Esther McCarthy: I have nothing but respect for the children participating in Feis Maitiú

It takes grit to start over when you mess up

Esther McCarthy: It’s daunting, 10-year-old me would have died a death having to walk out. Picture: Emily Quinn

It might be hard to believe now, but I was painfully shy as a child — outside the house. At home, I was as brazen as the next kid, but in the glare of the gaze of the general public, I shrank. I hated people looking at me.

I remember the exquisite agony of being ushered out to dance in the Owenahincha Hotel where we used to go for holidays with my aunty. The band playing, everyone swinging, I would refuse point blank to go on the dance floor.

Only my grandad Tom’s gentle request to join him would get me out there, where I counted down the seconds until I could flee back to the safety of the tables. I was convinced EVERYONE was looking at me. I’ve since realised that no one gives a jot about me because they’re all too busy worrying about themselves, and now I’ll dance literally anywhere, much to my children’s horror.

At the sides of pitches to keep warm, a seat shimmy in the car, a boogie in the kitchen, and once, I tried to moonwalk away from a particularly awkward parent/teacher meeting. It just felt like the right move at the time.

I have nothing but respect and admiration for all the children participating in the Feis Maitiú at the moment.

For the uninitiated — or those of you with the misfortune of not being from Cork — Feis Maitiú 2025 is a music and drama festival held annually in the city. 

It was part of our childhood; if you weren’t taking part (shy me) you knew someone who was, usually because they had rags in their hair for a couple of days before their slot, to achieve the fanciest hairstyle possible in 1980s Cork — ringlets.

Usually the reserve of Communions or weddings, this torturous rite of passage involved sections of hair being wrapped with torn bedsheets and knotted so tight your scalp felt like it was lifting from your skull. No fancy air wrap devices or straighteners for us. Oh no, you suffered for your tight curls back in the day.

Any kid who does drama classes or learns music in Cork can enter the feis. This year, it’s running from the end of January to the start of April, and it’s been going since 1927. It’s a big deal.

Much like my younger self, my older boys would have rather eaten their own toes with a bit of salt than go up on stage and say a poem, but the youngest fella has a bit of flair about him and enters for the first time this year.

We plead him to practice his poem or at the very least, say it for us before the big day, just so we know he knows the words, but no amount of cajoling can budge him.

“It’ll be a surprise,” he tells us firmly any time we invite him to recite it. His drama teacher is brilliant, they’ve been practicing for months, sure it’ll be grand, his dad and I tell each other. So last Saturday, we are up bright and early, the outfit is ready, the hair is coiffed (fingers racked through it for him, dry shampoo for me), and the entry form is printed and carefully placed in the handbag.

We queue with the other excited parents and the potential future Cork Oscar winners, traipse into the hall, and the kids are called in batches by their number.

Our fella is in the second batch, so we know the routine by the time he’s called up. There are two poems that the girls and boys have to choose from, so we know them off by heart by the end too. Samantha Is Sobbing by Gareth Owen and Postcard by Tony Langham. It’s a proper stage, with lights, there are prizes at stake for the winners, with a professional adjudicator in the audience along with all us mammies, daddies, grandparents and siblings.

It’s daunting, 10-year-old me would have died a death having to walk out, alone, remembering to stand on the mark, to look at the adjudicator, to smile, make the connection, don’t use your hands, take your time, let your face express the emotions behind the words, respect the tempo, don’t rush, and that’s before remembering the actual words of the poem. 

One by one they come, each one a warrior, each one a winner.

Then, it’s our fella’s turn. He walks out, cool enough, he looks calm. He stands bang on the mark on the stage, looks up and out at the adjudicator, waits for the nod, then starts the poem: “I didn’t want to come to Spain, But now I’m really glad I came.”

He stalls, realising he forgot to say the title and the author, runs his hands through his hair and says, quite clearly for all those in the back... “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

I hear an audible gasp and realise it’s from me.

Then he starts again, from the top, performs it magnificently without a fault or a quiver, and finishes with a little Shakespearean flourish and a bow before walking off the stage.

I couldn’t be prouder.

He may not have got a certificate or a medal, but the life lesson is a valuable one: You’ll mess up in this life, but you can always start again, and that takes grit.

Maybe we’ll practice saying fudge or fiddlesticks to express exasperation though. To be fair, he promised us a surprise, and boy, did he deliver.