_____ me, I’m ______
I’m sure the blogs of America are now full to bursting with people talking about St. Patrick’s Day. I was going to write something about how I don’t really celebrate it, that I don’t quite see how one can “celebrate” St. Patrick’s Day who isn’t Catholic, but instead I’ll explain.
I have Irish blood, sure. Most of my friends do, too, and only really lay claim to it in early March or under special circumstances like drinking contests or when Notre Dame is playing.
Fact: My grandmother changed the spelling of her daughter Bridget’s name to avoid having it be “too Irish” (fear of being associated with the IRA.)
Fact: My mother converted from Catholicism when she married my father.
Fact: I don’t actually know a thing about St. Patrick. (Now I do.)
Therefore, I don’t really feel like I can claim any kind of loyalty or right to celebrate today. Ah well, it’ll save me a hangover.
Instead, why don’t I celebrate what I am actually proud of about my family’s history:
My mother’s mother took dancing lessons from Gene Kelly. My grandfather owned a double-wide in the sticks until the day he died. It was full of weird little trinkets; on one wall hung at least a dozen different-sized calipers. A WWII pilot, last year his gruffness actuallly gave me the opportunity to say “Chinaman isn’t the preferred nomenclature, Grandpa.”
My father’s parents passed away when I was a kid, but I remember Granny being sweet and smelling like powder. She made mashed potatoes with lard, which made them taste much better, and always had little bowls of gumdrops that I would suck all the sugar off of and then try to put back. Mase (I actually thought this was his first name for most of my childhood, only later did I realize it was a shortening of our last name) had my dad and I over for lunch every Tuesday, and he would boil four hot dogs and cut them into bite-size pieces. I would douse them in ketchup and watch cartoons while he and my dad visited in the kitchen.
If anything, I think St. Patrick’s Day should be about celebrating your heritage, where you come from. I’m a Mick, a Limey, and a Kraut. (I hear I also have some Scot in me, but I didn’t know a racial slur for them.) But that isn’t where I come from – that’s just trivia. I come from the people who raised me; they come from the people who raised them. So today, when most everyone I know is getting hammered just because they can, I’ll drink to them: Mary, Melvin, John, and Audrey.
(Thanks, Gabe, for the title)