R-A-T: The three letter word I'll never be able to say
Have you really left your hometown if its myths still control the way you speak? How the folklore of the Isle of Man has kept me there despite leaving 15 years ago. Will I ever escape this Alcatraz?
It’s been fifteen years since I managed to escape. I can still taste the sharp stench of sewage mixed with sea salt secreting from the seaweed plastered along the sleepy shoreline. It’s the kind of place that grinds squares into circles. From the moment of birth, those are taught to accept the island’s way, live their lives inside the island, and try not to fall into the sea too much. Most do. That’s what makes living there so harmonious. It’s a minimal life. But I couldn’t getaway from the fact that everything they called life was created by people who had never lived on the island, had never stepped foot on the island, and had no idea the island even existed.
Icy blue railings curled the two-and-a-half mile stretch of Douglas promenade. I leaned out, gazing at the hazy horizon. This felt different. I could sense my life beginning to open. Life beyond a children’s home. My things were expert Tetris-level packed away in the car. I have learnt to pack light. A new separation was taking place. Life beyond the island surrogating my needs. I hoped.
My island is small, so small it often does not warrant a spot on the weather report maps. But when it does, it’s concealed by the dark cloud symbol. Hidden in the middle of the Irish Sea, crowded between its far more prominent neighbours. In school, we were told the Isle of Man was shaped like a Shih Tzu in a full show coat, but to me, it looked like a crumpled crisp packet burnt on a cooker. It takes its name from the Celtic Sea God Manannan Mac-y-Leirr, who made the island his throne. Manannan, a master of tricks and illusions, would shroud the island in a 15-tog blanket of fog to protect it from invaders, or so they said. This illusiveness and chicanery are embedded in our psyche. We are a nation of myths. We relish the mystic misconceptions about us. That we’re so tiny the island is practically a street where everyone knows each other and which can be walked within minutes; or my personal favourite, that we must be inbred because our flag has three legs. It’s frustrating, the constant confusion with the other British isle with a similar name [Isle of Wight], almost 300 miles away and in a different sea. But who was I without the defining boundary of the island? So much of my identity had been bound up with the care it provided.
* * *
“STOP! Can we not wait till the rocking stops?” I pleaded.
“This is really important”, said Graeme. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to relieve some of his boredom, but I knew if I looked up, I might be sick.
“When the rocking stops, I’ll chat”. My arms wrapped around my face on the table, I was trying desperately to figure out what I could’ve done wrong. Finally, after around fifteen minutes, the boat stopped rocking. Yellow swords of fluorescent light stabbed my eyes as I lifted my head.
“Can we go outside?” I needed the wind to beat the nausea out of me. We stepped out to the rumbling steel deck to the rear of the boat. A succession of galloping white horses ejected from behind it.
“Right, what is it?”
“Now you’re moving to the UK, there are a few things you need to know”, Graeme said with his creased forehead on show. I looked at him, puzzled.
“What are you chatting about?” I said, shaking my head with bafflement.
“You know living on the mainland is different to the Isle of Man, don’t you?”
“What, do you think I’m thick or something?” Of course, I knew life was going to be different. I wouldn’t have his prying nose in it, for a start. I could do what I wanted and when, like a typical sixteen-year-old.
“No! There are some things you need to be mindful of. I don’t want you to look like a twat.”
“Oh yeah, like what?”
“The whole thing with fairies and not saying…” His eyes rocked like the boat earlier, swaying from side to side. He edged closer and whispered, “Rat”.
* * *
I was four years old when I discovered that rat was a swear word. The Isle of Man is one of the few nations that still worship fairies. Something every other part of the Western world had discovered and accepted did not and does not exist. Outside of the walled garden, the image of fairies is a playful one. Little people who spread magic and joy with their trickery, like Tinkerbell. Somehow, on my island, they appeared to have bred a rare breed of fairy. Ones who spread fear and fury to the residents who do not fulfil their yearning for admiration and respect. Every child growing up on the island is indoctrinated into its folklore, myths, and rituals. They rationalise this by saying, ‘Kids grow up so fast these days. It’s nice to keep a bit of the magic for as long as we can’. But it didn’t feel like that.
I tried to explain to my family the cartoon I had watched, Pinky and the Brain, based on two lab rats setting out on world domination. I was startled and confused when the word strolled out of my lips. Everyone in the room banged the table and whistled.
“Don’t say that word!” My mother barked at me with the same conviction as if I had put my hands in the fire. “You need to tap and the table and whistle…NOW!”
I was scared – frozen stiff. My eyes flickered across the other people in the room. I had no idea what I had done, but I knew it was serious. I desperately tried to figure out how to whistle. My lips trembled as I attempted to mimic the shape everyone else’s lips made, but as I exhaled, I burst into tears.
Once I had calmed down, my dad explained that saying R-A-T aloud would kill a fairy and bring bad luck to you and everyone who heard it.
The Isle of Man is the only place on earth with hundreds of synonyms for the word rat. Longtail, roddan, ringie, joey, R-A-T, big fella, skippo, sackot, uncles, longies, quare fellas, caul, cowl eyed fella, and anything else with ‘fella’ behind it.
* * *
It hit me then. Most of the passengers would have been horrified if they’d heard Graeme. Maybe my escape would not be as simple as hopping on a boat and starting a new life.
“No one outside here knows all these terms you have for it,” Graeme explained, but then assertively warned, “You have to get used to saying it.”
I knew he was right, and I could feel the quiet look of hope leave my eyes.
“Shut up. You’re chatting shit!”
“Don’t shoot me with that cocky chav voice.” He stared at me. Waiting. The anguish made my toes twitch uncontrollably. He wasn’t going to let this go. I was not the first person from the Isle of Man he’d released into the wild. My lips quivered just like they did when I was four, the last time this rodent of a word wriggled out of my lips. I watched the island get smaller with each passing minute, but I had not broken free from its straitjacket, and it was still restricting me. The more I resisted, the more it persisted. Every rational part of my brain knew this didn’t make sense, but my larynx refused to play ball.
“Look, it’s Dr. Pepper. What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Fine!” My eyes were still open, but I couldn’t see anything anymore. Every ounce of energy went into saying this word out loud. It was like a child playing with a shock toy, not knowing how much it would hurt.
“Rat”, I muttered as my body shot into flight mode. I was on edge, waiting for the same reaction when I last said the word at four years old. I looked around to see if I could find anyone whistling or tapping their head. But, of course, they didn’t hear me. The wind and the engine ensured no one past my nose could catch it. Regardless, I was convinced everyone heard it. Graeme laughed. Tapeworms of envy wriggled inside of me. It felt unnatural. There was no way I could get used to this. Why should I have to get used to this? But I knew I’d have to. It’s the only way I could truly leave. This was only the beginning. I was now a compass that couldn’t find north.
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