I grew up in Boston
Where everyone is Irish.
For the day,
all year.
Celtic Pride, as in basketball, as in parades.
In the 70's, shamrock tattoos’ and fighting Irish leprechauns. Tattoos were illegal here most of my life so they were prison quality.
Kiss me I'm Irish.
I'm of the old sod.
At one time, towns FULL of Irish immigrants. Waitresses, nannies, carpenters.
Whole towns of second generation Irish dating first.
Growing up here, being Irish was a commonplace as speaking English.
And it wasn't if you were Irish, it was "How Irish are you"
I was one of four. Not Irish.
And I used to apologize for having a small family.
One of 6, of 8, or 9, of 11? Irish.
Patrick, Mary, Shawn, Gerald
Sully, Sully, Obie, & Bri.
Irish as you please, Irish as the day is long.
Fighting, scrappy, tough.
Irish.
Hardworking.
Irish.
Family dysfunction,
oh so Irish.
I also grew up seeing the perpetuated stereotypes. Not the drunkin ones.
But cold aloof mom, dad sleeps on the cot in the sunroom. There's always a mistress. Some woman named Cissy that he met down the bar by the beach that he's been seeing 16 years and everyone knows her number because she's sent him home in cabs and sometimes you have to call her looking for him.
It's funny now, at 40.
The "Irish" have blended and my tales of the Boston Irish of long ago are dated, inauthentic. Sound racial. Immigration slowed down, way down. We no longer get the droves of young girls and boys who come here, thinking they'll see all ofAmerica
I have a few friends, married to first generation Irish. Not as many as I would have known had I stayed in the city, or been more connected to my youth.
One friend’s husband is cheating.
Cheated.
She found out, he's gone.
Two young kids, and he's turned into a child himself.
Left her, them, whines that it's not amicable.
Men of all nationalities stray but he is
so
Irish.
"The sex sucked anyway" she said.
You'd never say it of your husband; you'd bear it in silence. This is the sex I'm going to have the rest of my life? Ho hum. Who could you tell? But him now gone? Not coming back? Fair enough.
"The sex was terrible" she said. "He had a tiny d*ck. It was awful"
This morning my husband kissed me in the kitchen
"Happy St Patrick’s Day" he said.
"Oh no!" as if I'd have done something different. Or decorated. Or made green pancakes. "I'm so sorry. Happy St Patrick’s Day to you too. Even though we aren't Irish."
"Well, I get to claim it" His stepfather is of the green green grass ofdover
"Not where it counts" I do a faux bump and shimmy.
As if.
Poor dear. It'll be months.
He laughs.
"I think that's a myth." my husband said. "The whole small dick thing"
And completely without thinking, reaching over his shoulder for toast, I replied.
Loudly
Completely in earnest yet matter of fact.
"Oh my god no. They're tiny. I've never seen a big one."
God love the man.
He just laughed.
"Well kiss me I'm not Irish then" he said.
"Oh thank god"
Where everyone is Irish.
For the day,
all year.
Celtic Pride, as in basketball, as in parades.
In the 70's, shamrock tattoos’ and fighting Irish leprechauns. Tattoos were illegal here most of my life so they were prison quality.
Kiss me I'm Irish.
I'm of the old sod.
At one time, towns FULL of Irish immigrants. Waitresses, nannies, carpenters.
Whole towns of second generation Irish dating first.
Growing up here, being Irish was a commonplace as speaking English.
And it wasn't if you were Irish, it was "How Irish are you"
I was one of four. Not Irish.
And I used to apologize for having a small family.
One of 6, of 8, or 9, of 11? Irish.
Patrick, Mary, Shawn, Gerald
Sully, Sully, Obie, & Bri.
Irish as you please, Irish as the day is long.
Fighting, scrappy, tough.
Irish.
Hardworking.
Irish.
Family dysfunction,
oh so Irish.
I also grew up seeing the perpetuated stereotypes. Not the drunkin ones.
But cold aloof mom, dad sleeps on the cot in the sunroom. There's always a mistress. Some woman named Cissy that he met down the bar by the beach that he's been seeing 16 years and everyone knows her number because she's sent him home in cabs and sometimes you have to call her looking for him.
It's funny now, at 40.
The "Irish" have blended and my tales of the Boston Irish of long ago are dated, inauthentic. Sound racial. Immigration slowed down, way down. We no longer get the droves of young girls and boys who come here, thinking they'll see all of
I have a few friends, married to first generation Irish. Not as many as I would have known had I stayed in the city, or been more connected to my youth.
One friend’s husband is cheating.
Cheated.
She found out, he's gone.
Two young kids, and he's turned into a child himself.
Left her, them, whines that it's not amicable.
Men of all nationalities stray but he is
so
Irish.
"The sex sucked anyway" she said.
You'd never say it of your husband; you'd bear it in silence. This is the sex I'm going to have the rest of my life? Ho hum. Who could you tell? But him now gone? Not coming back? Fair enough.
"The sex was terrible" she said. "He had a tiny d*ck. It was awful"
This morning my husband kissed me in the kitchen
"Happy St Patrick’s Day" he said.
"Oh no!" as if I'd have done something different. Or decorated. Or made green pancakes. "I'm so sorry. Happy St Patrick’s Day to you too. Even though we aren't Irish."
"Well, I get to claim it" His stepfather is of the green green grass of
"Not where it counts" I do a faux bump and shimmy.
As if.
Poor dear. It'll be months.
He laughs.
"I think that's a myth." my husband said. "The whole small dick thing"
And completely without thinking, reaching over his shoulder for toast, I replied.
Loudly
Completely in earnest yet matter of fact.
"Oh my god no. They're tiny. I've never seen a big one."
God love the man.
He just laughed.
"Well kiss me I'm not Irish then" he said.
"Oh thank god"
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