Tag Archives: an Ghaeilge

More on the Tally Stick

A while back, I wrote a short piece in answer to Maureen Hurley. At the end of that article, I said that I would try to write a piece on the bata scóir, so here it is.

What was the bata scóir? Well, the word bata means stick in Irish, while the word scór is a borrowing of the English word score. It means a score or notch and comes ultimately from the Old Norse skor, meaning a notch or (because of its use in tallying) a count of twenty. In other words, it means a tally stick, a device used for counting or tallying. Usually, this was a small wooden block of various forms, which was usually able to be marked with notches indicating various values and then split lengthwise so that the two parts would tally. (Also, you could place the two parts together temporarily to mark new notches on it.)

In Ireland, historically, the bata scóir has had several meanings or uses. It was principally used in the nineteenth century as a kind of time card, used by labourers to prove how many hours they had worked. For example, an tAthair Peadar in his book of 1915, Mo Sgéal Féin, says this about the bata scóir used by labourers and farmers:


Bhíodh an bata scóir acu, agus choimeádaidís araon an cúntas ar an mbata scóir.
Is amhlaidh a bhíodh an bata scóir ‘n-a dhá leath ar a fhaid, agus leath acu ag an bhfear oibre agus an leath eile acu ag an bhfeirmeóir. Nuair a bhíodh an cúntas acu
le cur síos, do thagaidís i bhfochair a chéile agus a leath féin de’n bhata ag gach duine acu. Ansan, cuir i gcás go mbéadh chúig lá oibre déanta ag an bhfear oibre, do shínfidís an dá leath-bhata suas le n-a chéile, agus do ghearfadh duine acu chúig scóir le sgiain ar an dá leath-bhata, scór, nó fáibre, i n-aghaidh gach lae oibre d’ár deineadh. Do gearfaí na fáibrí i dtreó go luighfeadh an sgian ar an dá leath-bhata i n-aonfheacht, agus go mbéadh gach fáibre geartha isteach ionta araon. Ansan do choimeádfadh gach aoinne a leath féin de’n bhata scóir, agus níor bh’fhéidir d’aoinne
acu éagcóir a dhéanamh ar an nduine eile, mar níor bh’ fhéidir scór do ghearadh amach ‘ná scór do chur isteach gan an dá leath-bhata do shíneadh le chéile airís, agus nuair a sínfí le chéile iad do chaithfeadh na fáibrí teacht isteach le n-a chéile cruinn, fé mar a gearadh iad ar dtúis.

They used to have the tally-stick, and they would both keep the account on the tally stick. It so happened that the tally-stick used to be split lengthwise into two halves, one half kept by the workman and the other half by the farmer. When they had to record the account, they would come together, each of them with his own half of the stick. Then, suppose the workman had done five days of work, they would lay the two half-sticks up against each other, and one of them would cut five scores with a knife on the two half sticks, a score, or a groove, for every day of work that was done. The grooves would be cut so that the knife would lie on both of the half-sticks together, and so that each groove would be cut into both of them. Then each one would keep his own half of the tally-stick, and neither of them could cheat the other one, because it was not possible to cut a groove out or to put a score in without laying the two half-sticks together again, and when they were laid together the grooves had to match each other accurately, just as they had originally been cut.

However, many Irish people will be aware of a more sinister meaning to the phrase bata scóir, as a device used to punish Irish-speaking children for using their native language in school. This was particularly associated with the National School system which was brought in in 1831 but the custom seems to have been used to force children to learn English before then in the hedge schools (scoileanna scairte or scoltacha scairte), unofficial local schools run in barns or outdoors by a teacher paid directly by the parents.

This practice was used in many countries where an indigenous language was supplanted by a more powerful language like English or French. The best-known example was probably the famous Welsh Not. This was a badge that was hung on the neck of a child who was heard speaking Welsh. When another child was heard speaking the language, the Welsh Not was transferred to them and so on. At the end of the day the child wearing the Welsh Not was punished. Many years ago, I was told that this was also the pattern in Donegal.

However, most accounts of the bata scóir in Ireland tend to emphasise the scoring or notching aspect. For example, a child called Pádraig Ó Cuirrín from Waterford gave the following account (collected from his father) in the collection of folklore called Bailiúchan na Scol in the 1930s (my translation):

When my grandfather was going to school he used to speak Irish and a Bata Scóir was placed around his neck. He spoke ten words of Irish and ten notches were put in the stick for every word and then he was put outside the door. When he went home, his father gave him a blow for every notch that was in the stick.

Another account is in an Irish translation of an essay by William Smith O’Brien (written in 1893 but translated in 1905):

Ba mhinic, le deich mbliadhna is dachad do labhradh go trom ar lucht cnáide leanbh Gaedhealach scoile nuair a bheirtí ortha ag labhairt na teangan do thugadar leó ó lacht chíche a máthar, agus níl amhras ná gur bh’aithiseach an bheart í. Ní hé an cipín scóir do cuireadh ar chrochadh fé bhrághaid leanbh labhartha na Gaedhilge, mar tharcuisne ar a dteangain, fé ndeara dhi bheith ar gcúl, acht teicheadh na ndaoine thar sáile.

People have frequently spoken critically for the last fifty years about those tormenters of Irish-speaking school children when they were caught speaking the language they were given from their mother’s milk, and there is no doubt that this was a shameful act. It was not the tally-stick which was hung around the neck of children who spoke Irish to scorn the language which was the reason for its decline but the emigration of people overseas.

(The original version is: Bitter things have been said of those who in the last fifty years were used to chide Irish school children caught lapsing into their own mother-tongue; and no doubt it was a sorry spectacle. But it was emigration, not the ferule of the old pedants, that drove the Irish language out of fashion.)

An article called The Hedge Schools of County Limerick by Tony Lyons states that the bata scóir did not originate in the National School system but in the earlier hedge schools. In some places, according to Lyons, the individual schoolmasters were favourable to the Irish language but in others, they used bataí scóir or ‘tally sticks’ to discourage pupils from speaking the language. These were sometimes called by other names. In Kerry it was known as a cingulum or singulum.

Sir William Wilde in 1853 mentioned seeing a man hearing his child speaking Irish and marking a tally around his neck (called a scoreen or scóirín) so that he could be punished.

All this is very interesting but very contradictory. Anybody examining this and other evidence will quickly realise that there is a very clear difference between the standard nationalist polemic about the bata scóir and the reality.

The polemic has it that the English came into Ireland and as part of a concerted campaign of cultural genocide, they imposed compulsory education in English and cruelly punished any children who spoke their own native language, regardless of their parents’ wishes, by hanging a badge of shame around their necks called a tally or a bata scóir and beating them accordingly.

How do the facts differ from the polemic version?

1. The use of the tally stick began in the hedge schools, which were nothing to do with the English.

2. The tallies were certainly used in the National Schools but the National Schools were not compulsory, Compulsory education was not brought in in Ireland until 1893, sixty years after the National Schools. Many schools in Ireland had begun teaching Irish by this time.

3. The idea that the very word bata scóir struck shame and anger into the hearts of Irish speakers throughout the nineteenth century is false. The main use of the term was for a kind of device for counting the hours or days worked by a labourer.

4. Not only did parents not have to send their children to a National School, they were often part of the system of punishment, carrying out the beatings. In some cases, it is stated that the tally was used to prevent children speaking Irish outside school, not inside it. The painful truth is that Irish-speaking parents bowed to strong cultural and economic pressures (many derived from the English – they aren’t blameless in this) in trying to prevent their own children from speaking Irish. They did this because they feared that their children would end up starving in Boston or Birmingham because they couldn’t get a job in an English-speaking environment.

5. We have no idea what the original bata scóir would have looked like and as far as I know, there are no examples of a bata scóir in existence. Pictures purporting to be bataí scóir on the internet are fakes, tally sticks with a different purpose from Germany or Canada.

Cassidese Glossary – Pussy (Weak male)

For some time now, some of my on-line friends have advised me to provide a version of CassidySlangScam without the invective aimed at Cassidy and his supporters. In response to that advice, I am working on providing a glossary of the terms in Cassidy’s ludicrous book How The Irish Invented Slang with a short, simple and business-like explanation of why Cassidy’s version is wrong.

In his etymological hoax, how the Irish Invented Slang, the late Daniel Cassidy claimed that pussy in the sense of a vulva comes from the use of pusa in the plural to mean vagina in Irish. (He was unable to provide any proof that this expression pusa actually existed in Irish with the meaning of vagina.) Pussy in the sense of ‘Don’t be a pussy’ is apparently (according to Cassidy), nothing directly to do with vaginas and not directly linked to his imaginary word pusa, meaning vagina. It comes from pusachán or pusaire meaning a cry-baby or a whimperer. Not only is there no evidence at all in support of this theory, strangely, there is no reference to people being referred to as a pusser or a pussahawn in American slang, and the phrase ‘Don’t be a pussy’ was unknown in Ireland until Hollywood made us aware of it.

Pussy is an ancient English expression for a vagina, and in America males who are regarded as weak or effeminate are traditionally insulted by comparing them to a vagina. (In fact, in Irish the same is true – the term piteog, which literally means a little vagina, is used by ignorant Irish speakers of males considered effeminate or gay.)

Cassidese Glossary – Oliver

For some time now, some of my on-line friends have advised me to provide a version of CassidySlangScam without the invective aimed at Cassidy and his supporters. In response to that advice, I am working on providing a glossary of the terms in Cassidy’s ludicrous book How The Irish Invented Slang with a short, simple and business-like explanation of why Cassidy’s version is wrong.

Daniel Cassidy informs us in his etymological hoax How The Irish Invented Slang, that the obsolete slang term for the moon, oliver, comes from the Irish oll ubh óir, a great golden egg. This is one way (a wrong way – it should be ollubh óir) of saying big golden egg in Irish, though certainly not the usual way (ubh mhór óir) but why óir? Why golden? Surely the moon is always regarded as silvery, in contrast to the golden quality of the sun? I don’t know the real origin of oliver though folklore apparently links it to Oliver Cromwell and his bald pate. But I don’t believe it comes from oll ubh óir, which makes no sense at all.

 

Cassidese Glossary – Mac, Mack

For some time now, some of my on-line friends have advised me to provide a version of CassidySlangScam without the invective aimed at Cassidy and his supporters. In response to that advice, I am working on providing a glossary of the terms in Cassidy’s ludicrous book How The Irish Invented Slang with a short, simple and business-like explanation of why Cassidy’s version is wrong.

In Daniel Cassidy’s etymological hoax, How The Irish Invented Slang, Cassidy claims that this expression, used as an address to strangers in America, comes directly from the Irish word mac, which means son. On the face of it, this looks fairly convincing.

However, we need to examine such claims closely and objectively. The first problem is quite simply, why is this only an American expression? If it really came from Irish, surely you would expect Irish people to use it commonly? This is not the case.

Secondly, the term mac(k) is used to address people. The Irish language has a special case, the vocative, which is used to address people or animals or objects. Thus someone called Seán will be addressed in Irish as a Sheáin (a hyine). Someone called Máire will be addressed as a Mháire (a wyra).

In fact (as is usual in our language) it’s a little bit more complicated than that. As I mentioned in relation to the expression a stór, the grammar books specify that if an expression is metaphorical, then the word simply changes at the start (if it can change). Thus if you address someone as your treasure, you say a stór. If for some reason you are addressing a real box of treasure, you will make the full vocative change and say a stóir. If you don’t speak any Irish, don’t worry too much about this. All you need to know is that there are two ways of using mac in the vocative, a mhac (a wack) or a mhic (a vick). The former is theoretically used of someone who could be your son but isn’t, while a mhic would be used to your son.

In other words, as Irish speakers don’t say mac when addressing people, why would this expression come from Irish?

Incidentally, I’ll just share a cautionary tale with you here about how easy it is to be fooled by phoney etymologies. A few years ago, someone suggested that there was a lot of Irish in the slang of Liverpool, which is one of the most Irish places in England. One example given was the parting salutation Tara, whack!, which means something like ‘Goodbye, mate!’ This was claimed to be from Tabhair aire, a mhac! (Take care, sonny!) At the time, I thought this sounded reasonably convincing. While researching Cassidy’s book, I looked again at questions like this and found that it is almost certainly not true. Expressions like tara and tata are found in lots of dialects of English, not just Liverpudlian, and it turns out that long before Liverpudlians were known as Scousers (from a regional dish called lobscouse), they were termed whackers, which is a local English expression and probably unconnected with Irish. It is first recorded in 1768 but is not recorded in the shortened form of whack until the 1960s. Just goes to show that in etymology, even things that look convincing are often completely false.

Cassidese Glossary – Juke

For some time now, some of my on-line friends have advised me to provide a version of CassidySlangScam without the invective aimed at Cassidy and his supporters. In response to that advice, I am working on providing a glossary of the terms in Cassidy’s ludicrous book How The Irish Invented Slang with a short, simple and business-like explanation of why Cassidy’s version is wrong.

A juke joint is an old word for an inn or drinking-house in North America. It is believed to derive from the American English dialect of African origin known as Gullah, where juke or joog apparently had the meaning of wicked or unruly. In other words, it’s a rowdy or disorderly house.

Daniel Cassidy, in his book of false etymologies How The Irish Invented Slang, claimed that this comes from the Irish word diúg, which means to drain, to drink or to suck. There is absolutely no evidence for this and nobody in Irish has ever talked about a pub or inn as a teach diúgtha or teach diúgaireachta, so why would a phrase that doesn’t exist in Irish have been borrowed from Irish? It’s simply nonsense.

Cassidese Glossary – Joint

For some time now, some of my on-line friends have advised me to provide a version of CassidySlangScam without the invective aimed at Cassidy and his supporters. In response to that advice, I am working on providing a glossary of the terms in Cassidy’s ludicrous book How The Irish Invented Slang with a short, simple and business-like explanation of why Cassidy’s version is wrong.

 

In his work of fanciful and fake etymologies, How The Irish Invented Slang, Daniel Cassidy claimed that the word joint, an old slang term for a house or bar or place in general, derives from Irish. The real experts are in agreement that the word seems to have originated in the English of Ireland, though not in the Irish language. As the Online Etymological Dictionary says:

Slang meaning of “place, building, establishment” (especially one where persons meet for shady activities) first recorded 1877, American English, from an earlier Anglo-Irish sense (1821), perhaps on the notion of a side-room, one “joined” to a main room.

For Cassidy, it has no connection with joining or adjoining. To him, it comes from the Irish word díonta, which according to Cassidy means:

Díon (pron. jinn), díonta, (pron. jínnta), n., a shelter, a roof, state of being wind and watertight; fig., a shelter of any kind, a house, shack, shanty, lean-to, “roof over your head”, tent. Díonta, (pron. jínnta), p.p. sheltered (from elements), protected. Díonta = Díon, n. (Ó Dónaill, 413)

This is not an accurate account of the meanings of díon/díonta. The word díon primarily means roof in Irish. It can also be used in a more general sense to mean protection. Thus uiscedhíonach means waterproof in Irish and tú féin a chur faoi dhíon duine means to place yourself under someone’s protection. However, it would not be used to mean a shelter or hide or hut, because there are better words for that, such as foscadh or scáthlán or dídeanDíonta is simply the plural of the noun díon and means rooves (or roofs if that is your preferred spelling). Díon is also a verb in Irish and díonta can be the past participle of that verb – i.e. roofed or protected. However, words do not cross easily in Irish between grammatical categories and díonta would not be used for a roofed place or sheltered place, as Cassidy implies, any more than you would say “I took shelter in a roofed” in English.

The word díonta is also pronounced jeenta, which doesn’t sound much like joint anyway.

Cora Casta an Dátheangachais

Mar is eol do dhuine ar bith a bhfuil CassidySlangScam léite aige nó aici, bhunaigh mé an blag seo tuairim is sé bliana ó shin leis an fhírinne a insint faoi Daniel Cassidy, nach maireann, agus a chuid tuairimí craiceáilte faoi bhunús Gaelach bhéarlagair an Bhéarla. Bhí ról lárnach ag an dá theanga (an Ghaeilge agus an Béarla) sa bhlag seo ón chéad lá riamh ach ar chúiseanna praiticiúla, is i mBéarla a bhí mórchuid na bpostálacha ar feadh fada go leor. Ar ndóigh, bhí caimiléireacht Cassidy dírithe ar Ghael-Mheiriceánaigh nach raibh Gaeilge ar bith acu, ní ar chainteoirí líofa Gaeilge in Éirinn (a d’aithneodh láithreach nach raibh i leabhar Cassidy ach raiméis) agus mar sin de, shíl mé gur chóir dom an chuid ba mhó den ábhar a chur ar fáil i mBéarla le freastal ar an phobal sin.

I dtús na bliana seo, rinne mé cinneadh Bliain na Gaeilge a chomóradh trí gach alt a chur suas sa dá theanga. Más alt gairid a bhí i gceist, chuir mé an dá leagan le chéile ar aon leathanach amháin. Leis na haltanna is faide, rinne mé dhá phostáil, ceann amháin i nGaeilge agus ceann eile i mBéarla. An cheist atá ann, áfach, ar chóir dom leanúint ar aghaidh leis an bheartas dhátheangach seo san athbhliain?

Cé go bhfuil an-dúil agam sa Ghaeilge agus cé go dtugaim tacaíocht don dátheangachas sa tír seo agus i dtíortha eile a bhfuil mionlach teanga ann, tá seans maith nach mbeidh mé ag leanúint ar aghaidh leis an bheartas seo in 2019. Beidh postálacha dátheangacha anseo, cinnte, ach ní chuirfidh mé dhá leagan de gach alt ar fáil.

Cén fáth? Bhal, ar an chéad dul síos, is dócha nach bhfuil na leaganacha Gaeilge de dhíth. Tuigeann gach Gaeilgeoir (bhal, gach Gaeilgeoir ciallmhar!) nach bhfuil i saothar Cassidy ach ramhaille geilte. Chuir mé an blag seo ar fáil go príomha leis an fhírinne a scaipeadh i measc leantóirí Cassidy i Meiriceá. Is beag duine a léann na leathanaigh Ghaeilge i gcomparáid leis na leaganacha Béarla.

Ar an dara dul síos, tá acmhainní ag comhlachtaí móra a gcuid doiciméad a aistriú go Gaeilge. Is duine aonair mise, atá ag iarraidh éagóir a cheartú agus an fhírinne a scaipeadh. De ghnáth, scríobhaim na píosaí s’agamsa i mBéarla ar dtús – cé gur scríobh mé dornán acu i nGaeilge agus d’aistrigh mé go Béarla iad. Ar ndóigh, is den chiall an leagan Béarla a dhéanamh ar dtús, mar go mbaineann an blag seo go príomha le leabhar a scríobhadh i mBéarla, le foinsí atá ar fail i mBéarla, agus le Gaeilge nach Gaeilge í ar chor ar bith. Ach ansin, i ndiaidh dom an bundréacht a chumadh (i nGaeilge nó i mBéarla), bíonn orm aistriúchán a chur ar fáil sa teanga eile. Ní gan dua a dhéantar sin, ar ndóigh. Agus in amanna, bíonn a thoradh sin le feiceáil i líon na meancóg agus na mílitrithe. Lena rá i mbeagán focal, cuireann sé dhá oiread níos mó brú ormsa agus is ísle caighdeán na scríbhneoireachta dá dheasca sin. Dá mbeadh a lán ama agam, ba chuma faoi sin. Ach níl. Is duine thar a bheith gnóthach mé.

Anois, beidh postálacha dátheangacha ar an bhlag seo sa bhliain 2019, gan amhras. Is maith an rud é cur leis an méid Gaeilge ar line, agus is den tábhacht a thaispeáint do lucht tacaíochta Cassidy gur fíortheanga í an Ghaeilge, teanga atá go fóill beo agus in úsáid ar bhonn laethúil agamsa, ag Ciara Ní É, ag Eoin P. Ó Murchú, ag Maitiú Ó Coimín agus ag a lán daoine eile atá ar an taobh cheart sa choimhlínt seo. Déanfaidh mé mo dhícheall cur leis an méid Gaeilge ar an tsuíomh seo. Ach ní bheidh mé ag cur gach postáil ar fáil sa dá theanga amach anseo. Tá barraíocht oibre i gceist agus níl go leor ama agam lena dhéanamh mar is ceart.

Craic Baby

Last Christmas, I received a copy of the book Motherfoclóir. As I explained in several posts here, I generally like the concept of the book, but I was less impressed with its author’s etymological skills. Recently, I happened to be in a bookshop and I saw a copy of the successor to Motherfoclóir, Craic Baby. I stood for a while and glanced through it. As with the previous book, most of it seems interesting enough. However, I did happen across a discussion of the words crack and craic. Again, I was very underwhelmed with his comments on this subject.

The facts about the origins of crack/craic are well-known and have been discussed here before. From a meaning of a loud noise in Middle English (also in Scots), it came to mean boastful talk and conversation. It’s found all over Scotland and Northern England. In more recent times, it has been Gaelicised as craic but there is no evidence that it is derived from Irish. There is also plenty of evidence that it doesn’t.

Ó Séaghdha said that there are several pieces of ‘evidence’ for the Irish origin of craic. One is the word craiceann, which means skin, but has a secondary meaning of sex, as in the phrase ag bualadh craicinn, literally beating skin. (Ó Séaghdha misspells this as ag bualaidh, which is an elementary mistake.) The link between craic and craiceann is obvious nonsense. I mean, does Béarla (the Irish word for English) constitute proof that béar (bear) is an ancient Irish word? Is there an intrinsic link between skillet and skill, or kit and kitten? Of course not. And the idea that craiceann has a subsidiary meaning of sex and sex is fun so craiceann means fun is pretty silly.

Even sillier is the second piece of ‘evidence’, namely the existence of the word craiceáilte, which means cracked or crazy. While there are some native words formed with -áil or -eáil, most words with these endings are words of foreign origin. Here are some common examples: cniotáil (to knit); traenáil (to train); pacáil (to pack). These can also generate nouns for people who do things: a scíálaí is a skier, a paraisiútálaí is a parachutist. They can also form adjectives: cócaráilte means cooked, fancyáilte is fancy (in speech – you wouldn’t usually write it), and craiceáilte is cracked. In other words, this is obviously a non-Irish word.

As I say, I haven’t read this book. If I receive a copy of Craic Baby for Christmas (and there’s every chance I will), I will read it and probably enjoy most of it. However, if there’s ever a number three in the series, I do hope he resists the temptation to make any etymological speculations because he really isn’t very good at it.

 

An Nollaig seo caite, fuair mé cóip den leabhar Motherfoclóir. Mar a mhínigh mé i roinnt postálacha anseo, is maith liom coincheap an leabhair, go ginearálta, ach is lú an dúil a bhí agam i scileanna sanasaíochta an údair. Seachtain ó shin, tharla dom bheith i siopa leabhar ag amharc ar chomharba Motherfoclóir, Craic Baby. D’fhan mé i mo sheasamh ansin ar feadh tamaill agus bhreathnaigh mé ar roinnt leathanach. Mar a bhí leis an leabhar roimhe, bhí an chuid ba mhó de measartha spéisiúil. Agus sin ráite, tháinig mé ar phlé ar an fhocal craic, nó crack. Agus arís eile, is beag an meas a bhí agam ar na rudaí a bhí le rá aige faoin ábhar seo.

Pléadh na fíricí faoi bhunús craic/crack anseo agus in áiteanna eile. Fuaim ard an chiall a bhí le crack sa MheánBhéarla (agus san Albainis fosta), agus ansin fuair sé ciall eile, mar atá, caint ghlórach mhórtasach. Tá an focal le fáil ar fud na hAlban agus Thuaisceart Shasana fosta. Le blianta beaga anuas, rinneadh Gaelú ar an fhocal mar chraic, ach nil aon fhianaise ann gur tháinig sé ón Ghaeilge. Agus tá a lán fianaise ann nár tháinig sé ón Ghaeilge, ar ndóigh.

Dúirt Ó Séaghdha go bhfuil cúpla píosa ‘fianaise’ ann le bunús Gaelach an fhocail craic. Ceann de na píosaí fianaise seo ná an focal craiceann, a bhfuil an chiall thánaisteach ‘gnéas’ leis, ar ndóigh, mar shampla, sa fhrása sin ‘ag bualadh craicinn’. (Mílitríonn Ó Séaghdha an focal seo mar bualaidh – is meancóg bhunúsach é sin.) Is léir gur raiméis é an nasc idir craic agus craiceann. Mar shampla, an gcruthaíonn an focal Béarla gur focal ársa Gaeilge é béar? An bhfuil baint idir camall agus scamall? Agus is amaidí fosta an tuairim a nochtann Ó Séaghdha go gciallaíonn craiceann gnéas agus is mór an spórt é gnéas agus mar sin de, is ionann craiceann agus craic!

Tá an dara píosa ‘fianaise’ níos amaidí fós, is é sin, go bhfuil an focal craiceáilte ann. Mar a thuigfidh Gaeilgeoir ar bith arbh fhiú an t-ainm, is comhartha é -eáilte gur focal gallda fréamh an fhocail m.sh. traenáilte agus postáilte agus péinteáilte. Lena rá ar dhóigh eile, cruthaíonn foirm an fhocail craiceáilte nach focal dúchasach é craic.

Mar a dúirt mé, níl an leabhar seo léite agam. Má fhaighim cóip de Craic Baby don Nollaig (agus tá gach seans ann go bhfaighidh), léifidh mé é agus is dócha go mbainfidh mé sult as an chuid is mó de. Agus sin ráite, má scríobhann Ó Séaghdha an tríú leabhar sa tsraith choíche, tá súil agam nach mbacfaidh sé le tuilleadh buillí faoi thuairim a thabhairt faoin tsanasaíocht, mar is cinnte nach bhfuil tuairim dá laghad aige faoi stair na bhfocal.

Cá huair nach troll é troll?

Sa bhliain 2013, thosaigh mé ar an bhlag seo a choinneáil mar fhreagra ar leabhar Daniel Cassidy, How The Irish Invented Slang. Bhí fuath agam don leabhar seo, agus ní gan chúis: tá dúil mhór agam sa Ghaeilge, agus bhí leabhar Cassidy lán den Ghaeilge bhréagach nach raibh baint dá laghad aici le fíorGhaeilge; bhí Cassidy iontach maith ag lí roimhe agus ina dhiaidh agus ag plámásaíocht le daoine a raibh cairde sa chúirt acu agus bhain sé úsáid as na naisc seo a bhí saothraithe aige chomh cúramach sin le cuma an léinn a chur ar shaothar nach bhfuil pioc níos léannta ná leabhair Erich von Daniken; chruthaigh Cassidy íomhá den radacacht, agus mar gheall air sin, rinneadh ionsaí ar aon iarracht an fhírinne a insint faoi Cassidy agus a chuid caimiléireachta agus maíodh nach raibh ann ach iarracht clíceanna mistéireacha Anglaifíleacha a chosaint i saol na teangeolaíochta. Agus mé ag déanamh taighde ar Cassidy, fuair mé amach (ó dheirfiúr Cassidy) gur theip air a chéim a fháil ó Cornell agus nach bhfuil míniú ar bith ar ghairm Cassidy mar ‘ollamh’ ag New College of California ach calaois lom neamhleithscéalach.

Ó thosaigh mé ag blagáil cúig bliana ó shin, is minic a cáineadh mé. Ar roinnt ócáidí, tugadh troll orm. An uair dheireanach dar tugadh troll orm, bhí sé roinnt míonna ó shin, nuair a thug deartháir Cassidy, Michael, an t-ainm maslach sin orm.

Mar sin de, tá mé ag machnamh ar na mallaibh faoi cad é go díreach a chiallaíonn an focal troll agus shíl mé go roinnfinn mo chuid smaointe le léitheoirí an bhlaig seo. I dtús báire, b’fhéidir gur chóir dúinn amharc ar shainmhíniú coitianta den téarma troll, cosúil leis an cheann seo ó Wikipedia:

In Internet slang, a troll is a person who starts quarrels or upsets people on the Internet to distract and sow discord by posting inflammatory and digressive, extraneous, or off-topic messages in an online community (such as a newsgroup, forum, chat room, or blog) with the intent of provoking readers into displaying emotional responses and normalizing tangential discussion, whether for the troll’s amusement or a specific gain.

An chéad rud a léim amach anseo ná an chuid sin faoi ‘in an online community’ (i bpobal ar líne’). Is blag é CassidySlangScam a bhunaigh mé leis an fhírinne a nochtadh faoi leabhar Daniel Cassidy, agus chomh maith leis sin, le faisnéis a chur ar fáil faoi rudaí iontaofa agus neamhiontaofa a chum daoine eile seachas Cassidy maidir le sanasaíocht na Gaeilge. Ar na hócáidí sin nuair a d’fhág mé teachtaireachtaí ar fhóraim níos poiblí, ní dhearna mé iarracht duine ar bith a ghortú ná olc a chur orthu. Is é an phríomhaidhm a bhí agam ná faisnéis a chur ar fáil agus na bréaga agus an raiméis a scaip Cassidy agus a chuid cairde a dhíchruthú.

An fhadhb atá ann, de réir cosúlachta, ná go bhfuil a lán daoine ann a shíleann gurb ionann troll agus duine nach n-aontaíonn leosan. Níl an ceart acu. Níl mise ag iarraidh olc a chur ar dhaoine, cé gur cuma liom dáiríre má chuirim olc ar dhaoine a bhfuil an cáineadh tuillte acu. Is é fírinne an scéil – agus is fírinne é, gan amhras – gur Daniel Cassidy agus an dream liútálaithe a lean é a thosaigh seo. Iadsan a scaip bréaga, iadsan a mhaslaigh scoláirí ionraice, iadsan a rinne ionsaí ar dhuine ar bith nár aontaigh le caimiléireacht lom fhollasach. Tá liosta fada frásaí gránna, míchumtha, mímhacánta i leabhar Cassidy, frásaí nach bhfuil baint ná páirt acu leis an Ghaeilge. Sa bhlag seo, thug mé dúshlán lucht cosanta Cassidy arís agus arís eile. D’iarr mé orthu fianaise a chur ar fáil le tacú le hamaidí Cassidy, fianaise ar féidir í a dhearbhú nó a bhréagnú go hoibiachtúil. Ní dhearna duine ar bith acu raiméis Cassidy a chosaint riamh. Síleann siad gur chóir do dhaoine a dtuairimí a ghlacadh i ndáiríre, fiú nuair nach bhfuil sna tuairimí sin ach deargchumadóireacht agus nuair nach bhfuil siad sásta iad a chosaint le cruthúnas.

Is maith leis na daoine seo ligean orthu gur fear ionraic a bhí i nDaniel Cassidy, duine a raibh dea-rún aige agus nach raibh ann ach go ndearna sé roinnt meancóg. Tá an méid sin ag teacht salach ar an fhianaise go léir. Tá a lán, lán samplaí ar an bhlag seo de mhímhacántacht, de phoimpéis, d’éirí in airde agus de dhroch-chroí an duine seo. Ní raibh meas dá laghad tuillte aige. Ní raibh oiread agus trua tuillte aige.

Más dóigh le duine ar bith gur chóir dom bheith níos cineálta faoi Cassidy (agus tá mé ag déanamh go bhfuil na daoine a thugann troll orm ag maíomh nach bhfuil bunús leis na hionsaithe a rinne mé ar Cassidy), tá sé thar am acu roinnt cruthúnais a thairiscint nach bréagadóir a bhí ann.  Níor thug duine ar bith fianaise ar bith nach naircisíoch agus caimiléir a bhí in Daniel Cassidy. Agus mura dtig leo sin a dhéanamh, leanfaidh mise de bheith ag insint na fírinne agus ag rá nach bhfuil in Cassidy agus sna daoine a dhéanann an cur i gcéill seo a chosaint ach bréagadóir gan náire.

Agus gach rud ráite, dá dtiocfadh leo an blag seo a bhréagnú agus fianaise a thabhairt go raibh an ceart ag Cassidy, nach neartódh sin an cás gur troll mise? Ach má shíleann siadsan gur chóir do gach duine glacadh lena gcuid tuairimí gan fianaise, agus go bhfuil an ceart acusan teacht anseo agus mise agus daoine eile a cháineann Cassidy a mhaslú gan argóint réasúnach a dhéanamh, nach cruthú é sin gurb iadsan na troill?

Freagra ar Joe Daly

Chuir duine éigin darbh ainm Joe Daly barúil suas ar an alt a scríobh mé traidhfil de bhlianta ó shin dar teideal Did The English Ban Irish:

you dont take in to account the fact that kids where beat in school for specking Irish. while they might not have passed a law banning it their attitude towards the Irish did the same thing . even goin so far as to ban Catholic children from goin to school. Under the penal codes imposed by the British, the Irish Catholics were not allowed to have schools. and so started the rise of Hedge schools.

Tá go leor eolais agam ar stair an oideachais in Éirinn. Tá a fhios agam faoin bhata scóir agus faoi na scoileanna scairte. Tá sé ráite agam arís agus arís eile nár chuidigh Sasana pioc leis an Ghaeilge. I dtús an tseachtú haois déag, is beag duine in Éirinn a raibh Béarla aige. Ach anois, tá mo leithéidí féin, daoine a labhraíonn Gaeilge ar bhonn laethúil, tá muid chomh gann is a bhí lucht an Bhéarla anseo ceithre chéad bliain ó shin, agus is toradh díreach é sin ar bheartais a rinneadh d’aonghnó le stádas an Bhéarla a ardú agus le stádas na Gaeilge a ísliú. Mar a luaigh mé san alt sin: The fact is, of course, that the English administration in Ireland was no friend to the Irish language. Irish was progressively squeezed out of any realm of life which would have given it power or influence. I am not defending the English here.

An rud atá á rá agam (agus ní thig liom smaoineamh ar dhóigh ar bith lena rá níos soiléire), ná nach raibh an Ghaeilge in éadan an dlí in Éirinn. Níor spreagadh í, níor cothaíodh í, níor cuidíodh léi teacht slán ar dhóigh ar bith, ach níor cuireadh cosc uirthi le hacht ná reacht ná dli.  Is dócha gur chuma sa tsioc leis na Sasanaigh cad é a labhraíodh aoirí nó iascairí nó coillteoirí Gaelacha eatarthu féin, a fhad is a d’íoc siad cíos agus cáin agus deachúna le huasaicme Ghallda.

Maidir le stair na hÉireann, tá Sasana chomh ciontach leis an diabhal. Cad chuige a mbeadh ar dhuine ar bith coireanna breise a chumadh le cosúlacht níos measa a chur orthu?