One of the things I like best about myself is the teensy part of me that’s Irish. It’s buried a bit deep, maybe four generations back, but it’s there and I polish it like a magic lamp.
It’s the part of me that’s poetic, and funny, and melancholy, and believes in ghosts and loves a good beer.
I mean, how could I doubt my Irish genes? Just have a peek at my Things I Like Best list:
Favourite words: shite and eijit
Favourite authors: Edna O’Brien, Roddy Doyle
Favourite poets: William Butler Yeats, Seamus Heaney
Favourite band: U2
Favourite actors: Peter O’Toole, Liam Neeson
I give an Honourable Mention to Colin Farrell, just because, well, he’s Colin.
I know, I know, lots of people want to be Irish. I’ve heard some Irish refer to these pretenders as “Plastic Paddies”. An old friend of mine used to reserve special derision for people who tried to get on his good side by mentioning their Irish connections. Usually, he’d make a wry joke which might escalate into some outright insults, particularly if the words Paddy or Blarney were used.
But who could 
blame anyone for wanting to be Irish — and isn’t imitation the sincerest form of flattery? I never met anyone who wants to pretend to be Canadian unless it is Americans with Canadian flags sewn on their backpacks, trekking through Europe, trying to say “eh” the right way.
There really is something endlessly seductive about the Irish spirit. How can you not love the only country in the world where windmills turn clockwise instead of counterclockwise? Where serious problems are known as “bad turns”? Where drinks like Guinness and Bailey’s Irish Cream are born, and bands like The Pogues took root?
And then there’s the lyrically lilting Irish accent that always makes it sound like they are quoting poetry even when they are just talking about what’s for dinner.
So it is that I join millions around the world in celebrating St. Patrick’s Day on March 17, one of the only national public holidays to have been adopted globally.
In my city of Victoria, we might wear a bit of green for luck and drink green beer (don’t let them tell you the colour doesn’t affect the taste!). Some U.S. cities have even been known to pour green vegetable dye in their rivers in honour of St. Patrick’s Day. South Korea celebrates this day and so does Argentina. In fact, Argentina’s native son Che Guevara was said to be of Irish decent and even spent some time in Limerick once.
When I was in school, if you didn’t wear green on St. Paddy’s day you risked getting pinched. As a little kid, I thought Ireland was a magical land where wishes came true. I didn’t know then about the British occupation of Northern Ireland, the Troubles, the I.R.A. or Bobby Sands.
Back then, I believed in the Good People (faeries) and leprechauns (I’m still not sure faeries and leprechauns don’t exist!). When rainbows would appear, my brother and I would search for the leprechaun holding our pot of gold at the end of it. We would lie on the lush grass in our grandparents’ yard and search for shamrocks for luck.
I don’t know how the Irish feel about leprechauns. Maybe the same way Canadians feel about our fuzzy mascot, the beaver. We like ’em, but don’t bring the word beaver up too often.
And then there’s St. Patrick himself. I’m was never such a fan of St. Patrick himself who apparently saved the Irish and was sainted for his good works. I mean, what exactly did the Irish need to be saved from? Seems to me they were doing all right before. They say he drove the snakes out of Ireland but I’m of the mind that the so-called snakes were really metaphors for pagans. Besides, Patrick himself was born in Roman Brittan not in Ireland.
Today, I know Ireland is not a myth but maybe we really want it to be. Maybe that’s why we can’t let go of the flights of fancy about this land, despite the hard realities. Somehow, almost against the odds, Ireland retains a magical mythology in the popular imagination, not an easy thing to do in this day and age where we are constantly deconstructing the positive.
I’ve never been to Ireland. One day I may go. Maybe. I don’t know what I will find there. But wherever I go, whatever I do, this Irish blessing will stay with me as I hope it will stay with you:
“As you slide down the banister of life, may the splinters never point in the wrong direction!”
Photo Credits
“Luck O’ the Irish Slinky” billaday @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons some Rights Reserved.
“Green River on St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago” Wikipedia
“Caution! Leprechains in Dublin” Urban Digger @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.
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I am Canadian and by some freak of nature both sides of my family are Irish and continued to marry Irish descendants for 130 years after arriving in Canada–I am the first to marry a non-Irish person. For most of my life my ancestry meant nothing to me. Then my grandfather died, leaving a detailed explanation of our family and their arrival in Canada during the potato famine. Wow. What a journey. I am proud to claim my Irish heritage. My family fought and won battles of poverty, classicism, and at times denied their religious backgrounds. They clawed their way through Canadian soil to build up farms in ice cold lands. When times are tough for for me I think back to my roots and draw strength from these people I’ve never met but deeply admire.
Hmm, Kev,
When I was in Ireland, half the people I met seemed to really like the U.S. and wanted to know everything I could tell them about our nation. Maybe they were just being nice, I don’t know. Half my family ancestry is Irish, the other half is a mixed bag. Am I American? What’s American? The indigenous Ojibwe who live in my home state of Minnesota have only been here maybe seven or eight hundred years tops. They used to live in what’s now Ontario. They and the Dakota have the most claim over this state, but neither of them have been here, in this place, even a full millennium. How long does it take to be able to “claim” a place as your home, and then be able to spout off about it’s qualities?
I struggle to connect or even understand a lot of the dominant culture in the U.S., even though it’s always been my home. People frequently call my views Anti-American, whatever that is. If anything, “America” is a pair of continents that are together by land, but disparate in cultures.
lol and a gray avatar :p ————————————————————^^^
You know what the Irish can’t stand? (the REAL Irish, as in, born and raised in Ireland) Americans. They are the bane of our existence. Worse yet is Americans who say “I’m Irish”. Worse still are the Americans who say “Oh, you’re from Ireland? Do you know Mary?”.
You are not Irish. You have Irish descendants. You are American. (Well, Canadian in this case but you get my point. By the way, we love Canadians).
I have French descendants actually, my second name is Roche, which is French for something. That does not mean I am French. In fact, every human on the planet has African descendants, that doesn’t mean we’re all African.
It’s a rule. To call yourself Irish, you have to be born here, or at the very least live here long enough to see that the predominant colour of this country is not green, but gray. Gray clouds covering the sky 4/5ths of the year, gray, dull buildings, gray foot paths, roads, dirt and gravel.
Yeah, I think that is one of the points in the article….
The reason you often find Canadians saying they are Scottish, African, Irish etc. is that probably the fact that our DNA all comes from elsewhere unless we are First Nations or Native American. I suppose it’s weird North American thing to always compare where our ancestors came from. I don’t know if Americans do it as much as Canadians do. Maybe it’s because some of us have only been on this continent hundreds, not thousands of years. I really don’t know. There are lots of theories about this. Thanks for your comment!
Enjoyed your piece, Kerry. I AM 1/4 Irish (by God!) and used to celebrate my Irish grandmother by sitting in our dining room playing When Irish Eyes are smiling on a record player every March 17 and being thrilled that I was the only child in the family with blue eyes and fair skin and dark hair…a sure sign of Irishness. Happy Day!
Now you’ve made me feel ashamed for ever denying I’m Irish!
I married into a huge proud Irish family and am constantly reminding them that despite fair skin, feckles and the red in my hair…I’m not Irish! You’ve made a great argument for claiming that ancestory.