Identity Troubles
Reflections on being a Halftholic in Northern Ireland.
“So, are you Catholic or Protestant?” is a question I used to get very offended by.
It’s something I was never really asked until I moved to England for uni. I’ll tell someone I come from Belfast, they’ll ask me some vague questions related to the Troubles, I can tell they’re building up to it, before they tenatively take the plunge, and ask the question.
“Am I Catholic or Protestant?! You know, I’m never asked that at home,” I’ll reply, outraged.
Thing is, people don’t need to ask that in the North of Ireland. You generally just know what side of the “divide” someone comes from. The ways to assess this are numerous. What their name is, where they grew up, what school they went to, even how they pronounce the letter “H” are all considered tells (for anyone interested, Haitch is considered the Catholic way and Aitch is Protestant).
These days, I’m not sure most people are churchgoers in Northern Ireland, but even if you’re an atheist, you’re still a Catholic or Protestant atheist, according to the logic. Catholic is synonymous with being Nationalist and Irish, while Protestant is synonymous with being Unionist and British.
I once met a Presbyterian from Dublin and was deeply confused.
In the North of Ireland, Catholic and Protestant are binary categories.
I’m actually quite a confusing case. My name, Niamh Carroll: deeply Catholic. My dad is from Dublin: again a Catholic tell. But wait, I grew up in a majority Protestant area, I didn’t go to Catholic school, instead opting for a grammar that had Royal in its name.
Me da’s a Muggle; Mam’s a witch
In case you don’t get the reference in the above subheading. It’s from Harry Potter, said by the only Irish character Seamus Finnegan. It took me much too long to realise this was a Catholic/Protestant reference (perhaps unsurprising given the fact the character also has a perchant for blowing stuff up, and, you know, JK Rowling in general).
Like Rowling’s stereotypical Fenian, I too, am I a half-blood. My dad is from Dublin and raised Catholic, my mum is from the North and raised Protestant. Neither are particularly fervent, either in religion or in national identity.
That both of my parents were fairly calm on Ireland’s identity divide was by no means predetermined.
On my dad’s side, my great-grandfather was shot by the infamous British army ‘Black and Tans’ while watching a football match as a 15 year old. The shooting saw British forces essentially open fire on a crowd. He survived the 1920 Bloody Sunday attack and went on to meet my great-grandmother and have children.
On my mum’s side, my great-grandfather signed the Ulster Covenant, a declaration from men and women of Ulster, which said they wanted to remain in Britain and not as part of Ireland. As a devout Presbyterian, he was also an Orangeman. Today, the Orange Order is largely associated with marches and a fair bit of sectarianism (for example, attending Catholic Mass is forbidden, even sometimes in the case of funerals).
Despite all these, neither my mum or my dad (or my late Granny or Nana) had the slightest sectarian bone in their body. And I don’t think that’s any small feat when Ireland has for centuries been bitterly divided and the two families stood firmly on either side of the divide.
Who Am I?
In my blood flows two sides of history, traditionally diametrically opposed (is it any wonder I’m bad at making decisions). Growing up in a place where the two identities are binary, it’s kind of impossible to be both.
Under the Good Friday Agreement, people in the North of Ireland have the right to identify as British, Irish or Northern Irish, or indeed any combination of the three.
I’ve always been more drawn to being Irish. Trips over the border to see family cemented a feeling that having been born and raised on the island of Ireland, I am Irish. I have an Irish passport and I’d like to see a United Ireland.
Plus Irishness has always held slightly more clout than my Ulster-Scots roots. From Irish folklore, to trad music, to Bono; Ireland has always been something of a cultural heavyweight.
Politically, Irish Nationalism can also claim anti-imperialism and a history of solidarity with other oppressed peoples in its past.
It’s a clichéd trope but people from all over do love to claim their Irish heritage. Americans will latch onto that one great-granny who is Irish, and middle-class English lefties will tell you they are actually Irish because their mum was born there, as if that makes them some sort of protected class.
By contrast, the image of Protestanism and Unionism is less great. I’ve written this in the run-up to the biggest cultural occasion for Unionists in Northern Ireland, the Twelfth of July. On the Eleventh Night, people light bonfires to celebrate the occasion. It’s a long-running tradition, but one where its commonplace to burn Irish tricolours as well as posters and effigies of political opponents. Nothing there to feel much pride in as someone with blood from “both sides”.
What else do people relate with Ulster Protestanism? The DUP maybe. Again, not exactly a source of great pride.
As a left-leaning teenager, I wanted to cling to my Irishness and eschew any Protestant or Unionist connections. But I realised that I will forever be a bit of both, and that’s okay.
My granny, who came from a long-line of Protestant and unionist stock, was a truly generous soul and would never have passed judgement for anyone for anything, and definitely never did for being a Catholic. I’m extremely proud to be the granddaughter of that lady, daughter of an Orangeman. By extension, I’m proud of that whole side of my family. Being Irish should and does not mean forgetting about a whole half of my heritage.
Having said that, you won’t catch me humming The Sash at a bonfire on Thursday night.
Does any of it even matter?
When I was younger, I remember my parents saying we came from a “mixed background”.
Now, I imagine for another unversed in Northern Irish lore, this would sound very strange. Looking from the outside: that’s two white people, speaking the same language with fairly similar accents, both from Christian backgrounds and born on the same landmass- what is mixed about that?
I learnt a secret when I left Northern Ireland: everyone thinks we’re the fucking same anyway. People might ask, are you Catholic or Protestant? But honestly, it doesn’t have the same meaning to them.
In the 1970s, I reckon Brits thought people from the North of Ireland were all terrorists, now they think we’re all Derry Girls’ characters (the peace dividend in action there).
And, you know despite centuries of history suggesting otherwise, I actually think they’re right. We do speak the same, we have the same sense of humour, despite a lack of seeing eye-to-eye, I actually think we get each other.
A little bit of distance, and I’ve realised I was looking at it the wrong way, my two sides of heritage aren’t opponents afterall, they’re neighbours. Time for us to all grow up and get on with it.
Before I get too philosophical, I’ll leave you with one of the best five minutes of TV ever. Enjoy (and make sure you cry like I do, everytime).
Love,
Niamh xx