Bairbre POWER

Straight-talking New Yorkers have brought out the warrior in me — my favourite word now is ‘no’

Iused to think I was a straight talker. Then I went to New York last month — and boy, was I in for wake-up call. Verbally, the Americans shoot from the hip and spare no one’s blushes. And while I don’t always agree with the brashness of their toecurling delivery, it did get me thinking about how deferential we Irish are as a nation and how we operate on a system best summed up in two words: “It’s grand.”

But it’s not grand. Not really.

All too often, the food we order is lukewarm and over-salted, the steak rarely comes the way we wanted it to, and the wine glasses have lingering lipstick stains from the last user. Still, we say nothing.

The French would shrug their shoulders in irritation and even though they’d remain silent, the gesture would speak volumes.

Our own shoulders usually heave with a wimpish sigh of resignation.

But why? Isn’t it time we stopped being reticent about things when they are just not right? Sure, there are pros and cons to straight talking. Honesty can hurt but I’ve usually found that if you speak from the heart and with no hidden agenda, you’ll be well able to handle the fallout. Now let no one think that I’m not able to speak up for myself. At school I was a prefect, then deputy head girl so I can be ‘Bossy Bairbre’ when I need to be. But at the same time, I just wasn’t brought up to be as direct as those brash New Yorkers.

I’m a Loreto girl who was taught by Mother Hildegarde to never eat food on the street. To this day, I can’t manage more than a croissant outside without feeling her wrath, so heck, the chances of me speaking my mind and telling the bus driver on the 15 from Connolly Station that his braking skills leave a hell of lot to be desired are nil.

However, on the M11 bus from Columbus Circle down New York’s 9th Avenue, those sassy west-side lady passengers would be on the driver’s case in no time. There’s something contagious about that kind of directness. If I’d stayed in Manhattan for more than a week, I would have ended up absorbing more of it, and put it into action as well.

I could feel it coming on in the Manhattan hairdressers where

I’d gone for one of those famous big hair ‘blowouts’, only my very expensive stylist delivered something as limp as three-dayold frisee lettuce.

I expressed my disappointment and enquired if the hairdresser might do “a little root lift”?

Well, that nearly brought the unions on me and the only thing being rooted was my posterior out the door of the Fifth Avenue salon. Gazing at my sad looking vertical hair (it also had a bad case of static to boot), the salon boss suggested that I not only tip the stylist but also, what about the washing executive, the ‘hostess’ (who brought me awful coffee) and maybe something for the towel assistant too?

I inhaled sharply and pulled on the fiercest ‘resting bitch face’ I could muster before leaving almost $100 lighter.

That night in a theatre on Broadway, I watched openmouthed as a pocket sized, extremely mouthy blonde (she sounded exactly like one of the New Jersey TV reality stars) took on the 6ft tall man with the big hair sitting in front of her and insisted that he should move because he was restricting her view. To my amazement, the usherette acquiesced and the man, well, he ended up moving in front of me! Maybe it was the jet lag but I was so tired and flattened, I could barely find my voice and went home with a crick in my neck from watching the stage sideways. The night certainly lit a fire in me and somewhere over the Atlantic, as I was making lists for the weeks ahead, I wrote a battle cry on the front page of my notebook. It started off as a subconscious doodle and like Ophelia, gained momentum as we hurtled through the air. By the time we landed in Dublin, it was a fully fledged logo for life: speak up more! Since my return home. I’ve done just that. I’ve sent meals back — not in a curmudgeonly, middle aged, because-I-can sort of way, but because they were not right. With the passing of decades, I’ve become my own warrior. It comes as you gain confidence in who you are and what you want in life. However, sometimes, our verbal skills let us down. My favourite word, now, is ‘no’.

There are some things I wished I said earlier but I’ve said them now.

I don’t distinguish between family and friends, I talk plainly to both. And as for the annoying waiters who prance around with giant pepper mills and hardly wait until we have the first forkful of food in our mouths before they lean in and enquire, “Everything OK?”, I have two words. “Get lost.”