“You take stuff from different places, and sometimes you stick a line in because it rhymes, not because it makes sense.” ”“ Van Morrison
St. Patrick’s Day arrives at the front gate of spring here in New England, with arms outstretched and a buzzed”“up grin. A holiday that stands at the helm of March. The time of year where one defiantly stops wearing hats and mittens no matter the temperature. ”˜Tis the season for the electrifying roller coaster ride of slush and ice. Nothing could be more hopeful during these 31 days than a joyous parade, a four-leaf clover or even just a green one.
Heritage has always been important. It’s the warm fire we can curl up to. Ancestry in general has been known to join people with a past and give them a sense of honor and inclusion. It’s a feeling of having one immense, growing family, most of whom you will never meet. This feeling kindles a yearning to travel, learn new languages and seek new life criteria in hopes of answering unending questions about character. I’ve never been one for a definitive label, but I do hold dear the concept of a legacy and the people of the past that helped build it.
Alas, with every great concept comes some amount of exploit. Nothing can be more boring than when someone excuses some embarassing behavior with not being able to help themselves. As though being Irish is a prerequisite to publicly crying into your beer at 2 a.m or being Italian forces you to unreasonably hit the roof when someone accidentally parks in your spot. These are obviously both derogatory stereotypes and American culture has nurtured this to some extent. Would our ancestors approve of green beer? Would they find the same pride in decorating their bedroom walls with Al Pacino movie posters? It seems conspicuous that both of these things fall in line with the American penchants for food coloring or a good flick.
But to be fair, I think most of us have been guilty of a version of this at one point in time; blaming our imperfections on a predisposition that’s out of our hands which, ultimately, turns life into a party of zero tough choices. My last name was Hanley (and is now Smith.) My grandparents were: Darling, Hanley, McVey and Riccardelli. While Italians can take some of the responsibility for me, it’s clear that a majority of my lineage was chipped off the Blarney Stone. The last 10 percent of me is some pasty concoction of European nationalities. But, I know I’m from Maine. I would never pretend to know what it’s like to be Irish, simply because I wish Lucky Charms were an acceptable form of nutrition. I didn’t survive ”“ or not survive ”“ a potato famine. I’ve never truly suffered enough to throw all caution to the wind and jump on a one-way voyage across the Atlantic Ocean with a sliver of hope and a slew of hungry children. The most suffering I’ve ever endured wouldn’t even be considered a hiccup for my ancestors. But I have seen parts of myself in certain attributes assigned to both the Irish and the Italian personalities.
I wonder ”“ is this sort of like reading your horoscope and somehow, on the right day, it totally speaks to you? Is it just the human condition to put our feelings, thoughts and actions into a designated box so everything is neat and tidy? On one hand, I can get a little weepy when I hear a good Van Morrison song. On the other hand, I find leprechauns incredibly creepy. My ancestors from the boot-shaped nation might be horrified to know that I have always had conflicted feelings on tomato sauce, and yet, I have also hit the theoretical roof before ”“ never over a parking spot, but once over sauteed mushrooms. Let me just say that mushrooms are gross, but that’s neither here nor there.
So I am left asking ”“ can I honestly give credit or fault to my family tree for any of these things?
In the process of probing my heritage, I travel back in time to being a teenager when my dad worked overseas in Scotland. I spent several summer vacations there with my older sister. My father, being the history drill sergeant that he is, insisted we travel to every war ruin, battlefield and castle in all of England, Scotland, Ireland and France during our visits. War-torn ruins weren’t exactly riveting summer vacation material for two teenage girls. My sister, being her delightful 15”“year”“old self, had an expression as if she would rather join a family of sheep. But it’s difficult when you’re young to know when you’re spending time that will actually matter and I’m not sure it has gotten significantly easier with age. It was a summer afternoon in 1995 that I remember thinking – this day was for the books. I was almost 13 and in my foggy brink”“of”“teenage brain, the road signs made smooth transitions from English to Gaelic like holograms in the countryside, as if there would be any point of language in between the two that would make sense.
Our destination was a small village called Ballinamuck nestled in the middle of Ireland. My father told us it was the birthplace of my great-grandfather, Bernard McVey, who had owned a farm there and lived out his life. We spent the afternoon wandering; gazing open”“mouthed at everything. There stood an engaging church, a trustworthy pub, charming little houses and intent roads that diverged in the center of the village and stretched out to embrace a rolling sea of soft grass. It was the sort of land where the inhabitance of hobbits would make perfect sense.
At one point, we stood at the base of a monument in the center of town that honored The Battle of Ballinamuck. A battle in which British losses were a faint whimper compared to the blast of the 500 Irish killed and the 200 prisoners taken (of which almost all were later hanged.) Not exactly a rosy highlight in history for the Irish. But for my father, this little town was a major victory, in one parking job; a significant branch from our family tree reaching over a historic battlefield. Top it all off with a quaint pub serving Guinness room temperature from the tap, which is “the correct way to serve it” ”“ in case you were wondering.
It’s an eerie feeling standing outside the home of a relative you never met, like you are moments away from watching a flashback sequence play out in front of you. My great-grandfather’s idea of home was, undoubtedly, more obvious than mine. Home to me feels like a pair of cozy sweatpants, a Netflix marathon and Stovetop Stuffing. My grasp of Ballinamuck felt more like the onset of deja vu or possible Alzheimer’s ”“ a familiar discovery. But I got the feeling that Bernard McVey would’ve been pleased to show us around and, in a metaphysical sense, he did.
Heritage is rooted in afternoons like that; humbled by hardship and beauty that sifts, like gold, into the graceful sentiment of tradition. My father has been back to Ballinamuck since that day and “just happened” to be there in 1998 during the 200-year anniversary of the battle. On a day when you might expect a more melancholy tone than usual, he said the event was, essentially, a rager ”“ a grand old time.
So this holiday that honors the Irish comes at the right time of year, when the first snow melts and the forgiving ground begins to expand out of an icy shell. I can’t think of a more appropriate time to celebrate resilience.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Here’s to my McVey ”“ and to yours.
— Claire Smith is a graphic designer at the Journal Tribune and might be the only person she knows who truly enjoys corned beef and cabbage.
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