Adolescent nostalgia, Catholicism and the Irish constitution
There’s something uniquely compelling about a book that relates directly to your own lived experience. In this case, Niamh Mulvey, author of The Amendments was a school mate of mine. Being a fellow bookworm, she was someone who I predicted pretty early on would either become a publisher or an author (ultimately she did both I believe). I also recall how Mulvey read books in a very particular way, held right up to the face as if really devouring the pages- and usually had her hand up in English class, with a handy synonym or knowing remark to add. I was pretty envious of her vocab even back then, so I found immense satisfaction in seeing that same literary je ne sais quoi very much evident in her debut novel. Written in a voice that is very much her own, the Irishisms and thinly veiled references to actual events from our adolescent years, brought me joy. I indulged in a guessing game of which character related to which person we went to school with. Some of the specifics I’d forgotten about from our 6 years of covent education in a small Irish town, were now fascinatingly captured and given a whole new bent.
The interesting thing about living through an era is that we’re so ensconced in the day to day, we don’t always observe the wider sociological shifts occurring around us. It reminds me of an exhibit I saw in Paris recently with a friend by the American photographer Stephen Shore. His work often depicts what are ostensibly bland looking representations of Americana. At first glance- roadsides in nowheresville suburbs, petrol stations and boring shop fronts. The crux is that when you look closer, you become more intrigued by the random timestamps- Second Street, Ashland, Wisconsin, July 9, 1973. These images then seem to transmute into magical entry points for moments that will never exist exactly that way again. McDonalds was 89c and you can almost feel the 70s nostalgia oozing out of the frames.
I had a similar sensation reading The Amendments, which instead tracks the societal evolution in my own country. Ireland in 1999 was a very different Ireland. We didn’t think it was anything special, but in actuality, the picture Mulvey paints is of a sort of cultural time capsule. Abortion was still illegal and girls wore tracksuit pants to school when they got pregnant (just a hint of stigma attached). Hail Mary was mumbled before most classes and a general air of everyone going to mass on a Sunday prevailed, regardless of faith, because that’s just what you did. The Nokia 3210 was a novelty, and primary social influences were those in your immediate vicinity, not people on the internet. In some ways I’m very glad I didn’t grow up with GenZ social media mania permeating my brain. There’s something wholesome about our years having awkward conversations with young lads in the nearby CBS or going to a Catholic youth group to play rounders. I even joined an organisation which encouraged us to be teetotal at 14 and went on local radio to talk about my (now sadly long forgotten) commitment to the cause. In Ireland this was optimistic, but so was thinking you’d remain celibate until marriage, like Britney Spears had proclaimed she would. The messaging was one thing, and the actual cultural norms were another. The relationship to shame this creates in pervasively religious societies is palpable. But that was the dichotomy of the times. Something which Mulvey conveys emotively.
Nell is the brainy and self-sabotaging protagonist- a teenage girl with tonnes of angst, growing up in small town Ireland. We see her experimenting with different ways to carve out a socially acceptable identity versus her genuine adolescent longings. She joins a Catholic organisation for women, which was and still is a real thing- an Italian group called Focalare Movement. Many youth leaders in the Focalare choose a lifestyle which closely resembles that of a nun, just without the vows and habits. We see another key character, Martina, in this role and are lead to question why she chooses such a solitary path, which as you might imagine, has less to do with God and more to do with trauma and a desire to coset herself from the harshness of everyday life. She uses Catholic structure and notions of holiness to disappear and avoid any semblance of pain.
Nell later comes to accept her sexuality and gets married to her impressive female partner Adrienne, who coaxes her into therapy and having a baby. We witness Nell’s self-loathing permeate the relationship, stemming largely from a scarring incident which occurred in her past. The resultant inability to ‘access’ herself or feel worthy of a place in the world are imprints she shares with Martina. Both women attempt to hide out in roles or ways of life that allow them to feel somehow protected from shame. Which is naturally one of the story’s key themes; the Catholic guilt pegged onto anything remotely related to women’s bodies. Thematically the book covers a lot of ground, but ultimately zooms in on the wider scope of experience for Irish women at the time. It’s not quite akin to an indignant Sinead O’Connor tearing up a picture of the Pope on tv in 1992, but there are small, personal acts of rebellion layered into the female characters of ‘The Amendments’. For example when Nell joins the Catholic group on trip to Spain, we can somehow warm to her sense of discernment;
She was not totally committed to all this stuff yet. Her attendance here was provisional, she could not yet feel whatever it was Pilar, and increasingly, Fiona seemed to feel. She was ashamed of this , but somewhere she was proud of it too. She wanted to hold onto it, this uncertainty, this scepticism. It felt like a little goblin inside her. Sometimes she wanted to throttle it but other times she wanted to protect it. She couldn’t imagine who she’d be if it went away.
There’s also a skilful weaving of Nell’s story with that of her mother Dolores. We are presented with the very real conundrums faced by Irish women through generations. How to straddle the social pressures and Catholic societal influence with individual wants and instincts. The subjects are pretty compelling, particularly as an Irish woman- reconciling an urge to rebel with demands to conform.
The abortion referendums are also referenced quite consistently and serve as historical benchmarks- the visceral experience of having to define one’s own values in relation to those of society. Dolores meets Annie, a ‘women’s libber’ who introduces her to a whole new world of individual thought and insurgency. She goes with her to England and learns about the very different set of circumstances occurring across the pond in 80s London.
Annie told her the women here were light years ahead of Irish women. She said they had no issues with sex. She said they would probably not really understand, but that wasn’t the point. She said they helped Irish women get abortions in London. ‘They’re not afraid to talk about it,’ she said. ‘That’s the main thing they won’t understand about us. They don’t understand that not only do we have no right to choose, they don’t know that we can’t even talk about having a right to choose.’
One of my favourite quirky threads in the narrative however, is not linked to any of the more predominant themes. It’s the dense unspoken tension between Nell and her church mentor Martina. The suppressed rage Martina feels towards Nell and her seemingly insalubrious behaviours- the desperation she experiences at the realisation they were not actually such kindred spirits, is to me astute and revealing. Nell’s varying levels of detachment and disobedience are sources of mounting frustration to the pious, posturing Martina. Through Martina’s lens, it almost appears to make a mockery of her choices and faith in this girl, and in the end exposes her shadows with quite shattering consequences.
Nell sobbed loudly, suddenly and Martina was startled. Nell buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook. Martina watched her and felt it was right she should sob. She stayed quiet for a long moment. She sensed Nell wanting her comfort but she witheld it. Nell had behaved badly, she had been drinking and socializing with people who did not share the ideals of the movement, with people who would never share the ideals of the movement. Martina thought of those people and they were indistinguishable in her mind with everything she hated most about her own country, about her own people.‘But he’s not important’, Martina said eventually. She allowed a note of softness into her voice, she was aware of her power, and she exulted a little in it, she who so rarely felt anything like that.
The book plays beautifully with the notion of how this shadow version of self can emerge and be distorted the more that inner desires, emotions and wounds are repressed. We see this enacted throughout the plot line. Nell, Dolores and Martina struggle with finding their own paths amidst a culture that has long kept a lid on anything considered subversive.
I don’t always read Irish literature, but I do read a lot of books about relationships, and this novel sated me on both counts. It resonates in a way that only a book related to your own cultural upbringing can. Mulvey is a talent and The Amendments is a perfect gift for those with an leaning towards a bit of Irish anthropology. For me, reading it in Paris, where the French state very recently made some seemingly strategic constitutional amendments to include the ongoing right to abortion, was also pertinent timing.
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