Diddlyi'm Irish!

Happy National Irish-Canadian Day aka St. Patrick's Day!

Yes, I'm Irish - waaaaay back - on my mother's side. I thought I'd take this opportunity to express exactly what it means to be Irish, or at least, be blessed/cursed with an Irish heritage since I'm not strictly limited to being green one day a year.

Yes, I'm a redhead.
Yes, I have a miserable, rotten temper - at times.
And, yes, the gift of gab and a love of telling tales in definitely in my blood.

So, to begin with, here is a primer of ME, the Irish woman.

Yes, I was named after an Irish ballad, "I'll take you home again, Kathleen." It's an incredibly sad, teary tale usually only warbled late in the day on the 17th of March by people who have been convinced by voices they hear coming from their pints of green beer that they can, without a doubt carry a tune and that anyone within hearing distance must also be convinced of same.
Sucky, but true.

Many years ago when I was offered my first publishing contract, a little clause called "Author's Pseudonym" popped up on about page 34. I thought long and hard about what to call myself. The answer came yet again from the green Isle. Chevon Gael. It is originally spelled 'Siobhan', in Gaelic, and nobody, drunk or sober, can manage to pronounce it properly. In the Irish language it means "The Woman" and "Gael" is, of course the Gaelic word for "Irish." Hence, the literal translation of Chevon Gael is 'The Irish Woman.' End of Gaelic lesson for today. If I ever become famous enough in the literary fashion to be known only as Chevon Gael, it is entirely possible that my forename, Kathleen, may disappear completely. I used to think about this because I thought it was important to know what name to put on my grave marker. Since this decision takes up too much time which I don't have anyway, I have decided that "Here Lies An Author" is sufficent.

So, what does it mean to be Irish? There are two explanations: what the world believes is Irish, through the stereotyping, advertising, myths, legends and often general misconceptions of those who are non-Irish - and the rest of us who actually are Irish.

For instance:
Irishmen do not smell like mint, clear flowing streams and fresh grass. Your typical Irishman heads to the pub after a hard day of slogging it out and the first thing that hits you is the rank combination of sweat and stale cigarettes. Add to that a few pints of brew and the flatulence of kippers and blood pudding at breakfast, a cold lamb and relish on black bread for lunch washed down with a generous glass of buttermilk and a fried something or another for supper - along with whatever was noshed down at tea - and you have an aroma which cannot be described in any little green bar of soap. Depending on the season and back in the day, this scent was often enhanced by wet, boiled wool and sheep shit caked to the wellies. You get the picture! NO MORE GREEN SOAP. I have, on occasion, heard it been said that modern Irish women consider their average man to smell like old socks and pussy! And that ain't special.

Next on my list:
We are jingoistic, popish drunkards. False! Not all of us are Catholic.

Like any race and nation in the world we have great standouts and also things we deserve to hang our heads over. Here are just a few:

Guinness - GREAT - the best meal of the day
Riverdance - well...it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Michael Flatley - we are SOOOO sorry!
Jonathan Rys Davies - you're welcome!
Oscar Wilde - First in coming out of the closet.
Bram Stoker - he did it first, he did it best.
The Famine - yes, we had a holocaust too except we didn't have the money to keep advertising.
The Kennedys - jury's still out on that one.
Leprechauns - once and for all, they're shoemakers, damnit! Get over it.
Pot Of Gold - just chocolate, my darlings. Sorry.
Corned Beef and Cabbage - flatulence, part 2.
Potatoes - carbs, carbs and more carbs. Deadly if you add butter, sour cream and melted cheese. (In Kay-bec, they fry it up and call it Poo-tine. Only a Frenchman would start a meal with the word 'shit'.)
Green Beer - Every Irishman on the planet has a BOLO out on the asshole who came up with that idea. Including me.
John Ford - thank you for "The Quiet Man" and "The Informer."
John Wayne - thank you for NOT attempting an Irish accent.
Tom Cruise - waiting for you in a dark alley!!!!
Bono and U2 - again, you're welcome.
Celtic Woman - upholstery in harmony.
The Irish Tenors - can beat the crap out of Il Divo.
Wakes - gatherings where everyone drinks, including the corpse, and somebody always starts a fight.
Maureen O'Hara - National Treasure
"Danny Boy" - melody origin is unknown but the words were written by an Englishman - Oh, the agony!
Drinking songs, dancing songs, crying songs - damn, were good!
EXCEPT - The Irish Rovers - I hate that fucking Unicorn song with a passion.

...and also including, but not limited to: horseracing, golf, lacemaking, roses, the book of Kells, castles, The Temple Bar area of Dublin, Jameson Whiskey and Waterford Crystal.

The final lesson of the day: The national colour is BLUE, not green. The national symbol is the HARP, not the shamrock and St. Patrick was a foreigner for crissakes.

All in all however, we are pretty good at making a name for ourselves, even if that name is only remembered once a year - hey, just like Christmas but with less angst.

So, as you head out to the pub today with your shamrock pinned to your vest and that nightmarish green dollar store tie around your neck, remember this:

"May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be at your back, may the dew settle softly on your fields and may you be an hour in Heaven before the devil knows you're dead."

Chevon