It's been a fortnight when questions of image, perception and responsibility have been floating around in my head, and in the town. Perhaps that's because Manorhamilton recently got more publicity in one fell swoop than it's used to, and children and adults took to the streets to participate in the Hallowe'en parade.
Masking and unmasking have consequences for everyone, and the sound of the samba was not the only drum roll to be heard murmuring in the undergrowth. It started when Pat Love, the administrator of the local men's group, organised a national media campaign to highlight the increase in suicide among rural males.
Actually, Pat was trying to highlight the work of the local men's group and a plethora of men's issues; it's just that the media were most interested in the suicide angle. Camera and radio crews descended from RTE, and the pictures and sounds emanating from the national broadcasting station the following week showed a grim and unpalatable picture of the town.
There are positives and negatives to such publicity. It brings to national attention problems which do beset rural communities, but it also gives the impression that this is the sum of life in rural Ireland.
"Did you bring the rope Pat?" quipped one local over his pint, expressing the annoyance of the town at the seeming totality of the picture presented to the outside world. Herein lies the perceptual problem. People want to paint a positive picture to the world in the hope that good news is a beacon for tourism and future prosperity. To do this, you must deny the darker sides, and therefore the more marginalised.
Tony and I sat in The Granary having our dinner, while pictures beamed out of lonely, isolated men in poor conditions. As we watched, we could predict the feedback we would get. "Sure if you leave him, he can always join the men's group," was the enlightened response from one of my friends in Dublin.
Nationwide's Michael Ryan stood in front of some of the most picturesque places in the town, yet all you could see was his dark navy blazer and shiny buttons. I felt like yelling at the TV and telling him to move aside, so that people could see the lovely architecture of the North Leitrim Glens Centre, or get a view of Ben Bo mountain.
Tony's mobile went off and it was his mother: "Manorhamilton's on the television," she said, and I could hear the shock in her voice from where I was sitting. She's not been here yet, so I can understand that she might think we, too, live in a lonely and isolated place. Being part of the media, I realise that stories with impact and shock value are of more interest than those with balance. The feedback from the public to this column contains the seed of this challenge.
"I found your account of the closure of Agnes's shop very moving," one man wrote to me, "but surely you could find some positive stories from a fine town like Manorhamilton?" I'm afraid that life here just does not break down that simply, and as much as I could try to paint a quaint picture of a rural retreat, that is not the truth. Nor can I package that truth to make quaint lifestyle reading for people living in the city.
When people ask what my column is about I usually say "urban chick moves to rural town" because I thought that was the easiest way to get the point across. I realise now that's a lie, because I'm only trying to retain my street cred. I might as well just say: "But I'm not a culchie you know" and be done with it.
This town is a microcosm of all society. It contains wealth and plenty, just as it contains poverty and deprivation. It contains successful and thriving businesses, just as it contains measures to assist those who cannot get employment. Its beauty is wrapped in a phenomenal and breathtaking landscape, but that landscape causes and holds pain and suffering, just like its urban equivalent.
We stood and watched the Hallowe'en parade go by, with its ghouls, mummies, ghosts and skeletons. Unleashed on the street, the dark side came out to celebrate, drumming its way up the town in all its pagan glory. It was peopled with adults and children, my own son disguised in chalk-white mask and black bin-liner. It was his time with his father, so I could only stand and wave at his passing enjoyment as if he was somebody else's child. As I shut the door, I wondered what everybody else made of his waving to me like I was just a stranger on the pavement. Image is nothing. Things are rarely just what they seem.
