Smithwick's Is My Homie (Or being Irish-American)

At my favorite bar, the owner/bartender can do a perfect pour of Guinness. That's a big deal, because it's flippin' hard to create a shamrock on top of a glass of beer. Things like that impress me because, you see, I'm a crazy Irish-American girl.   There are quite a few of us out there, and we're sometimes pretty stereotypical.  So much so that there is a trending topic called  #irishgirlproblems on Twitter right now.

I think we have a lot of those. Problems, that is.

For one thing, not only is my skin the color of chalk (except when I drink; then it turns an angry shade of red on all of my facial extremities), not only do I have freckles (which I have grown to love), but I have the bad Irish teeth. Ask anyone of Irish/Anglo descent, and they will tell you that their bill at the dentist's office is outrageous. I was lucky and didn't get the crooked-row-of-tombstones set of chompers that many of my Celtic brethren and sisters have, they're just bad. Like, I can brush my teeth three times a day and I still get cavities. My first root canal was performed when I was only 8. And they're yellow. Yeah, I probably drink too much coffee and red wine, but even after bleaching them, they're still yellow. I don't like to be photographed next to my friends with their shiny white teeth. I look like a meth whore in comparison.

Irish hair is crazy, too. In my family, you either have jet-black hair and olive skin(from the lucky Cherokee side) or you're some shade of ginger. I belong in the ginger category. I was born a coppery strawberry blonde, and my hair deepened to a mousy reddish-brown by 4th grade. I was hittin' the old Clairol by my senior year to become a fiery redhead. I have since dyed it every shade of red known to man. My brother is a strawberry blonde, my niece is a lush auburn, and my great-nephew is a complete carrot-top. There was so much red hair in my wedding party, even the pastor commented on it. And there is a LOT of frizz in this family. My hair grows exponentially when exposed to any humidity.  We all burn like crazy. SPF 75 is a must in this family. Oh, and did I mention that I have no eyelashes unless I wear mascara? That's another plus of being Irish! Your face lacks complete expression without makeup! If you're an Irish guy, you're just screwed. Sorry about that.

                                                Photo courtesy of The Atlantic


 Irish-heritage people get real excited when they hear bagpipes. Put some bagpipes and a bodhran in an American pub, and you'll see us freak out. If you add a fiddle and a tin-whistle, get out of the way - it's like somebody just mainlined musical heroin into our veins. We love music; we're infected by it. My grandfather was a fiddler, and my dad has told me lots of stories of his gatherings, where all of the people in his tiny town would come to hear him play reels and country dances. It was a foot-stomping good time - with arms tightly down to the sides, of course.

Next comes the language. Gaelic is still spoken in some areas of Ireland and Scotland, and it is a confusing language, because it sounds NOTHING like it looks.  In some ways it's like French, with the soft consonants. For instance the name Siobhan is pronounced "Sha-von" . My favorite is Dun Laoghaire, a small coastal town in Cork where some of my family hails from. The first time I pronounced it, I sounded like I was hacking up a lung-cookie. It's pronounced, "Dun Leery."  Oh, and if you hear someone say "slawnt ya", they like you and they probably have a drink in their hand. You should touch your drink to theirs. It's polite.

One of my biggest pet-peeves is when people call St Patrick's Day "St. Patty's Day". That is wrong. That would make it Saint Patricia's day. Padraigh is Patrick in Gaelic. Thus, the correct shortened name is "St. Paddy's Day". Paddy is a common term of endearment for men named Patrick in Ireland.  I know, I'm a freaking snob.

Ever notice how many writers and musicians are from Ireland or have Irish heritage? A lot. That's because Irish people are pretty melancholy, on the whole. Depression usually = creativity. Have you ever known a truly happy Irish writer? Really? They usually are a flummoxed sort. Not particularly social, kind of moody, talk to themselves a lot. I mean, Van Morrison has one happy song. I'm glad that brown-eyed girl made him happy long enough  to give us that one. James Joyce? Have you read "Ulysses?" Yeah, let's just assume Joyce was probably a bit schizophrenic. And if you really want to cheer yourself up, read "Angela's Ashes."  We like to write about death, ghosts rattling around, and crazy women in attics.  My husband is a saint. That is all I am saying.

With all of that said, I'm a proud Irish-American. When I read stories about Brian Boru, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Boadicea, and my own Kennedy ancestors -  who escaped the potato famine to come to this country, I feel very proud to have green in my blood. Sure, there are the clan wars,  Protestant vs. Catholic troubles, and the abject poverty as well. But those things are all part of a rich culture which has survived many centuries of attempted extermination. Now, the Irish are a worldwide diaspora - in every country and continent on earth. And I jam out to Flogging Molly and the Chieftains in my car every chance I get, even though those damned bagpipes are to blame for two speeding tickets. Oops.

Slainte!