People assume because I am Irish that today is a big day for me. It’s not. Frankly, getting stinking shitfaced doesn’t seem like the best way to honor my ancestors. Maybe that’s how Latinos feel when everyone rallies around Cinco de Mayo and drinks too many margaritas or Pacificos?
As a white person I’ve always felt disconnected to my ethnicity. As a white person in America I am grouped as “Caucasian” and my ancestry isn’t taken into account. We are all the same, apparently, regardless if we are Polish, Austrian, British, Czech or Irish because our skin color matches. I am well aware of the innate privilege that comes with my skin color and at the same time, I’ve always envied my friends who would be deemed “people of color” because they have seem so connected to their lineage. I’m talking about my friends who are Chicana, Filipino, South African, Korean. . .they know more about where they came from. Me? I know that my Grandmother is Irish and my Grandfather is Irish/English from Chicago on my Mom’s side and my Dad’s parents were full Welsh living in Canada. There’s a big part of me that longs to connect to my ethnicity and learn more about where my people came from. Yes, I am Irish. But what does that mean? It’s my personal journey to discover it.
There’s one thing that I can count on every St. Patrick’s Day thanks to my Godmother, my Aunt Peg and that’s Blarney Stones. What, pray tell, is a blarney stone you ask? Well it’s a little cake frosted and rolled in peanuts. It’s salty sweet deliciousness. Every St. Patrick’s Day no matter where I live a small box with four little Blarney Stones arrives and I always look forward to it. Not just because it’s a tasty treat but because it’s a tradition that ties me to my family.
Tell me, what is your ethnicity?