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| Web Exclusive:
03/15/2009
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It's the Irish in me!
It’s true what they say about the Irish people. I was raised by the Irish Community, still fresh off the boat, in a small town called San Francisco. This is a short story about the lessons they taught me and it explains why I find myself using this excuse so often: “I can’t help it. It’s the Irish in me”. Looking back now, I can see it was an Irish tragedy turned blessing in disguise. The Irish seem to have a knack for this; turning a tragedy into a blessing. The one that influenced me most was when I was just six months old, my sister two. It was 1958, and we were living in flats on 12th and Clement; an Irish neighborhood. My Grandparents lived above. My father had just joined the S.F. Police Dept. He was 25. And, my beautiful, vivacious mother had just died of Cancer. She was 24. Devastating to all who knew her and even to those who didn’t, it was such a tremendous loss for the whole Irish community. But for me, as a baby, it was at this very time I was filled with the true spirit of the Irish. When my world changed in an instance the Irish people gave me exactly what I needed most; Love, music, and a sense of well being. I was passed arm to arm among every Irishmen in S.F., hugged and kissed at every turn of the way and my heart was filled with goodness. I have come to find out, good heartedness is a strong trait found among the Irish. I was named after Paddy O’Shea, a bagpipe player and neighbor. I can’t remember my childhood without live music, be it fiddle, bagpipe and/or accordion players. Real Irish music; the kind you have to dance to, and danced, the Irish did, indeed. I learned the Irish jig before I could walk and to this day I still have a habit of dancing when any music comes on, anytime, anywhere. I don’t have to stretch my imagination far to know what “the old country” was like. Northern California is what the West Coast of Ireland looks like. My Grandparents came from Galway, Donegal, Cork and Kerry. Their tale is worth telling alone, and you will, no doubt hear it. It was cutting the peat in the bogs of Galway Bay, farming with horses, making barrels, fishing the ocean; hard work and poverty, which built strong character. The lucky ones came to America. The real lucky ones came to San Francisco! Talk about having the luck of the Irish. That would be enough, really. These Irish people were not just that. They were Irish Catholic. Some were even Black Irish Catholic, like me. The only way I can see it; another blessing in disguise. It was the time and place that made all the difference. I grew up in a suburb in San Francisco; “The Sunset District”, or to be more exact, Holy Name Parish, and it was mostly Irish…then. We were lucky Irish Catholic too, as the Irish are, as this was the wilderness of “The City”. Golden Gate Park, Ocean Beach, the Cliff House, the Zoo and the Grove; it was our backyard and we had the run of it. We never locked our front doors. And you can bet us Irish kids made the most of it. I am a classic stereo type, part cliché. I’m Irish. I went to Catholic School all my life and wore a uniform. And my dad was an Irish Cop who walked the beat and protected the bars he stopped in at. I loved the uniforms and Catholic school, even my all girl high school. And having your father and all your friend’s fathers be the local police and fire dept. had many advantages back then, especially in high school! You see, I am a product of the new school, within the old school. It was the 60’s/70’s in San Francisco and everyone was feeling the love, even the nuns and priests. We sang folks songs, did the kiss of peace and girls got to be altar boys. The message I remember most is the one the Irish had been teaching me all along. This is the cliché part. “Love yourself and then you can love others”! My knuckles were not hit with a ruler, and although I spent a lot of time in the principal office, the nuns always blamed my Irish temper, not me! I must say if ever there was an Irish tragedy turned blessing in disguise it would have to be “The Irish Wake”. I grew up going to them, after the rosary was said and mass was heard. I feel guilty for feeling this way, but they are the best parties I’ve been to. My grandfather called the obituary page the Irish sporting green and read it like that. It’s very likely the Irish know someone or someone who knows someone, who passed on. They always pay their respects, and let’s face it; no good Irishman wants to miss an Irish Wake. The Irish are simple, fun loving people. Take my Grandmothers and Aunts for example. Mary Brown, Mary Geaney, Mary Burke, Mary Donahoe, Mary Beggs. I cannot name one Irish woman from the old country, not named Mary, except Molly Devine, a nickname for Mary. I would often cry because I laughed so hard. These Irish women were definitely blessed with a good sense of humor. I’m sure a couple highballs helped, but good natured would describe them well. They gossiped in Gaelic, so we never got the whole story, only the part about Jesus, Mary and Joseph. For some reason they were always involved. They were great cooks and always the life of the party at the same time! That combination could prove to be a problem when a perfectly cooked leg of lamb was not fully appreciated like it should have been. Many verses, if only the first, of “Danny Boy” and “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”, were sung, and it’s a well know fact my grandmother made it into the Irish hall of fame for doing the Irish jig at 99 years old. The story could go on and on and it will be told more than once. The Irish are famous for doing this. But I think enough has been said, and done. So, I’ll end on a positive note, because after all, that is the point. The most important lesson taught to me is so simple. You know the Irish. Always see the good; in people, in life, and, God forbid, if tragedy does strike, even then. So, the jig will be danced. A pint will be raised at Murphy’s, and one for the Mary’s, too. It’s good to be Irish on St. Patrick’s Day, even if you’re not. But it’s great having the Irish in me on this and every other day, or at least that will be my excuse in the morning! Now, that’s a blessing in disguise! |
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