So when I was growing up, my understanding of what it means to be Irish was solidly based in an Irish-American experience. My grandparents were patriotic and proud Americans who would much rather regale us (my parents included) with stories of opportunity and rising out of poverty than the glories of the Motherland. I am more familiar with stories of my grandfather growing up with 15 siblings in upstate New York, with my grandmother and her sisters being offered a singing gig that instead went to the Andrews Sisters because "good girls" weren't entertainers, with the heartbreaking story of my Grandma Hogan who married a dapper young soldier, only to send him off to WWII a few weeks later and, as the story goes, got her husband back a very changed man. But what of the courageous members of my family who said goodbye to the craggy shores of County Mayo, hoping to find prosperity on the other end of a seemingly impossible journey? It was knowledge I didn't have growing up- but didn't miss either. My heritage was something I trusted in, something I assumed; I confidently declared myself an Irish-American. But was I?
What did I know of Irish Culture but a stereotypical family history with alcohol abuse, the occasional sing along to folk songs, and the annual baking of soda bread with mom (still the best in the world), and being sung to sleep every night with An Irish Lullaby? I first awakened to the richness of my heritage in a dark theater in New York City, sitting beside my mom and Barbara Dougherty. As the haunting pennywhistle transported us back to the moss laden fields of our ancestry and the fiddle began, Riverdance instilled a pride in me with roots that reached into a dormant place in my heart.
As the years progressed, I learned to jig, I learned a simple reel, I became president of my highschool's Irish Cultural Association and visited Ellis Island for the first time. I continue to search for a deeper connection and understanding of my ancestry, and others for that matter, but I will always be grateful to Barbara and my mom for taking my Irish pride out of a pub and into the culture itself.
But then again, there's always room for a pint! Speaking of which, here are a few photos of our family's Saint Patrick's Day Celebration:
The hosts with the most!
More Italian than Irish - but still gorgeous kids!
Tis themselves - Daddy and the Godfather
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