Final Post- The New Journalism?
In our literature and journalism module, we studied all about “The New Journalism” that is imminently approaching. Although the style of memoir writing is not really considered a facet of the new style of journalism, I thought that as my last post, I would include my most prized piece of writing to date, my memoir extract for you viewers to enjoy.
It’s certainly been fun these last 12 weeks. I learned that journalism is changing, whether we like it or not and we can either embrace it or renounce it. Being a technological dunce, this module has helped me dramatically to develop my technical skills, including making hyperlinks and starting my very first blog. I have really enjoyed blogging these past 12 weeks and hope that it is not something that I am going to give up.
Thanks to everyone whose taken the time to read my waffle and I hope I have raised even one question in your minds about journalism at present or its future, or better yet, answered a niggling one. It’s been fun!!!!!
Extract from “Daddy’s Girl”
“… Sit down girls. I’ve got something to tell yis.”
I turned in the direction of the voice to find my mam’s petite silhouette filling the doorway. Her usually youthful demeanour had dramatically aged overnight. Her radiant hazel eyes had lost its sparkle and deep circles accompanied them. The Olympic bed-jumping tournament that Rebecca and I were currently engaged in would have to wait. Mammy had something important say.
As mam entered granny’s bedroom come sitting room, Rebecca and I clambered to the edge of the bed, our legs struggling to skim the concrete below. The black military coat, that normally complimented mam’s slight frame, seemed to be smothering her today. She knelt down in front of us, clasping one of our hands in each of hers. Flashing us a quivering smile, she moist hands gave ours a little squeeze before beginning to speak.
“Emmmmm, I have something to tell yis,” she stammered.
Immediately, my mind began to drift. An ocean of possibilities was racing through my head. “Maybe Mammy is getting us new toys,” I thought to myself, as a little smile began to pull at the sides of my mouth.
“Before I tell yis this,” she continued “I just want to tell yis that I love yis with all my heart and I will never stop being your mammy. You and Becky are the most important things in my life and yis will never stop being my babies.”
Mammy’s voice began to break and she was having trouble swallowing. I realised that toys were no longer on the agenda.
“Is Daddy home yet?” Rebecca asked.
Daddy had been on a little holiday the last couple of days and was due back today. I couldn’t wait to see him. I longed to feel his strong arms envelop me as he tells me that my next door neighbour and I will be best friends again soon.
Mammy’s response to Becky’s question was reflected in the tears augmenting in her eyes.
“Sweetheart, Daddy isn’t coming home. He wants to live somewhere else.”
Instantly, Rebecca clasped her rosy-cheeked face in her chubby hands and began to sob uncontrollably. Mam cradled her tightly, rocking her gently back and forward. For me, the information hadn’t sunk in. At that point, I experienced a unique sensation, one that took years to fully comprehend. I was an outsider, an outsider looking in on three people who hearts were breaking before my eyes. The most distressing part of the whole situation, however, was that I was paralysed to stop it.
The true meaning of Mammy’s news suddenly swept over me like a cold wave on a summers day and I crumpled like yesterday’s newspaper. I bawled until my eyes were stinging and raw. Mammy tried to console us to the best of her abilities but to no avail. We hugged and cuddled for what felt like hours.
When we emerged from our group hug, relatives began to pour into the room, each in turn trying their best to cheer all three of us up. It was only Aunty Lorraine who came well prepared. Safety in numbers she probably thought. After hugging both Rebecca and I, she produced two tissues to wipe away our tears and thick trails of snot. In her other pocket was a large packet of Oatfield Emeralds, our favourite sweets.
Although the continuous chewing and injection of sugar was certainly calming, it would not clog the gaping hole that now existed in me and my little sister. This void could not be filled with more sweets, with toys, with money, with holidays or time off school, even though in the years that followed, we got copious amounts of each.
My parents’ separation appeared, at the time, to be extremely unforeseen. As perceptive as I was at seven years of age, I would never have recognised its culminating factors. For months beforehand, I lay awake at night listening to the muffled voices of my parents through my pillow, yelling about how much time my father spent at work. Work was certainly not the only bone of contention. The amount of time that we spent with my father’s family, the countless favours my father did for them and money worries were also high on the agenda.
My parents’ relationship dramatically changed after Lee arrived. Lee was to be Holy God’s final gift to my parents. As time progressed, Mammy seemed to having quite a few problems. These included a trip to the hospital while on holiday in New York as well as an unusual increase in the size of her bump. One weekend, my parents took a trip to Limerick to visit Mammy’s cousin Marion. Upon their return, however, Mammy’s bump had disappeared, yet there was no baby girl to show for it.
Subsequently, home was not a place Daddy wanted to be anymore. If there were any extra shifts available at the bar, my father volunteered for them. Eventually, he became a stranger in our house, a figment of my imagination.
One night, while Mammy was tucking me in, I blurted out “I’ll say sorry.”
“What for?” Mammy jokingly enquired.
“For whatever I did that made Daddy leave.”
Upon hearing this, the quirky smile slipped from my mother’s face as she began to brush the first few tears from my cheeks.
“Oh, sweetheart.” my mam said soothingly. “None of this is your fault, nor is it Becky’s. Daddy didn’t leave because of you or Becky. Daddy left because he didn’t love Mammy anymore. But make no mistake; he loves you and Becky so much.”
As unambiguous as this may have seemed, the logic of a child complicates things immensely. I spent hours milling everything over in my mind, trying to look at my circumstances from all angles.
“If Daddy loves me,” I would say, “as Mammy says he does, then why doesn’t he ever see me? Better yet, why did he leave in the first place? Why didn’t he just say sorry to Mammy for what he did and then everything would be okay?”
It was a year before my father began to visit us. He would arrive at our doorstep, always late, and always with a different excuse for his tardiness. We had several favourite haunts, including the chipper, my granda’s house or the beach to watch the sun set. My father never really made a connection with us. He had a predetermined selection of questions for us, such as ‘how’s school?’ or ‘anything new with you?’ to which we had predetermined answers.
Daddy’s visits began as regular ‘interruptions’ in our week, but as time progressed, these interruptions dwindled. His excuses lost their originality until his excuses ran out altogether. He started to drift in and out of our lives again like an ill fated wind. After this, our communication switched to telephone calls. His phone calls were brief and vague, with his mind firmly fixed on getting back to work. His calls soon resembled his visits, with numbers declining by the week.
The effects of my father’s sudden departure were starting to show. I found it hard to feel safe, even in my own home. I memorised Mammy’s night time routine, counted the number of stairs and familiarised myself with the varying sounds of the internal doors. Any upset to this routine caused me to sit upright in bed, listening intently to Mammy’s movements. I would wake up in cold sweats are dreaming that Mammy was gone. I was unable to be left on my own and loathed when Mammy left us with a babysitter.
One humid September evening, there was a thundering rap on the door. Not expecting any guests, Mammy curiously went to investigate. She opened the door to find my father standing on the doorstep; turning up unannounced being his specialty.
“What do you want?” Mammy enquired.
“I need to speak to the girls. It’s important.”
Reluctantly, she allowed him back into the house. As the credits of Home and Away were rolling, the sound on the television was muted.
“Hey,” Becky exclaimed aggressively, “put that back on!”
“Daddy wants to tell yis something,” Mammy replied, equally interested in the important news my father possessed.
Turning to face Rebecca and me, my father began to clear his throat. With anticipation making my spine tingle, my father finally broke the silence.
“You’re going to have a new sister!”
The End.
