POINT OF VIEW
NOT THAT PROFOUND
by Nathan Graziano
St. Patrick’s Day is custom-made for men like me, men who have spent a generous chunk of their adult lives in the company of a cold beer.
While I am far past the age where I’ll be zooming downtown at 6 a.m. to open the bars with the hosts of a radio morning show— “That is no country for old men”— I still like to celebrate the day with a few beers, a boiled dinner and a Pogues playlist.
I know, it’s a cliché, but what can I say?
I still enjoy St. Paddy’s Day. And, by the way—Hey, why don’t I go eat some hay, make things out of clay, lay in the bay? I just may—I’m part-Irish on my mother’s side.
When I was growing up, my mother’s family relished the holiday, holding blockbuster parties at our house with Irish music blaring and the kitchen reeking of cabbage and booze aplenty.
Of course, I never indulged in the latter until I turned 21 years old, which is the legal age for an adult to imbibe in the United States.
Still, having an ethnic surname, it can sometimes be a struggle to sell people on the fact that I’m part-Irish. Last names that sound a little more Anglo-Saxon—and don’t end with a vowel—are far more convincing.
But, nowadays, we’re all mutts in America. The country—and the world, in general—is a big melting pot of cultures and heritage, which makes some of the bigotry we’re still seeing on display in our society that much more confounding and incomprehensible.
Many people also choose to have their DNA tested to learn their exact heritage and genealogy, which usually verifies the fact that most people come from other places and sundry backgrounds that blend races and cultures.
Ultimately, most of us in America are just Americans—imagine that. Only instead of boiling our food and slurping down pints of Guinness to celebrate our heritage, Americans grill meat, grab some guns and blow stuff up.
God bless ‘Merica.
However, here, in the land of the mutt, you don’t have to be Bono to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. So on Sunday pick out some green clothing, crack open a James Joyce novel, douse your corned beef in white vinegar and raise your glass to the Englishman who chased some snakes from Ireland.
Sláinte.