Two American Virgins in Dingle

Dingle, Co. Kerry

The one poem I ever wrote is about losing my virginity. Entitled Virginity, it's a racy love poem penned to the first man I ever knew, it's words etched indelibly in my mind. My poem idealizes the first time. I remember all the words to Virginity. I've rehearsed it out loud when walking alone, and I've evolved a dramatic reading just begging to be performed. What was once a secret between lovers is no more - the bloom is off the rose now; this poem is just made for the mic. Tonight could be my first time reciting it publicly. But somehow, first times never go the way you imagine they will.

We are in the second floor room of a pub in Dingle. A few single candles illuminate the scaly wallpaper; oil portraits hang on the walls. A pyramid of turf bricks flames low in the fireplace. People, old and young, have come here tonight to sing. They sit in a ring of chairs against the walls. Once most of the chairs are filled, the solos begin.

Each voice is unique, unaccompanied by instruments. One after the other, when moved to, each singer begins. Each song is old and affecting. Each person is the pinpoint of attention in the quiet room, the song pouring from their soul. The old songs convey legendary messages about life. It is the folk music of Ireland, the songs of old, some of which are not recorded, and some of which exist nowhere except in this room.

I feel so privileged to be in this room, a witness to such beauty. I feel such peace from the singing, such wonder at the ancient words. They it slowly dawns on me that I'm expected to sing too. Not good.

The singing continues. My travel companion, always quick to catch on, realizes our dilemma and plays musical chairs to avoid his turn. I sit still like a deer caught in headlights, my turn getting closer. Soon it will be my turn, the room waiting expectantly for my performance, for me to share, to entertain, and to reveal a piece of my soul.

Earlier, I'd come by the pub to ask the bartender about the music tonight. "Music?" he asked. "There's no music tonight." Then I showed him the handwritten note from friend. "Oh, singing. Yes. Come later."

We came back to the pub too early. We drank. We played games where we measured out our gulps on an old scale. I watched the people, captivated by a pair, an older man and woman. The woman was beautiful, red hair, dressed in lilac and earrings - she looked like an ageing star. Her companion was a true gentleman, keeping her glass full. They delighted in each other's company, laughing. Two others joined them, a blonde woman with the same vitality, and a smartly dressed man, all smiles. It was a scene from the past.

We left the dregs in our glasses, dawdled a little more: no signs of music. I thought about getting the music started myself, by stepping up onto the bar and belting out a tune. Before that happened, we left the pub. We felt impatient for waiting and hadn't the pocket money to buy another round. I felt disappointed. We got into our car, ready to go. Then my friend rushed up to the windshield. "The singing is about to start upstairs," she said. We followed her back into the pub.

We entered the room, and I recognized people seated. The bartender. The foursome from downstairs. My friend leaned over to tell me they were four siblings -- very famous singers in Ireland. It all made sense

I look across the room at the foursome of siblings. They are serious about this singing thing. They hold hands when singing to show each other support. And they are probably wondering who the heck I am, and why am I here tonight, if not to sing? I loved hearing them sing. One woman's voice was like a silvery trumpet, gorgeously clear and pure.

Then it is my turn, and all eyes shine on me. I sizzle with embarrassment in my hot seat, trying to pass, but the room is not having it. The older guys in the corner would really like to me perform. After all, I've been clearly enjoying the singing, it is only fit that I chime in too.

My brain is churning, the blood burning, what can I do? I have don't have much of a singing voice, so I decide to recite a bit of poetry. I launch into it:

"Doubt though the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move,

Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt I love."

The room is silent. After hundreds of year of English oppression, Shakespeare is not a big hit with this crowd. Virginity would have gone over better, even in this sexually repressed country. But using Shakespeare as a ruse removes me from the hot seat.

"What?" the raven-haired man seated two seats away did not hear my performance. "Can you say it again?"

Well, it's not exactly an encore, but I repeat it nonetheless.

Later, at a jazz festival in Sligo, I'll hear Rufus Reid speak. He's a famous American jazz-bassist who's had the privileged of playing with all the greats. He cautioned the young audience against getting up on the bandstand before they're ready to. If they want to sit in with their favorite bands, they'll be expected to know how to play. Don't get up on the bandstand if you don't know how to play. Doing so is an insult to the professionals on the bandstand.

In this room, it is quite the same. If you are in the room, you are expected to perform. My travel partner and I really shouldn't have been there tonight. Our entire lives did not prepare us for this special moment in Ireland.

Each culture has its own history of folk music, but not all cultures have a modern practice of performing the songs. American culture is one that likes to be entertained, but we are a bunch of amateur entertainers ourselves. We turn on the boob tube or the radio, tuning in to the professionals, directing our need for these basic form of human expression - song, dance, storytelling, and music - away from ourselves. My travel companion and I both feel utterly inexperienced as entertainers - we feel we have no repertoires; our memories are of pop songs and commercials. My travel companion's best party trick is to walk on his hands. We laugh later about how this would have gone over. The Irish have directed this need to be entertained toward themselves, though it is dying out; theirs is a repertoire of song, dance, and story that stretches back over time.

What happened to the hootenannies of the American prairie? What happened to the town jam sessions in living rooms, with mother and son, sister and brother playing music together? They are tuned out by the barrage of media on the airwaves.

But, though we are amateurs, the singers are kind and generous to us, in the true Irish way. A woman sways from the Irish repertoire to an American slave song from the south. The words are about slaves who worked so hard they died standing up. I recognize the blue notes and familiar swing. It is a sad song about the lives of another oppressed people. "For the Americans in the house," she says at the end.

Following her lead, the man after her sings Amazing Grace. My friend leans over and asks me why everyone knows this song? I'm wondering the same thing about all the songs I've heard tonight. Then my friend sings a liberation song from Central America. The common thread in all the songs is the human need for love and freedom.

In Ireland, the people still gather and sing unaccompanied. They sing the songs of old, keeping the rich folkloric lineage alive on the tongues and lips of the present. Tonight in Dingle, we were privileged to witness such singing. Where brothers and sisters sit beside one another, holding hands, eyes luminous.

It is an evening of new experiences for us Americans. Not so bad for our first time. I'll keep practicing my Virginity poem because my performance can only get better.

Written by Liz O'Malley - Summer of Travel 2007