THE MANY DIFFERENCES between “jackeens” and “culchies” have long been a rich vein of comedy in Ireland – going quiet during the death notices on the radio versus going quiet when a conversion is being kicked in rugby, coleslaw versus coddle and so on.
One such rural/urban difference is unfolding right now, as schools located in the countryside have started to have their Debs balls and tend to be finished by the time the new Rose of Tralee is crowned; schools in the cities tend to have theirs between September and early November (before the Christmas party sector starts outbidding the teenagers for venues).
The reason for this seems obvious; the Leaving Cert results are released in August. As the larger universities are concentrated in the bigger cities, Dublin and Cork teenagers tend not to move away to go to college, so there is less pressure to book the event before a mass exodus. This is not the case in smaller towns where the chances of getting the class back together decrease dramatically after the Premier League restarts.
While that seems obvious to a person from the Republic, the final formal school dance traditions in other countries are not like this. Not every education system clings so tightly to a single end of school exam. High school proms in America tend to take place in spring, for example. And the high number of single sex schools here has created a situation where popular kids might find themselves invited to many Debses in addition to their own.
It’s unusual to hear an American brag about going to nine proms or an English person to claim to have been invited to nine formals, but such boasts are all too common along the Dartline. So, can the Debs as a tradition give us some insights into how and why Ireland is a bit different?
The debs took off as a phenomenon in Ireland in the early 70s, as free secondary education created a critical mass of teenage school leavers. A handful of private schools for girls had been holding debutantes’ balls since the ‘30s, so the name was already in use when more schools began to participate.
As the 80s began and citizens were warned to tighten their belts, a cold eye was cast on the still relatively-recent tradition and adults who had already had their own Debses concocted ways to prevent the coming generation from having their own fun. In 1984, a newly-elected 24 year old TD, Brian Cowen, lamented in the Dáil how schools were not preparing teenagers for the real world, noting that “young people who leave our educational system annually and face the prospect of unemployment for many years (should be) prepared for life rather than being prepared for the debs ball which seems to be the main preoccupation of most educators at present”.
Cowen’s swipe at the teenage dinner dance was not a bolt from the blue; in the 80s there was a growing panic about the excesses of spending, drinking and ribaldry at debutante balls, and the compliance of schools with it all. Horror stories about seemingly-elegant girls sneaking drink into the events by strapping a naggin to her inner thigh thrilled and horrified Middle Ireland, as did tales of the soaring costs of dresses, hotel bookings, chocolates and the like. And as much as Irish parents have always loved to complain about the price of things, certain cost-saving measures were not approved of either: one taxi firm remarked in 1985 that most boys would splash out on a taxi or limo to take their date to the ball, but were happy enough to let her get a bus home.
In 1986, the Mount Sackville Debs had the distinction of including a breakfast the following morning at Áras an Uachtaráin as President Hillery’s daughter was one of the debutantes in attendance. However, this was also the year that the Loreto Order issued a decree to the many schools under their patronage to not support the organising and running of the black tie booze-ups, adding that they’d like to see the tradition quashed completely. One judge declared that he would not grant bar extensions for any event described as a debs, which he described as pretentious, absurd and unbecoming of citizens of a Republic.
It seemed like the writing was on the wall for the rite of passage.
In 1991 a spirit of grungy rebellion was already in the air when a school in Cork finally pushed the kids too far. The students of Presentation Convent in Cork staged a walkout and a strike after their new principal announced that she would not sign insurance forms for a Debs and that the event was to be replaced with a supervised daytime dance on the school grounds with no alcohol, no boys and no smoking. Weeks of inter-generational name calling and column inches ensued, with one Progressive Democrat TD calling for Debses to be outlawed. One letter writer from Monkstown agreed, complaining that he had recently been “mooned” by four returning debutantes one morning as he drove to work.
The ultimate outcome of the Cork protest was that the Debs ball gradually became an event organised by students rather than for them, with diminishing involvement from the school itself. And while the Celtic Tiger led to profound changes in how communions, confirmations, christenings, stag and hen parties, sixteenth birthdays and pregnancy announcements were celebrated, the Debs itself remained relatively constant in this time; more was spent, of course, but the fundamentals remained. Unlike those other events, it was always supposed to be a bit of a splurge.
My own Debs in 1996 was a lot of fun, but the memory that stays with me most was how a rumour, spread by tutting parents and radio callers, that every sun-bed on the southside of Dublin was booked out because of Debs season. We all knew this was nonsense, but nobody asked us. Then as now, the best way to understand teenagers is to listen to them.
Darach Ó Séaghdha runs @theirishfor Twitter account and the @motherfocloir podcast.
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