I’m a fourth generation Paddy. My great-grandparents came here in the last two decades of the nineteenth century, I am told from Cork, Ulster, and maybe some islands near Scotland, through Canada and Boston, then on to Colorado. I don’t feel Irish, nor do I have any particular affinity for Irishness.
Or, at least I thought.
But I love my Irish writers, Joyce, Behan, Wilde, Yates, Heaney and dozens of others. I dig a long list of Irish actors, second only to the Yanks and the Brits. I love Dolores and the Cranberries, Flogging Molly, and Yew Two. I have everything Van recorded.
I watched Branaugh’s Belfast five times, and Ryan’s Daughter more times than I can count. I understood the Banshees of Inisherin. I love rain and fog and, apparently, depression.
I don’t fancy corned beef and cabbage, and never could develop a taste for whiskey. But if I did it would be Tullamore or Jameson’s. I have both in the cupboard but do not know why. I quit being a Catholic when I was twelve, in 1965. I had some other things to do instead.
But I guess I do have a soft spot. I love to sing and read poetry aloud, and argue, often all at the same time. In 1980, I changed my surname from McDonnell to O’Keeffe. Like a Mic, I had a chance to shed my Irish and I blew it. Perhaps I was a hostage. A happy hostage. Me Mum was named after St. Patrick after all, and we gave two of the kids Irish names.
Speaking of names, and language by extension, which is a passion, what’s up with Gaelic? I got my Saoirse and Siobhán and Pádraig down pretty well. But give these proper names a try: Caoilfhionn (Kee-lan), Tadhgh (Tige), or Meadhbh (Mave). I dare ya.
However, on this day where it seems everyone but the Irish intends to act the fool, let’s tell the truth about Patrick:
He wasn’t Irish. He was a Brit.
He did not bring Christianity to Ireland. It was minor, but it was already there.
He was never canonized as a saint. Rome had yet to begin doing that in the fifth century CE.
There were no damned snakes. Total myth. Perhaps Freudian.
And he probably had a hand in demonizing the indigenous pagan and nature-based religions and culture of Ireland.
But we’ll give him a pass today since everyone is so bent on getting blinkered (my people have at least a hundred slang terms for “drunk”) and calling each other “mate”.
So enjoy your Bud Light with green food coloring and don’t worry about what’s in that corned beef. Sing along to “Where the streets have no name” with all you got. That’s how it’s supposed to be sung. Roll up some clover leaves and smoke ‘em. Don that green plastic leprechaun hat. Have fun, but tipple carefully.
For myself, I’ll watch Angelica Huston’s lovely Agnes Browne and maybe Waking Ned Devine, have some biscuits and a wee nip a Dew.
I may begin agitating to change this holiday to Van Morrison Day or Saoirse Ronan Day or Elizabeth Bowen Day.
Sláinte Mhath, mates!
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