My Irish History

I won second-place in the Kansas City Irish Fest writing contest. The theme was "My Irish History". A couple caveats: the first-place entry was announced as having won by a "landslide" and there may have only been three entries...


It was usually around Thanksgiving when the teacher would gather us in a circle and ask us to share our ethnic backgrounds with the class. As my classmates struggled to piece together their intricate heritage pie charts (“I’m one-eighth French, one-eighth German, one-half Swedish, one-fourth Norwegian…”), I waited patiently for my turn. I had it easy.
“I am 100% Irish.”
Although I was proud to be Irish-American and liked the ease of being 100% something, I had never thought too much about what it meant.
Early in my life, my dad defined Irish for me. He was passionate about Ireland – from the history and the music to the legends and the poetry. He would sing along to The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem as he worked at his desk. I can hear his favorites like “Roddy McCorley” blaring from the stereo speakers in his den.
Dad was a bit of a romantic with a flair for the dramatic. He would get misty-eyed when reciting a poem by Yeats or when recounting the struggles faced by the Irish people throughout history. Sometimes the music was a little loud and my dad a little sappy, but this is what I thought being Irish was all about.
On a spring day in 1981, I came home to find an Irish flag draped across our front porch. I could only imagine what my dad was up to. Dad wasn’t around and when I asked my mom about the flag she told me it was to show support for Bobby Sands and his hunger strike in Northern Ireland. My mom explained the situation to me - the IRA, Sands, and the unjust treatment of the prisoners. Sands just wanted to be recognized and treated as a political prisoner.
I didn’t think my mom had it in her. She was the one who had put up the flag. What a surprise! My mom was just as Irish as my dad, only in a different way. New possibilities emerged to define what it meant to be Irish-American. I have embraced the complexities of my heritage and the expression of who I am.
Looking back, it was the other kids who had it easy. I doubt many of them spent much time wondering about what it meant to be Franco-German-Swedish-Norwegian-American. They could quantify who they were – they had a pie chart.