My mother’s childhood home (middle of the three cottages) in Ardmore, Louisburg, Co. Mayo.
I have to admit that, in my 40-plus years on this planet and as the child of Irish immigrants, I never understood the commercialism that surrounds St. Patrick’s Day. Everyone wants to be Irish for that one special day (not that I blame them; the Irish are pretty awesome) but the pots of gold, the “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirts, the green beer… I don’t get it at all.
We Irish do love a celebration. We like to sing, dance, laugh and tell stories. We love a good parade, good Irish food and great music. We’re fierce and proud and stubborn as hell. But seriously, folks, what self-respecting Irish person would drink green beer? It’s whiskey, Guinness, or nothing at all.
Most Americans associate the color green with Ireland and being Irish. I haven’t seen the country in many years (“the old country,” as my father still calls his birthplace), but her rolling hills, fields and mountains are shades of green like no other place in the world. It’s mystical. Even magical.
Ironically, the superstitious in Ireland once believed the color green was a sign of a bad omen. I remember, as a child, one year I was going to send my grandparents a St. Patrick’s Day card. I picked it out myself, along with its green envelope. My mother made me put it right back on the display at the store, saying that if my grandmother saw a green envelope coming in the mail, she’d think someone died. Who would’ve guessed, right?
I took Irish step dancing for four years. As the only daughter in my family, it was a given, as much as going to church every Sunday and on every holy day. I never excelled at it, and actually began to rebel against it after a time. Irish dancing in the 70s was much more rigid than it is now. There were no hands on hips and bouncing curls like there are today. Your arms were by your sides at all times, as if glued there.
My instructor was a pint-size, elderly Irishwoman who was loud and strict and unflinching. And, even at her age, which I’m guessing was around 70 at that time, she could fly around that room, doing jigs and reels, as if her legs and muscles were still 16. I actually still have the competition costume somewhere, which was delicately hand-made, and sewn with great care and detail. It cost around $100 back then, which was almost a fortune.
My parents and their families were born into poverty, and came to this country, as did so many others, to find a better future for their own children. They have always taught my brothers and me to be proud of who we are and where our people come from, as they were. Even though they’ve been U.S. citizens for over 50 years, and have always called America “the greatest country in the world,” nothing compares to the beauty of the old country.
So, to those who like to be Irish for that one day each year, welcome to it. Those of us who are Irish every day of the year (and are children of Ardmore and Dungarvan) do appreciate the celebration. Slainte!
About Ann Luongo
