This is my English writing piece (final submission). It got me a B!! But yeah, we set the task ourselves and here was mine:
“That Scotland has lost her identity as a country and how this has affected me.”
For the Honour of Alba
“Scotland’s dead. She died in her sleep. And no-one even came to the funeral.” –Stone of Destiny
“O Scotland, Scotland!” - Macbeth
My breath was catching in my throat. I reached out my hands to Colin and locked my hands around his wrists for a tighter grip as he did the same. I could feel the beat in my throat like a pulse, like lifeblood. Was there a difference between the music and my own pulse? Which throbbing in my throat showed me to be alive? I couldn’t tell any more. I could feel the change coming in the music instinctively, and without a word Colin and I looked one another in the eye and kicked off, spinning, heartbeats and breathing changing instantly to suit the rhythm of the music. I dug back a little harder as Colin picked the pace up, using his weight to anchor me. I felt his grip tighten as we instinctively shifted our weight to keep it centred. He was much stronger than I and easily threw me from his arm and onto that of the first gent in line. I couldn’t help but give a slight chuckle as I felt his weight slip – I was only fourteen and no-one ever expected me to dance as fast or as fiercely as I did. I threw my weight back, dragging his balance back to centre then swung back onto Colin’s arm.
At the end of the night, the piper played “Scots Wha Hae” in the now candlelit room. Someone started singing and everyone in the hall eventually joined in, slowly forming a circle on the floor. The tears tumbled down my cheeks as I felt strong arms go around my shoulders, raised my arms around those on either side of me. I didn’t care who they were; they were my brother Scots and right there and then, nothing else mattered. I let my voice ring out, let it blend with a hundred others – all strong, all heartfelt, all feeling the music pulse in their chest like I was. When the song was over, a hush fell over the room. “Alba gu braith,” I muttered to no-one but myself.
When I was younger, I always looked for my identity in my nationality. I loved history; I was patriotic to a fault. My dad could amuse me for hours with stories of Scotland. The land of the brave. I was enthralled and picked out the characteristics of my people from his tales. We were hardy. We were passionate. We would fight to the death for what we believed in; if we had to fight for what we didn’t believe we fought bravely anyway. Fought to stand with our brother Scots; split our veins and spilt our lifeblood in the fields to keep our home safe.
And we were so free.
It was so easy when I compare it to more recent times in my life. When I was younger, it was simple. I was Scottish. I was so proud. I let who I was lie in my country – always a mistake! Countries are always changing, and people are always changing, so can we link one with the other? I think it’s just possible, as long as the country is not the only source of identity. We were the best nation in the world – we won! (Obviously, I had never watched Scotland play international football at this time.) We had a long, heartfelt history where we beat the usurpers time after time, we were always the victors. My views have changed so much between then and now.
As I began to grow older, as the gap between then and now shortened, I began thinking more about who I really was, and so I stated probing deeper into my country’s identity. However, as I probed into my own identity, I began to realise something. Began to realise what it meant to my hot-blooded, patriotic Scottish heart. I was actually more English than anything else. If we were technical, I was half English, one sixteenth Irish and seven sixteenths Scottish. Now I don’t hate the English by any manner or means; but a part of me was utterly ashamed and didn’t like admitting it. That part still sulks every time I say those words aloud. The Irish part of me isn’t even British; my great-great-great grandmother was from Dublin. I began to come to my current state of utter confusion. What was my nationality? What was my identity?
I began to take note of my feelings. In February of 2008, I spent a long weekend in London with some friends – a show and the sights of London. We spent the whole time being obtrusive Scottish tourists, it was fabulous fun. We met with some horrible racism through that – a nasty tone of voice, a long drawn look for trying to hand over a Scottish five pound note instead of an English one. I was genuinely amazed and utterly speechless. I knew – of course I knew – of the old rivalry between Scotland and England, but I hadn’t seen much genuine racism towards the English. Not from anyone with half a brain, anyway. I’d assumed it was all in the past. I was musing over this on the train home when I realised something. This trip to London had been just like my visits to the Midlands to visit relatives; a trip. I had no sense of being in my home country, no sense of belonging. In fact, to date, I have never felt more of an outsider than I did in London. At the time I shrugged it off, not realising its importance. Little did I know, I would soon find out the significance of how I felt in London.
With this story, I have a confession; I love the Irish accent. Bury me in “Norn Iron” and I’ll be forever happy. So of course, with my patriotic heart and my now-instinctive link to my nationality, I blamed my Irish sixteenth and said it was merely an affinity for my Celtic brothers. So, of course, I was thrilled when my parents told me a week before my sixteenth birthday that I would be spending the weekend on which my birthday fell in a little Irish town called Letterkenny. It was a simply magical weekend.
After dinner on the night of my sixteenth birthday, my dad and I grabbed jackets and scarves against the cool April air and went for a wander around Letterkenny. I quizzed him about Irish history and he was happy to fill me in. Eventually, I admitted aloud what I’d already noted several times; I felt at home here already and I’d been there for two days. No matter how many times I visited London, I was always a Scottish tourist in another country; a fish out of water, thinking of home. But in Ireland I could have lived as a native, even without the delicious accent. When, on our travels, we saw the inevitable signs of a country still split and torn by many years of civil war, it got to me. I stood and wept at the site of the bloody Sunday massacre. Something had touched my heart. I still hope to go back, and regularly. If I go back to London, the theatre will draw me there and little else.
Lately I’ve realised why looking for my identity in being Scottish left me so confused. Scotland has no identity herself. As Shakespeare wrote in Macbeth about my beautiful home;
“Alas poor country, afraid to know itself.” – Ross
If Shakespeare was wrong about the Scotland of his time, he can rest his bones assured; he may now find himself correct. For example, Scottish schools teach European history. Is it important? Yes, of course it is. But at the cost of knowing about our own country?
Earlier this year, my Higher English class were given a close reading passage written by a lady named Maggie Craig, about the position of women in Scottish history. It appears Maggie agrees with me, as she wrote;
“Our history is important. Only a country that knows where it’s been can know where it’s going.”
Proving the author’s point that Scottish history is now scarcely known, my class came up with one lady from Alba’s past. “Mary Queen of Scots.” That’s it. As a point of interest, our teacher went on to ask us to name men from Scottish history. Merely a handful of names. “William Wallace. Robert the Bruce. James VI. Robert Burns.”
I felt the breath catch in my throat. Is this what Scotland has reduced herself to? A few of the men who died in the public eye of the Scottish people for her freedom? What has happened to my – to OUR – beautiful, passionate country, so loved by her people? Where have they gone, those freedom fighters who followed the Scottish fire in their hearts until those hearts stopped beating? Scotland’s land is stained with the blood of her people, and they have been forgotten. Scotland the Brave lost the rights to her nickname.
So how did I handle discovering all this? I wasn’t even really Scottish; what did it mean if I was? Not much, it would seem. However, in the last few years, my mind has been changed again.
I was at a re-enactment of a Scottish battle a month or two ago. The battle in question was the last between the Vikings and the Scots and we stood firm and won! So every year, the people of Largs hold a festival and on the last night, re-enact the battle, burn a longship and have a legendary fireworks display. When I heard about it I was thrilled. Drama, acting and a chance to feed my patriotism. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
I’ll never forget that night. It was halfway through the battle. The bay looked black in the fading light and a breathtaking Scottish sunset was spreading over the sky. The cries of the battle were still ringing in my ears – I had been one of the first to join the actors yells of “ALBA!”. The King’s right-hand man, Alexander, was having a word with the troops. Suddenly, outlined in brilliant detail against a bruised, red-purple sunset, he bellowed “We bleed! To the DEATH! For the HONOUR of ALBA!” The cheers and yells of “ALBA! ALBA GU BRAITH!” were deafening. I could feel the heat of the blood in my veins.
I went through an exercise with some friends around the same time. We listened to a piece of music, and whilst it played, we wrote down the mental pictures we were getting. It was fun. Then someone played “Caoineadh Cú Chulainn (Lament)” from Riverdance. The tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t help it, embarrassed as I was. I had never wept at music before. With a slightly shaky hand and very blurred vision, I could add a few words to my title.
“Lament for a lost home.”
My heartfelt passion for Scotland is a huge part of me. I spend a celidh tearing up the dance floor – now we know how the Scots stayed fit enough for battle! It still hurts me, what my country has lost; the bagpipes make me cry, as do such songs as “Scots Wa Hae” and “O Flow’r O’ Scotland”. I realised that’s alright. As Macduff laments in Macbeth,
“O Scotland, Scotland!”
His cry is joined by others. The Scottish character, the Scottish identity is forgotten; she is not lost. There are still Scots who live by the same hot blood and hardy passion; the conspiritors who stole the ‘Stone of Destiny’ from underneath the English throne. Their motive? For Scotland. The stone is said to be back in Scotland on loan. A long-term loan in the opinion of the Scots. It will stay here. The hot blood of thousands died in the world’s most beautiful country for what it represents.
Will I ever see Scotland restored to her former glory and identity? No, probably not. But like Wallace; like Macduff and Robert the Bruce; and like the Jock Robinsons of our forgotten history, I will die trying. It’s the Scottish way.
“Alba gu braith.”
Scotland the Brave.
is funny, has good taste and is an AMAZING guitarist! English teacher.
Didn’t know her pre-London, but found out she is most epic.
It is LOTS of work. They aren’t going too well at the moment, to tell y’all the truth. Having problems with exam technique and losing colossal amounts of marks. 