St. Patrick’s Day is a day that I become irrationally self-defensive.
This blog post is evidence of that.
I am not Irish.
Despite the freckles, the translucent skin, the reddish hair, I am probably more Sioux Indian than I am Irish. (And believe it or not, a fraction of me exists that is Sioux Indian).
There’s nothing wrong with being Irish, of course.
I’m sure it’s awesome.
That isn’t the issue here.
It’s that people assume.
Ba-da-bing, I know what you are.
I’m mostly Sicilian.
And I think I have the nose to prove it.
And the flailing gestures to accompany my speech.
And maybe some questionable familial ties, that everyone claims to know nothing about.
I saw “The Godfather.” I saw the name on the olive oil company truck. No relation?
I don’t want to be pinched. Why is that ok?
And I can’t wear green because that just encourages people.
“But isn’t today, like, your day?”
I’m sorry to say that it isn’t.
But, by way of celebration, I will watch “The Quiet Man”, which is lovable despite (but also because of) the stereotypes and the taming-of-the-shrew mentality.