Every St Pat’s Day, I felt like I was missing something.I can’t say for sure why. This was grade school, so it wasn’t the green beer, but there must have been something special about the day. Something that drew me in. Four leaf clovers and luck of the Irish, maybe?
Back then, I didn’t know how good the whiskey was or how green the hillsides are said to be. I’d never heard the pipes cry “Danny Boy”.
But I knew there had to be magic in being Irish.
Deep down in my gypsy soul, I felt there was something special about it…maybe in another life I knew about the storytelling tradition; the folklore and fairytales.
What I wanted to be more than anything, what I yearned to be…was Irish.
I don’t know when I found out. I don’t know why no one told me. They probably didn’t think they had to. I don’t know why the Malone and Maley names in the family tree didn’t ring a bell for me.
I AM Irish.
50% anyway. My great grandparents were named Delia (called Bridget) and Patrick. How did I miss that?
Their son, Frank, was born in the United States, but traveled back to the Emerald Isle when he was young. He went to school there for awhile. His schoolmates called him The Yank. Maybe he didn’t know he was Irish either.
I don’t know if there’s a moral to this story. Maybe the moral is to celebrate what who we already are.
Maybe it’s only to drink more whiskey and tell more stories.
Or just maybe, the moral is that we can be whomever and whatever we decide to be.
Now that I know I’m Irish, what I really want to be – more than anything – is a writer.
Maybe I already am.