Less than one hundred years since we lost the language.
I will learn.
It is not Irish. It is not Irish Gaelic.
It is Gaelic.
It is those haunting 45s my grandfather played that we could not understand but made us all silent because they sounded like home.
They called us like sirens back to Éire.
In our blood. Our bones.
A calm would fall on the room and we would all feel her pull.
Éire.
Is Éireannach mé.
Always.
No matter how many miles you tear us away.
No matter how many days, years, centuries pass.
Gach lá she lies in my soul.
I will take back my language that once you stole.
Even if I can never come home.
It beats within us.
Generation to generation.
Drummer boys in caps of verdant green.
We march for reclamation.
I speak your language because you forced me.
But it is not mine.
One day, one day, Gaeilge will settle back on my tongue, on my lips.
And no matter where I go in this world, I will be home.
Laughs and Lobotomies 