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LUCK OF THE IRISH
RUNS DRY |
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It’s not easy to admit, but I’m the
human equivalent of a canine mutt. My ancestors were obviously on the
loose side, sleeping with anybody and everybody. As far as I know, they
kept their wanderings confined to the European continent, but also managed
to cross the English Channel for some fun and games.
Consequently, I’ve got a lot of different
continental European blood in me, along with a good dose of English
lineage. But the only heritage that is really close to my heart,
especially with St. Patrick’s Day coming next week, is my beloved 1/4
Irish part.
I may be a mutt, but at least I could
explain why my nose was so red and why I always felt like singing when I
drank too much.
That is, until the other day when I was informed
by my mother that I was no longer Irish.
"What do you mean I’m not Irish," I
cried. "You’re Irish." Then it dawned on me. "Oh, my God.
I’m adopted!"
She patted my hand gently as I checked her facial
features, looking for some resemblance. "No, dear, you’re not
adopted. It’s just that your sister has been researching our family
tree, and she’s discovered that my great-great grandfather wasn’t
Irish after all."
"What was he?" I asked with some trepidation,
still in shock over losing my beloved Irish heritage.
My mother took a deep breath (for a woman in her
80’s) and dropped her head slightly. "Welsh."
"You’ve got to be kidding me?" I
answered. "Welsh? Welsh? How frigging boring is that? Can’t we at
least pretend he was Scottish? No one wants to be Welsh. I don’t know
anyone who has even been there."
She was back to patting my hand. "Wales is a
beautiful part of the British Isles," she said softly.
"Have you been there?"
"Not yet. But maybe I’ll go soon."
I wasn’t buying it. I don’t know much about
Wales, but I’m guessing it’s a lot like Oakland. There is no there
there. One moment I was from the Emerald Isle, the next moment I was from
a windswept, rocky outpost where the most famous person was some writer
whose name escapes me. Talk about a bad day.
I left my mother and my Irish eyes were certainly not
smiling, primarily because they were no longer Irish. St. Paddy’s day
was just around the corner, but I wasn’t planning on any celebration.
Foremost on my mind, though, was that I had to tell my
children they were no longer Irish. I was hoping they could handle the
news better than me.
First up were my two teenage sons. "I have bad
news for you boys," I told them over dinner the other night.
"You’re not 1/8 Irish like I’ve always told you."
One of them immediately high-fived the other.
"Yes!" said the 17 -year-old. "I knew we were part black.
That’s awesome."
"No," I replied, tempering their enthusiasm.
"You have no African-American blood. You’re Welsh."
"What’s a Welsh?" asked the 16-year-old.
I didn’t bother explaining. It was too depressing. My
strapping young Irish lads were now descended from boring old Welsh
goat-herders. Anyway, it was time to break the news to my two
twenty-something daughters.
The girls had always wanted to be Jewish, ever since
their best friends in elementary school celebrated Christmas for 8
straight days. Or as they called it, Hanukkah. But as they entered the bar
scene when they turned 21, they realized being Irish had its advantages,
especially on St. Patrick’s Day. This was going to be hard for them
"What do you mean we’re not Irish?" one of
them said when I informed them of the devastating news. "What about
Mom’s side?"
Oops. I forgot about the other half. But my wife is
French-Canadian (never could make up her mind---what is it, French or
Canadian?) and I was pretty sure she didn’t have a drop of Irish blood
in her. She certainly didn’t like to sing after quaffing a few pints.
I asked her when she got home. "Yep," she
replied triumphantly, "1/8th Irish, through and through.
Irish blood is still flowing through our family, thanks to me."
Sheesh. Everybody was Irish except me. St. Patrick’s
Day will never be the same. Instead of wearing green, I’ll be wearing
Welsh colors—grey and darker grey. |
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