Antisocial Dáil hours are the tip of the iceberg when it comes to extraordinary demands made on TDs' time, writes SARAH CAREY
DURING ONE of the Lisbon referendums, John Bruton, then the EU’s ambassador to the US, was home on a family visit. Someone asked him whether he’d address a local Fine Gael branch on the subject of the treaty. I tagged along to the meeting in a local pub, and it was well worth it. He put the treaty into an impressive political context, comparing the European Union to other political unions from history and throughout the world today.
After his speech we had the opportunity to ask questions. But as the meeting wore on, the quality of the contributions from the floor declined. Questions turned into mini-speeches, and historical grievances were aired. It was getting late and I was getting bored.
For example, one party member who’d arrived late and missed most of Bruton’s speech apologised for his late arrival, but pompously assured us he had been e-mailed a copy of the speech earlier. Since he wasn’t there to learn anything Bruton had to say, the sole purpose of his interjection was to assure us of his importance.
This kind of nonsense drives me mad, but Bruton indulged everyone, even though he had nothing to gain, not even a vote. Eventually the chairman called a halt and, too late into the night, we were released.
That’s one of the reasons I couldn’t stick politics. Night after night, day after day, one must tolerate people whose self-importance far outweighs their ability. Politics has its moments of drama, but mostly it’s deadly boring.
This might be categorised as “culture”; one of “the five Cs” that women list as their “barriers to entry” to political life. The other four are childcare, cash, confidence and candidate selection.
A low tolerance for ego-massaging didn’t get a mention in a recent report of the Joint Oireachtas Committee on Justice and Equality Defence that analysed women’s low level of participation in politics.
Instead, it complained that meetings shouldn’t be held in the pub in the first place as this is a “sphere from which women may have traditionally felt excluded”. In the last century maybe. It’s not the pub that’s the problem – it’s just that so few of the people in politics are actually interesting.
Maybe women reserve their patience for children, and men for each other.
Speaking of children, there’s the other reason I’ve resisted a political career. The problem is typically labelled “childcare” – a designation that irritates me. It’s indicative of a mindset that believes children are a problem, for which the solution is outsourcing.
The report recommends that the Dáil should sit during more reasonable hours so that women can better avail of childcare. It’s true that the Dáil sits at ridiculous hours: 2.30pm to 8.30pm or later on Tuesdays, for example. What kind of a working day is that? But anyone who has any familiarity with political life knows the Dáil is only the start of it. If I thought I could swan up to Leinster House three days a week, make impressive speeches and ask dramatic questions at committees, sure that would be easy. But a political career encompasses far more.
At this point, one is supposed to complain about our clientelist system. But there is no point complaining. Irish voters demand regular and personal contact with their elected representatives. They want them at the protest meetings, funerals, village festivals and cultural events.
They expect them at the community award ceremonies and official openings. If the Dáil sat three hours a day, three days a week, there are still party fundraisers and branch meetings.
Even if we had the list system or single-seat constituencies that might relieve TDs of some of these burdens, any politician in any country is still required to attend events outside of their legislative duties – and that’s the killer. Politics is fundamentally anti-family, and women are by their nature family oriented.
I love the independence that writing gives me, but its principal advantage is that it allows me to do a decent amount of mothering too. I like seeing the children at regular points during the day and week. I want to go to the parent-teacher meetings. I want to buy their clothes and plan birthday parties. I want to cook them a proper dinner, at least half of the week.
Then I want to pack them off to bed and collapse on the couch and watch bad TV.
Most other mothers do too, and that’s why the overwhelming choice of women is to work part-time or choose careers with flexible working hours.
Politics is not just a full-time job; it’s a whole of life job. It’s days and nights, Sunday afternoons, and the phone is always on.
Men can pull it off because they have great wives who are willing to take on a huge domestic burden. I have a great husband, but that’s not the same, and anyway, call me a control freak, but I like doing the wife stuff. I’m also tired of the shrill insistence that since I can have it all, I must do it all – now.
Children grow up, and I’ll get round to indulging my other passions when they do – and that might include politics.
In the meantime, I’ll keep doing the one thing that women also like to do and which a career in politics would absolutely prohibit – saying what I think.