One of my more psychologically shattering experiences occurred in freshman year of high school on the Friday before St. Patrick’s Day.
It was a cold day in Chicago; I wore a dark green wool sweater to class, to which was pinned a light green and gold metal three-leaf clover. Ron Litwin, who was sitting behind me in algebra, poked me in the back.
“You know, your Irish relatives used to burn cow (expletive) to heat their houses,” he whispered.
At the time, I thought his contention preposterous, though what irked me more was that anyone would dare besmirch our culture or history.
Having grown up on the South Side, I believed, and thought everyone else agreed, that the Italians, Greeks, Mexicans, Polish, African Americans, English, Dutch, Lithuanians and Russians were nice enough people, but, unluckily for them, they were not royalty like us. Anyone could see that the Irish were in charge. Our U.S. president, mayor, alderman, police officers, firefighters and Park District workers were Irish.
Nor was dominance by descendants of the Emerald Isle a case of monarchical nepotism. For it was clear to me after graduating from St. Bernadette’s, where the top students were the Cavanaughs, McCarthys, O’Connors, Geoghegans and (ahem) McGraths, that brains, eloquence, athleticism, charisma and good looks separated us from the rest.
Which was, of course, why we would ride in our station wagon to 82nd and Ashland Avenue to watch the St. Patrick’s Day Parade from the showroom windows of Consolidated Tile Co., owned by our wealthy uncle Don, who treated his employees and their families to a lavish, all-day celebration.
Not as great of a kids’ parade as the one at Christmas with elves and Santa Claus and toys and snowmen. Instead, there were mostly gray men in ties and overcoats waving to spectators followed by high school bands playing in the rain. It almost always rained. But when March 17 landed on a school day, our mother wrote eight notes to excuse each of us from school, which made it our exclusive holiday.
Ron, a pal I needled plenty, said the Irish were drunks who beat their wives. And they only knew how to grow potatoes, so they nearly starved to death. And Ireland was on the losing end of every war they’d ever been in.
“You’re nuts,” I said, though a bit too loud, causing Father Odo, who was solving a quadratic equation on the blackboard, to do a 360, his eyes landing as they often did on Litwin and me.
It ended our “conversation,” though I was rattled enough that I visited the library for ammunition that would refute his claims.
Some ammunition!
Yes, unfortunately, the ancient Irish did burn cow dung to heat their homes when peat was too expensive or not available. Yes, sadly, the majority of Irish men had drinking problems, which often led to violence against women. Yes, tragically, a million Irish natives starved to death in the Potato Famine that began in 1845.
But finally, yay! The Irish did win a war in 1598. But in modern history, they took a beating in separate campaigns in the 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th centuries.
It was too late, though. I felt betrayed by this dose of reality. And I knew I couldn’t blame Litwin for simply stating the truth.
I throttled down the Irish hype. I stopped going to the parades. Wore black or brown on St. Patrick’s Day. And in college, I told anyone who would listen that extolling a single nationality over others was chauvinistic, if not downright racist.
But a funny thing happened on the way to becoming an adult. You lose your “humbug” and your rebel’s cap. You see more clearly into the human heart.
In wisdom, I perceived that Irish pride — like Italian, Black, Native American, Latino, German or Muslim pride — is a worthy and edifying concept to counteract negative stereotypes. That focusing on strengths, such as literature, humor, music and resilience, is a way of instilling confidence, honor and hope for the future, especially in impressionable youth.
That you needn’t have Irish blood coursing through your veins to wear green and make merry because celebrating “Irishness” has come to mean embracing fun, camaraderie and community.
That St. Patrick’s Day is inclusive, not exclusive.
That we toast the differences that make us unique as individuals but united as American patriots.
That Irish pride is American pride.
That we all can participate. We all can party.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day to everyone!
David McGrath, an emeritus English professor at the College of DuPage, learned from Ancestry.com that he was not Irish, but that did not dampen his enthusiasm for St. Patrick’s Day. He is the author of “Far Enough Away,” a collection of Chicagoland stories. Email him at mcgrathd@dupage.edu.
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