she does for fifteen hours everyday. There is little else she can do. I am more fortunate, but for creaking bones and mild arthritis in my knees I’m perfectly healthy. She watches the TV with vacuous eyes, her legs curled behind her, her fingers forcefully coiled, useless after years of rheumatoid arthritis, a trickle of saliva dribbling down her chin.
Pleasant place. the nursing home, eh?
Her family used to visit. They don’t anymore. It’s too upsetting, they say. Brigid doesn’t know either way. She doesn’t realise what’s happening – it’s better that way.
I shuffle to my feet, grabbing hold of my headboard for support; sometimes the aches and pains get to me. I slip into my slippers and bid Brigid goodbye. She doesn’t notice me. She never does.
I shuffle out the door, quietly closing it behind me. I’m sure if Brigid could ask, she’d want privacy. I slope down the hall, past the game room. Everything is pastel – pale walls, pale carpets, pale furniture till everything blurs into one uninteresting blob. Even the game room is devoid of colour, but for the centre where two children noisily play Scrabble with their grandmother.
Paintings, evidently crafted from frail hands – indicative of blurred brushstrokes – cover a part of the pallid wall. Mine takes pride of place in the centre; it’s a nature scene, the scene from outside my window. Auburn leaves dance around the stretch of empty lawn. Seldom anyone goes outside.
Outside was at its busiest when a bunch of patients here attempted a breakout. They overpowered the beleaguered Chaplin during Sunday Mass and escaped through the fire exit, some with their rosary beads still clutched between feeble fingers.
Their get-away wasn’t so well executed; they just gathered on the lawn. They wanted to go home, some to die, some to reconnect with their family or old selves – something that can seem an eternity away when you’re in a place like this.
I arrive in the guestroom and perch on an armchair. It’s comfortable enough save for a loose spring that bites into my bottom.
A semi-circle of orthopaedic chairs are occupied by the other patients, who are in various stages of slumber, heads lolling onto chests, cardigans and woollen jumpers gracing bony shoulders. The weaker of them look like featherless, baby sparrows that have tumbled from the nest; twisted bodies awaiting the inevitable.
These are the ones whose family no longer visit. A nurse reads to them from James Joyce’s ‘A Portrait…’ at someone’s request. I tried to read ‘Ulysses’ once; I didn’t get any further than the first chapter. A stream of conscious the experts call it. A stream of rubbish, I think.
The nurse finishes the page and checks the watch that adorns her slender wrist. “I’ve got to go. Gladys needs to be changed.”
“Boo,” Geoff shouts, one of the few who was listening. “The next bit is fantastic. Gladys will manage. She can hold it in.”
“Geoff, I’ve read twenty pages already,” she protests. “That’s enough for now. We don’t want to excite the others.”
“Excite them? Are you mad, woman? Or blind? Heck, I’m blind as a bat and I bet that half of them are asleep. Infact, I’d check Matt’s pulse. He hasn’t moved for a few minutes. Over-excite us. Bah!” Geoff slaps Matt’s chest and Matt jumps, startled.
“Duck! The Germans are coming,” Matt cries. “Bloody hell, Geoff.”
“Still with us then, Matty? Thought you’d given up the ghost there for a moment.”
“Not at all.” Matt laughs. “I survived the Germans. I can survive James Joyce.”
“Too right,” I agree. Matt came here just after me. He’s in the early stages of motor-neurone. His speech is just beginning to slur, his hands shake constantly, making the simplest of activities difficult. He can no longer even button his shirt himself.
“Ah, Jane, I didn’t see you there,” Geoff greets me, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “What’re you doing in that chair for? It’ll stick a spring in your arse.”
“The others are occupied.”
“So shove Myrtle out. She won’t notice. Give her a push and she’s straight out.”
Myrtle snaps to attention at the mention of her name. Alarmed, she searches the room with feral eyes before relaxing, her arms folded. “Shush, baba,” she mutters as she rocks her arms. I catch the first words of a quiet lullaby as she sings to herself.
In the chair next to hers Mary, or Mad Mary as Geoff calls her, moves one arm from side-to-side. Her body shakes as she glares unflinchingly at the clock on the wall. She’s “ironing”. Carefully, she makes folding gestures in the air and begins on her next garment.
“Such a pretty skirt,” she mutters.
That’s all she does. Day in, day out, her eyes locked on the hands of the belligerent clock. Occasionally she checks the door. She is waiting for someone but no-one knows who.
“She’s mad as a hatter,” Geoff comments. “Bless her.”
I’m not sure if he means Mary or Myrtle – it doesn’t matter either way.
“If you don’t want to turf Myrtle out, there’s always room on my lap. I haven’t seen a woman as fine as you for years.”
“Definitely,” Matt agrees, a twinkle in his eyes.
“I always fancied a toy-boy,” I joke. “A young man of 62.”
“If not for my damned sight, you know I’d go over and sweep you off your feet.” Geoff sighs. “I remember the days when I could still see the sun in the sky. Beautiful. My Elle’s face as she played in the garden with our Tommy. He’s off gallivanting round America now.”
“He’ll come back,” I supply.
“Yeah, when I’m being put in a hole in the ground. Just like Elle was. It was hard on him.”
“At least yours has an excuse not to visit. Four of them, and you’d think one of them would come to see me,” says Matt. “Jane, you should thank your stars you’ve raised your brood well. Are they coming later? For the show?”
I nod.
Poor Matt. His family no longer visit because they don’t want to watch him die. You can’t blame them really.
“Hilda’s brood are coming too,” says Geoff. “Her husband is even taking the day off. Which could spell trouble as Alfred’s on his way too.”
“Alfred? That man she has on the go as well?” I question.
“Yes. The one who brings her out every Tuesday and Thursday. He’s much too young for her – after her money if you ask me.”
“No-one asked you,” Hilda snaps as she swans into the room. Although she’s just hit seventy, she could easily pass for 50. Her hair is gently curled into blond bobs, while her face is caked in make-up.
“You’re just jealous,” Hilda continues, “because I turned you down.”
Geoff gags, pantomime surprise dancing on his face. “Jealous? Of you? Mutton dressed as lamb.”
Hilda laughs and pecks Geoff on the cheek. “Silly man.”
“Silly woman,” Geoff grumbles, wiping her lipstick off his cheek. He grins suddenly and ruffles Hilda’s hair.
“Don’t mess my hair. I have to look my best for Alf.”
“You’re far too old to be chasing pants,” Matt mutters.
“You’re as old as you feel, and I feel 40.”
That’s certainly true. Hilda could give a twenty-year-old a run for her money. She’s always got a man on the go. Her husband is clueless. Thinks Hilda goes to a bridge club for the elderly on the days she goes out with Alf. Hilda’s only in here because she falls prey to epileptic seizures.
“Is Danny coming?” Hilda asks me.
“Yes. He’s bringing Charlie with him. Imagine, my first great-grandchild.”
We momentarily lapse into silence. I’m sure Geoff and Matt are thinking of their families. It can be lonely when you seldom have visitors.
A nurse pops her head round the door. “Hey, Rapping Wrinklies, you should get ready for the show. It starts in twenty minutes. The first guests should be here soon.”
Hilda pouts mockingly. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
Geoff grins. “Got my Mr. T chains.” He pulls a line of heavy chains from under Matt’s wheelchair. A carved letter H hangs from the end. “Matty robbed the H off the bonnet of someone’s car this morning.”
Matt smiles sheepishly. “It was bloody tough. It took ten minutes to get and I nearly sliced the top of my thumb off with the screwdriver.”
“I pity the fool,” Geoff barks in imitation of Mr. T.
“That’s the thanks I get,” Matt solemnly says.
“Ah musha.”
“Geoff, mate, will you help me with my gear?” Matt asks, serious now. A faint blush creeps into his weathered skin. “I’ve to get a hat and a banana.”
“A banana?” Geoff teases.
“Ban-dan-a,” Matt slowly sounds out. “Try not to smash into any tables on the way.”
“With friends like us, who needs enemies?” Hilda asks.
They may insult each other constantly, but the way they act, Hilda especially, keeps us feeling young. If you were in here, 24/7, with so many who cannot look after themselves, who are suffering, or dying, you’d understand. I’ve got to go get ready now, make myself look the part.
Ten minutes later we stand in front of a couple of lines of chairs, set up especially for us. I wear a baseball shirt that hangs to my knees and a cap straddles my hair.
“How many people are here?” Geoff asks.
“Only a couple. There’ll be more in a minute. You want a hand onto the stage?” I ask Geoff.
“Appreciated, darling.”
I lead him carefully up the wooden steps. He has a cane but he refuses to use it.
“Hey, Mum,” someone yells.
I look down and catch sight of my son, who holds Charlie to his chest. He waves and I wave back.
I shoot him a nervous smile. I’ve never rapped in public. Just with the gang, my homies or whatever young people say. This was Geoff’s idea – something to kill the boredom. It was also his idea to perform, to raise money for researching motor-neurone disease.
We assemble in the middle of the stage as we wait for the crowd to file in. Hilda blows a kiss to the crowd, and both Alf and her husband assume it’s meant for them, each glowing with pride.
Silly fools.
The matron steps into the middle of the stage, a microphone in her hands. She welcomes everyone and gives us our intro as a beat begins to play.
Geoff grins, trips over his feet, recovers and speaks into the microphone, “Yo. We’re the Rapping Wrinklies.”
The crowd whoop and laugh. I’m really nervous now. For a moment I fear that our lyrics will be too rude, that they won’t like us. Although some rap’s disgraceful, with the young fellas rapping about their hos and AK-47s. In unison we begin our rap:
“We’re the Rapping Wrinklies
And we’re dropping a beat
Orthopaedic shoes are what we’ve got on our feet
Velcro straps to keep ‘em down
Tricked-out walking sticks for getting around
Ain’t got a real tooth left in my mouth
And my face ain’t the only thing that’s been travelling south
Went from a thirty-four B to a thirty-eight long
You looking at me boy? Now that’s just wrong.Forget Ferraris or Mercedes
My walking aid’s got smoking wheels
With my sweet bling hanging from head to heel
Keep my denture cream right beside my bed
But don’t tell anyone cos it’ll ruin my street cred
Would the real old people please stand up?
Please stand up,
Cause you other oldies are just imitatin’Creakin’ bones and shakin’ hands
The matron can’t keep up when we spit demands
Can’t see right in one eye, got poor hearing in one ear
What was that? I didn’t quite catch that.
Could you repeat yourself, dear?
Would the real old people please stand up?
Cause you other oldies are just imitatin’
Please stand up, please stand up.
What! What! Rapping Wrinklies.”
The music fades out and the crowd whoop and clap, some laughing. I laugh too, proud that we did it. It doesn’t matter that half of them think we’re crazy or that we’ve succumbed to senility. Seeing the smiles on their faces, the smile on my son’s face, makes it worth it.
I survived the war, save for a missing lump of nose. If I can survive that, I can survive this. I will not turn into Brigid. Right now, she, and a group of others, are lined up at the back, included merely for inclusions’ sake. Myrtle mutters animatedly to herself. She makes quiet shushing noises and motions to her lap. She seems to think she’s feeding her baby. She rocks her arms from side-to-side, a smile playing on her lips. Beside her, Mary continues to iron, her eyes glued to a clock on the far wall as time slowly creeps by, her fragile mind robbing her of whatever life she has left.
Amongst them, afew nap quietly, chests rising and falling rhythmically, as one or two stir like baby birds at dusk, dreaming of a time when they can unfold their wings and fly home.
But they can’t fly home. They can only sit and wait for death to come.
I will not wait.
Published in BOX OF VOICES Issue #1.
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Box of Voices, Fiction - 1 Comment.
by CONOR F.
‘No, no, no! You have to row to the left. Row to the left and you turn right!’ I said to my younger brother.
‘I’m trying to,’ he replied.
‘Well you don’t seem like you are,’
‘Jack and William, what are you fighting about now?! This was supposed to be a nice canoeing trip in the south west of France but all I can hear is you two squabbling.’
‘Nothing, mum, I just want to swap canoes.’ I said.
‘Fine, stop at this beach up here,’ she said while pointing at a beach about fifty metres ahead of us, where the rest of the group had stopped to change canoes as well.
A few minutes later I was in a kayak by myself, behind the others who were faster as they all had two or three people with them to help.
‘When are we having the picnic?’ I called to my friend Gavin who was within earshot of me.
‘My mum said were having it in about an hour or so but I not exactly sure,’ he replied.
I sat there slowly rowing for a while, until I could see rapids up ahead and I got myself ready for the challenge. I heard a scraping sound beneath me and suddenly remembered the guide’s words when he said that at the second rapids you must keep left. I was stuck.
‘Damn,’ I shouted. ‘My kayak’s stuck,’ I called to those ahead of me.
‘I’ll try to come back,’ my dad said to me. He struggled to make it up the river against the current but kept being spun around. ‘Try and free yourself we’ll wait at the first beach we find,’ he exclaimed as he fought against the current for the last time.
I had tried to push my boat out from between the two rocks holding it in position, but to no avail. The heat of the sun mixed with the coolness of the river around my ankles distracted me and ten minutes were gone before I had done anything. I turned around and glanced up at the cliff imagining what it would be like to climb it when I spotted a tiny opening only wider than a large beach ball. I stood up and made my way slowly to the hole, carefully stepping on the round soft stones on the river bed. I looked into the opening and saw darkness.
I went back to the kayak and took my diving torch out of the rucksack. I returned and shone the torch into the hole. It was bewildering. It was a huge cave with stalagmites and stalactites hanging from the ceiling and growing up from the floor, with some joining into columns of wet rock. From what I could see it stretched down twenty metres until it became too small to crawl through. I tried to get in but it was too small for me. I picked up a big stone beside me and hacked at the thinner rock around the entrance, until it was big enough to fit through.
I squeezed myself into the cave and started to walked down the tunnel, weaving and ducking to avoid hitting into the pillars of stone. I looked left to make sure I wouldn’t trip up over a stalactite but instead found yet another cave entrance, this one about the same size as the other entrance. I crouched down and stuck my head through the hole. I didn’t see anything unusual so I stood up, and checked my watch. Ten to one. It had been twenty minutes since I had first got stuck on the rocks. I figured I had enough time so I crouched down and crawled through into the other cave.
I shone the torch at the walls and my jaw dropped to my chin. Cave-Drawings. About fifty little pictures painted on the face of a huge wall. It suddenly felt very cold in the cavern. I walked over and touched the wall. It to seemed like a freezer. I tried to get my head straight. How could these be here? How come they weren’t discovered? Should I tell my friends and family? All these thoughts were rushing through my head.
I decided it would be best to not tell anyone. I didn’t want the cave to be turned into a money making tourist attraction. I walked over again and ran a finger through the drawings. Bits of flaky stone and what looked like red and black pollen appeared on my hand. I figured the red and black stuff must be the paint. I sat down in the middle of the room and thought about it. It didn’t look like there had ever been humans here. Or at least modern humans. Was this region known to have cave-drawings? Yes. I remembered seeing a brochure in the hotel for a cave that was filled with them. The drawings weren’t spray paint that’s for sure.
I thought for a while, various questions flowing through my brain. I was brought back to reality by the thought of researching more when I got back to the hotel. I wandered deeper into the cave, seeing more and more. There were outlines of hands, pictures of men hunting with spears, even primitive drawings of horses with beautiful borders and frames around them. I checked my watch. It was ten past one. I had better be going. I made my way to the front of the cave taking one last look at the pictures. I slid out of the cave, and made my way back to the kayak. It was hard to free it from the rocks just using your body so I used a branch off a tree to lever it up, and after that all I had to do was pull it back over the rocks put it in the water and row. I thought to myself as I rowed away that I would remember those drawings for the rest of my life.
Then I was rowing as quick as I could downstream, anxious to get back to the group. I realised I was hungry, and I knew we had a picnic ready. I found them just around the bend from a group of low trees that touched the water surface. The others had already started eating.
‘God, I’m hungry,’ I called to them.
‘Finally,’ my dad said joyfully. ‘We didn’t want to start without you but we were all really hungry as well. What took you so long?’ he asked.
I hesitated. Should I tell them. Yes or no. I quickly thought back on what I decided in the cave. I was right, best I shouldn’t tell.
‘Oh I was just fascinated by the dragonflies hovering above the river. Sorry if I worried you,’ I told them.
‘Come on, sit down,’ Gavin said. ‘Have a sandwich, here.’
‘Thanks,’ I said as he gave me a baguette filled with ham and cheese. I ate it very quickly watching other canoes drift by the water rippling behind them, the sun beating down on them. It was a beautiful day.
Published in BOX OF VOICES Issue #1.
Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Box of Voices, Fiction - No Comments.
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Posted: October 1st, 2009 under Links - No Comments.
Posted: September 29th, 2009 under Editorial Stuff - No Comments.
by LIZ O’MALLEY
The Lisbon Treaty is coming to vote again this September and nobody is actually voting on the document as far as I can tell. On the No side there are those protesting the fact that we’re going to have to vote again after we had a democratic referendum. It’s easy to see their point, especially after Sarkozy admonished us like bad children in front of the rest of Europe. We’re perfectly allowed to cast our vote in any way we choose.
Those on the Yes side have a point too. With people like Libertas and Coir saying that if we were to allow this, why this despicable document to be voted through would open the way for abortion, make taxes higher, and war and all manner of evil things would happen! What better way to show these manipulative liars that saying bad things will happen just because you feel like it means that people are going to turn against you?
It’s a failure that the first Lisbon referendum was run the way it was. This isn’t because we didn’t vote yes, but because of the misinformation and the inability of the government to run a decent campaign. It was appalling, not just that many people were made to believe that things like our neutrality were at risk, but that the people we elected to run the country never came out and said “Lies! All of it!” In fact, given Brian Cowen’s unpopularity it would probably be a lot more helpful for him to turn against it.
It didn’t help that the document is bigger than Moby Dick and more incomprehensible than Ulysses. Most government officials even admitted to not having read it. This is mostly due to the fact that it has to include the same clauses as the Maastricht and the Nice treaties because it is a legal document. Many people were turned off by the length, thinking “Something that big must have a hidden clause that will be the downfall of us!” There are surprisingly few issues that we actually need to know about.
I know quite a few people who are voting no because they think that the EU works better as an economic community rather than a political one and they are entitled to that view. What I dislike are people who vote no because they are ignorant of what the document actually means. Some of the more popular lies are that voting yes will be voting to dramatically reduce the minimum wage and would mean losing our commissioner. The wage thing is a downright lie. As for the commissioner, apart from the commissioner having to work on behalf of the EU and not Ireland, our commissioner has been guaranteed.
Do you believe we should have a head appointed because of their ability to do the job rather than having a rotating presidency? Do you think the Charter of Fundamental Rights should be legally binding? Do you think that the European Council’s meetings should be held publicly and the democratically elected Parliament should have more power? Are you in favour of more double majority voting, meaning that larger countries can’t throw their voting weight around? These are the issues we are voting on.
The truth is, voting on an important legal document shouldn’t be about trying to get back at people but whether you think it’s right. On October 2nd exercise your vote and know what you’re voting for. Anything else is a waste of a vote.
Posted: September 22nd, 2009 under Current Affairs - No Comments.
by LIZ O’MALLEY
If you’ve ever gone to CTYI, you’ll be familiar with the word gifted and there is a good chance you’ll hate that word. It’s apparently the neutral term who is brilliant at maths or verbal reasoning. I think it makes people sound pretentious but maybe that’s just me.
The Centre of Talented Youth Ireland is a summer camp for ‘young, bright people’ where teens who score well in the SATs can attend college courses such as legal studies and drama for three weeks. Many people feel it’s unfair to restrict the course to smart people but the point is that the course was set up with a purpose. Many of those who are intelligent don’t necessarily do well in school because they get bored in class and tune out as a result. Or perhaps they coast, doing the bare minimum knowing they can get away with it and when the time comes they can’t pull out the good results. CTYI was created to try and get students interested in learning again.
When I was in playschool the teacher thought I was dense. I would just sit in a corner every day doing polishing, not interested in class work. It was only when I got to primary school and the principal noticed my lack of participation did people realise I wasn’t stupid, I was just bored. I got moved up from the slow readers and afterwards I did a lot better. I began excelling at school.
The problem later was feeling like I was cut off from the rest of the class. The other kids would call me a teacher’s pet or say that I was a geek and I remember telling my mum that I wasn’t going to answer questions in class anymore because everyone else was making fun of me and who wants to stand out rather than fit in? It’s a lot lonelier. Of course she said that was ridiculous but I still did as I had threatened and once I stopped participating in class I started to do badly again.
This stuck with me until I went to CTYI when I was fourteen. I’d heard about the course from friends of the family and had gotten it into my head that this would be a fun place to go. I had no idea what to expect. I’m naturally shy so I was surprised by how nice everybody there was. People who had been there before just came up to you and talked to you like they had known you forever. By the end of the day I was playing a card game with five strangers and a couple of them are still friends today.
I went into Legal Studies class expecting it be like school, where the teacher talked at you. The first thing the lecturer, Eoin, did was outline a legal situation involving three men being stranded on a boat. One of the men was unconscious so the other two chose to ate him when they were about to starve to death. Eoin then asked us to decide whether or not the men were guilty. He went around to everyone in the class and they all said these incredibly smart things. I found that everybody put their hand up and if you did well people admired you instead of scorned you. Every day he’d ask us not only to think for ourselves, but when we said something he’d debate us over it and make us defend our statements.
Everyone else was in the same boat so making friends was a lot easier and for once I had the confidence to go up and talk to people I didn’t know and start up a conversation. I made friends I’ve known for years now and I did better academically afterwards. It wasn’t all about the academics though. I was much more confident and happy afterwards and I didn’t mind being seen as weird anymore.
At the end of every year we had to fill in this questionnaire and one of the questions was “Would you describe yourself as gifted?” It might have been the Irish modesty kicking in but nobody really wanted to call themselves gifted. It just sounded stupid apart from anything else. Nobody minded being called smart or intelligent but the gifted label wasn’t one that we wanted. ‘Gifted’ makes you sound like you’re different from ‘normal’ people. If you were told someone was gifted you’d imagine them shunning society and being a tortured genius. It’s not the kind of thing that would endear you to most people.
RTE have plans to do a documentary on gifted children and here’s some information they have about the series.
The programmes will be an honest and revealing insight into the lives of very special children as they cope with the highs and lows of being ‘different’.
Featuring a different family in each programme, the series will tell the stories of parents and children from different backgrounds facing very different challenges. Following them as they embark on a new set of challenges or hit a cross roads in their development, we will get to know the real people and remarkable lives.
Is it just me or does it sound like they’re going to be treating this like a disability? You already know my story but even though I too have had my ups and downs I’ve never classed myself as being different to ‘ordinary’ teenagers. CTYI, even though it has talented in the middle of its name, never propagates the idea that we’re different from anybody else. To us all it is is a place to meet good friends and to pick up some information along the way. If anything it makes us humble. I want to meet up with friends, go to parties and do well in school pretty much like everyone else my age. Nobody would want to see thirty minutes following my life because it’s nowhere near dramatic enough.
I’m different but as the famous ‘Life of Brian’ quote states – We’re all individuals.
Note from editor: that RTE series to be on hold for the moment. Will let readers know if/when this changes.
Posted: September 14th, 2009 under Gifted and Talented - No Comments.