The Cool Girl is Dead

It’s hard to easily understandoraccuratelyexplain why the death of Sinead O Connor has captured the nation the way it has. We’velostotherwell-loved artists, campaigners or celebrities over the years and mourned their loss in the appropriately respectful way, but this time, this timeitfeelsdifferent.More visceral, more personal, a strongergutpunch.

The coverage here in Ireland has been different to how it’s been reported around the world, and it has gone global in the most remarkable way. But while The Washington Post, the Times of Israel, The Guardian and newspapers from South America to Australia speak about her powerful voice and fiery attempts to expose clerical child abuse, the tone here is more protective and warmer and maybe, in some quarters more guilty. Here at home Sinead O Connor wasn’t an international superstar. ShewasourSinead.

Her disarming honestly meant we knew a lot more about her than most wellknown people. We knew she was fragile and strong. We knew she never stopped seeking meaning and love and faith. We knew she was brave and frightened at the same time and just like the mythicalGreekCassandra, she was fated to always speak the truth no matter the consequences and to hell with how awkward it madethings.

To many women my age, she was the first modern Irish girl. The shaved head and doc martins, her model features set to a brave roar over her guitar epitomised a look, an attitude, and a courage of self we could only try to aspire to in 80’s Ireland. For us, the would-be cool girls now in our lumpy and tired 40’s, we’ve lost the leader of the gang and someone who provided the soundtrack to a time when we thought we wouldgrowuptobestrong fearless women. Some of us did, some didn’t, but no-one can say we were never given an example to follow.

In an imperfect world, we expect people with remarkable talent to be perfect.Sineadrejoicedinnot beingperfectanddefiantly kicked over the pedestal the record industry and maybethecountryerected for her at the start of her career. And while, many might have shaken their headsandrolledtheireyes as she rallied against injustices or gave Gay cheek on the Late Late, Ireland loved her, worried for her and when she sang, we ached with pride that she wasourSinead.

It is a remarkable achievement for someone who was often called a troublemaker,anattention seeker or just ridiculous to have so gently found a place in Ireland’s arms. Maybe it’s because at the back of it all, she was right aboutalotofthings.Asthe loudtributespourin,quiet stories emerge. When Sinead sold her grand pianotohelpkeepaprimary school for Traveller children stay open. The regularcallsshewouldmaketo a Bray doctor’s surgery arranging to cover stranger’s medical fees and accommodation. Talking her way into the Taoiseach’s office to raise the concerns of protesters out on the street. She was someone who fought hard, loved hardandfelthurthard.

And then there was the voice. Each song a beautiful howl of pain and anger andlove.

The cool girl is dead. The Doc Martin boots have been put away. But their imprintremains.