“It’s great to have a four-day weekend,” the littlest boy said on his way to school last week. And so the realisation suddenly dawned that my children actually had a four-day weekend coming up.
A bank holiday weekend to celebrate all things Irish, and the patron saint of our snake-less isle. Plus, an extra day that I’d completely forgotten about. Again. (Curse you blank, magnetic, fridge planner).
Perhaps it was the distraction of all things Irish in the build-up that made me not think beyond the day itself. After all, international monuments and rivers turn green, parades happen all around the globe, and the Taoiseach gets an audience with the American president. We are the envy of international communities everywhere, as the world and its mother goes Irish for the day.
We have an ability to capture the world’s imagination in inexplicable ways. Partly because, for a small nation, we really get around. I too, as a child of the 1980s recession, left our shores with my family in the late 80s, early 90s, to head for that lesser known Irish emigrant destination, Wisconsin, in search of a better life than the one in Tallaght during the grim Irish recession offered. So, off we set in pursuit of the American dream. Obviously, we headed to Sheboygan. You’ll know it from the Home Alone movie as being the place mentioned by John Candy’s character (the Polka King of the Midwest) to Kevin’s mother where his song Polka, Polka, Polka hit the big time.
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‘I am struggling with potty training my three-year-old daughter’
‘My son is in his 20s, but still lives like a teenager – staying in his room playing video games’
This Irish girl was near dragged from the Emerald Isle, kicking and screaming.
I had no desire to leave my country behind. If a child could be deemed determinedly patriotic and devoted to her country, I was she, and the thoughts of leaving it had me distraught. But off we headed like many before us, and many since, wondering what lay ahead.
Snow, as it turned out. It snows a lot there.
A couple of weeks after we arrived, my little sisters and I began school. There’s a weird thing, which probably hasn’t changed that much over the years. Here in Ireland, you went to a Catholic school, and it was just called school. In America, your mam and dad had to seek out a Catholic school, because it wasn’t just a given, and part of your identity was that you went to a Catholic school.
There’s always curiosity when a new student starts in school and this time was no different. “Say something in Gaelic,” children would say at lunchtime, in the classroom, in the hall, in the yard. “It’s actually Gaeilge”, I’d clarify knowledgeably before immersing them in my culture and teaching them essential phrases that are core to every Irish child’s vocabulary. The seanfhocail of childhood, if you will. “Póg mo thóin”, I said slowly and wisely. “An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas?” I uttered meaningfully, in my dulcet Irish tones.
They were fierce impressed altogether.
There were some curious behaviours I observed too. Like standing and pledging allegiance to a flag each morning before lessons began. “You don’t have to do this, Jennifer,” the teacher said, kindly.
But there’s only so long a child feels comfortable sitting and watching their classmates, without feeling like an outsider. And so, as time went on, I too joined in the morning ritual and a subtle change in my accent began.
Science class began, to my amusement, with regular reminders that science is not a threat to faith. “You can believe in both”, he’d explain. “The whole Old Testament, that’s just stories”, he’d add by way of clarification. Science class never began like that at home. Another teacher asked me to stand up at the top of the class to share what life in Ireland was like. “Tell us about the IRA”, he asked a child from Dublin with very little understanding of the Troubles.
On play dates, my friends’ parents would proudly tell me stories of distant relatives who were Irish. And one even rang my friend’s grandfather during a visit to come around and meet this Irish 13-year-old. He arrived with chocolate, “because us Irish love candy”, he explained, as he sat sharing tales of Irish family with tear-filled eyes.
My family returned home, realising the American dream was not to be. But the memories have lasted and I wonder often what life would be like had we stayed. Would I too have desperately clung to any opportunity to connect with my Irish past?
Because it’s great to be Irish, really.
It almost merits that other day off school that I’d forgotten about.
