Calling all feminists/mixed race/trans ladies: please enter the Rose of Tralee

It’s that time of the year again when, from Sydney to San Francisco and from Skibbereen to Skegness, the clarion call to connect the global Irish community via the unfettered use of waterproof mascara and slimming knickers rings out loud and clear.

Yep, participants in the Rose of Tralee International Festival 2017 are currently being sought, and if you too are an unmarried woman aged 18-28 with rusting antecedents in Leitrim, Loughshinny, Listowel or thereabouts, you too can apply. If you “really like helping others” and you once saved a blind dog from being run over by a Massey Ferguson when you were visiting your eczematous aunt in Bundoran, you may get through the first round. And if you have a degree in biochemistry, a passionate interest in world peace and/or clog dancing and you spend your downtime polishing your granny, you’re a shoo-in for round two.

Word of warning, though: do not rock up to the auditions in your "Repeal the Eighth" sweatshirt or you will most certainly not end up on stage with dazzling Dáithí, and the world will never get to hear you play I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen on the spoons.

The Sydney Rose, Brianna Parkins, who last year bucked the let's-not-get- controversial trend by using some of her time on stage to call for the repeal of the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution on abortion, recently took to Twitter to urge women with diverse backgrounds to apply for the contest.

“Calling all feminists/mixed-race/ queer/trans ladies to apply for the Rose wherever you live,” she tweeted.

Glued to the sofa

Since my stint as TV reviewer for this paper came to an end a number of years ago, I've enjoyed spending less of my tiny life than I used to watching wobbly Roses cantering through hearty renditions of Are You Right There Michael, Are You Right?

Last year, however, I once again found myself glued to the rickety sofa for two long nights, when I was asked to review the contest for this paper’s news pages.

Parkins’s contribution to a contest that had, heretofore, been about as spicy and various as a bowl of lukewarm milk pudding was riveting and, dare I say it, relevant. It certainly woke this reviewer up from her dribbling slumber. (Actually, speaking of diversity, and correct me if I’m wrong, but when, if ever, has a disabled contestant paraded around the Dome in her tiara?)

Getting on a bit

The Rose of Tralee is galloping towards its 60s. No longer a demure battleground for sturdy virgins in big frocks, and more than a tourist attraction predicated on a clash of orthodontic dentistry and push-up bras, the contest seems to be attempting to break through the caul of more traditional times, describing itself as “a progressive organisation that always strives to reflect changes in society”.

It seems, however, that this “progressive organisation” isn’t quite broad-minded enough to endorse Parkins’s invitation.

“Transgender women entering is not something we are considering at the moment. However, we will continue to review our guidelines,” said the committee in its press release.

Last year, I once again found myself glued to the rickety sofa for two long nights, when I was asked to review the contest for this paper's news pages

“But it’s only a bit of a laugh,” some will say. “Sure it’s just a bit of fun. Why do you have to muddy the looking glass with your trans this and feminist that?”

Maybe. In my mind there is nothing apolitical about dozens of young women having the airtime to talk about their lives, hopes, dreams and ambitions. Such occasions are an opportunity to show unflinching support for those whose trajectories, in terms of gender or sexuality, race or religion, aren’t as untrammelled and straightforward as they are for lovely Mary, the Rose of Tralee, with her pure crystal fountains and all those uncomplicated truths in her eyes ever dawning.

I have a photograph at home of a bunch of kids – boys and girls I know – around the time of their graduation from secondary school. They are on their way to their debs dance, some tuxedoed, some in longed-for and much-loved dresses, one or two who have just borrowed a tie and polished their Docs for the occasion. One of those children smiling into the lens began her life as a male. She is beautiful, proud and filled with hope and she continues her life as the person she always knew she was.

Maybe, by the time you read this, that odd, quirky, idiosyncratic, uniquely Irish institution will have found the gear stick, shunted itself into the contemporary world and found a way to celebrate each and every one of our daughters.

Let’s hope so.