Summer Project 1997

Summer Project 1997 

Excerpt from a conversation between Father and Daughter. This audio narrates the short story Summer Project 1997 as written below.

Thinking back to my childhood in Oliver Bond flats in Inner City Dublin, I wonder if I’ll ever feel a sense of community like it again. It was, a forced collectivity, induced by the government's solution to dilapidated tenement housing. It's a miracle that through the circumstances of three hundred families, breathing down each other’s necks, a community can endure and thrive. Between the tug of war for the usage of communal spaces, the tit for tat of quick-witted jibes and the purging of mischief, be certain that poverty makes work for idle hands.

The poor unfortunate American chap staying with his Nana in P-Block ‘got death’ in the summer of 1997, quickly becoming the brunt of all the jokes and jibes. The volunteers of the Tenants Association tried their best to get him to fit in, but he was a ‘freak of nature’ to us. The community workers signed the chap up to accompany us on the mystery summer project, but he was to be the weirdo of the trip. The rest of us, meanwhile, were too cool.

The summer project was set up over thirty years ago to make busy the mischievously idle and to build self-esteem for the quieter ones. It was part of the Dublin City Council learning development strategy and aimed at those pranksters in disadvantaged areas that needed to be settled and kept busy. Partially funded by the DCC and partly fundraised by community workers in the flats, the summer project became an annual subsidized outing for those introverts and extroverts alike. 

Our mystery summer project day had arrived. Air Max, Adidas tracksuit clad, scrunchies, lip-gloss and hair mascara adorned, we scampered into the minibus, along with our cheese sandwich, Tayto crisps and TK lemonade lunches, wrapped in Tesco plastic bags.

Our elders and leaders for the day revealed to our delight “We’re going to Clara Lara!”. Ecstatic, we played B*Witched and Boyzone from a battery-operated radio the whole way there. On arrival, we done ‘a legger’ on the leaders. We swung on the rope swings and held on with trepidation as we slid down the aquashutes. We rowed boats and ran around for the whole day with our tracksuits soaked to the skin, making the most of it even in the miserable Irish summer weather.

At the end of the day, we were homebound to Oliver Bond, each of us armed with a treat from the kiosk. A few of us chose Freaky Foot ice creams. Bright pink with vanilla swirls and a chocolate-dipped toe - they were all the rage and others copied our choice. Seeing this, the gullible American chap inquired in his thick American accent: “Hey you guys, whaddya call them ice creams?”

Quick as a flash, the older boys gave him an answer. We all sniggered and accompanied him to the kiosk, with the poor fella not knowing he was set to be the butt of the joke. As he got closer to the kiosk window, we lowered our voices so we could hear him place his order over the counter.

“Excuse me, sir. Can I have one of them there Christy Brown’s”?