Louise O'Neill: 'We drove home, joking about finally having a doctor in the family'
Pictured award-winning author and columnist Louise O'Neill, who received an Honorary Degree of Doctor of Law from University College Cork at its School of Law conferring ceremony on Friday Pic: Daragh Mc Sweeney/Provision
THE letter arrived in the summer of 2019. It was on UCC headed paper, it looked official, but I was wary. Like John Banville, being told he had won the Nobel Prize in Literature, was I the victim of an elaborate hoax? A follow-up email from the President of the University put paid to any suspicions and a date in May 2021 was pencilled into the diary. It seemed like a lifetime away. So much could happen in two years, after all.
Anyway. You know what happened. I put that letter to one side, and while I thought about it wistfully from time to time, I presumed it wouldn’t happen. The woman who had been my point of contact, a professor at the University, had been seriously ill with Covid and it would have been inappropriate to email and say: “Hi! Remember me? What about MY thing?” There were much more important things going on, of course, but as everyone who has had a wedding or a Christmas party or a family reunion cancelled because of the pandemic will know, there’s a small, selfish part that wants to wail “why me?”.
So, when the next email from UCC popped up in my inbox, an itinerary laid out for November 19, I tried not to get too excited. That’s what we have had to do during all of this, isn’t it? Temper our expectations. Be prepared for plans to be changed, to be cancelled; be prepared for disappointment.
But reader, it actually happened. Last week, I was awarded an Honorary Doctorate in Law from the University of Ireland through University College Cork. It was especially poignant to receive the honour from UCC given the first graduation I ever attended was on that campus. I was maybe five years old and there are photos of me, standing at the edge of the quad, my aunt Anne’s mortarboard half-covering my eyes as I grinned at the camera.
Things were a little different this time, as my family and I were escorted into the President’s drawing-room so I could gown up in the red and purple robes. Waiting outside the door at the Student’s Centre where the ceremony was taking place, my heart started to beat a little faster, and I tried not to look nervous as I followed the Chancellor and Registrar onto the stage.
Professor Louise Crowley gave her citation and although I had scoffed when advised to bring tissues, I was afraid I might cry when I heard her generous words. (Don’t you dare, I told myself sternly. Not with this amount of makeup on!) Then it was my turn to give a speech.
No more than five minutes, so I chose my words carefully. It was such an honour, not just to be given the doctorate, but to be able to speak at the graduation ceremony.
How exciting! How daunting! I wish every one of them the best of luck.
When I began writing in 2012, all I wanted to do was tell stories that would start a conversation. But you can’t control how big that conversation will become and I certainly could never have imagined that I would be given an honour of this magnitude, not even 10 years later. (I’ve struggled with Imposter Syndrome all week, don’t worry.) There are so many things I will remember from that day.
The incredible welcome given to me and my family by John O’Halloran, Louise Crowley, Jean van Sinderen-Law, Ursula Kilkelly, Linda Foley and Deirdre Murray, amongst many others. The delight I felt in joining a community that is doing its best to ensure the campus is a safe space, especially with its Bystander Intervention programme which educates staff and students on how to step in and speak up in situations of sexual violence and misconduct.
But most of all, what I will remember is the look on my parents’ faces as we stood in the quad after the ceremony. The bustle of students rushing past in their sharp suits and nice dresses, their black gowns half askew, the burnt orange of the leaves, the ivy crawling up the stone walls, a shiver of winter in the cold air. Us, in the middle of it all, half-laughing at the improbability of the whole thing. My parents looked something more than proud, more than joyful even.
This time 15 years ago, I was in hospital being treated for anorexia. I don’t know if she’s going to make it, my father told my mother after one visit, tears in his eyes.
But they never gave up. They loved me and they supported me and they told me yes, of course, you can write a book. We just want you to be happy, they said. We just want you to survive, is what they meant. I couldn’t have done any of this without them. When the ceremony was over and we drove home, joking about finally having a doctor in the family, I leaned forward and touched their hands.
Thank you, I wanted to say. I made it. I’m still here and it’s because of you.
