The Wanderlust Misfit

Don't Run From Anything, Run Towards Everything

I Wore Black On St. Patrick’s Day

I intentionally wore black. If somebody ventures to mention this, following with doubt considering this man’s Irish heritage then bail me from jail, I have work tonight.

There isn’t much for what society allows a white man to find culturally insensitive. Well I’ve dug around and decided it sickens me, the way people wear green, and those shamrock antennae headbands. Are we insects? No, you are not being cut or festive, and if you are Irish I see not why your insides don’t burn. Cultural Insensitivity.

When our ancestors landed these shores they were hated, spurned, signs adorning windows ‘Irish Need Not Apply’, the slums and the plight of a people fleeing forced starvation for abject poverty and soot; and bagpipes are ‘cute’ today. The Irish man was not considered of European heritage, a species apart he was. Cultural insensitivity? Nea, he was met with forward racism.

And the bars find it acceptable to play U2. If the Federal Government can dole assistance through the ‘Minority Business Association’, where is our help? The Irish built this Union, did the noble and left everyone alone, respected their liberty, only to find colden hearts when their cousins arrived 100 years later. 1/3 of the Continental Army, Irish men. Of the signers of the Declaration of Independence, three were Irish born. Pertinent facts do not escape my mind; no one is more independent than an Irish man, and no other will break every bone just to cry ‘Freedom!’ at the very face of those who oppress. And no one, I mean ever, put a finger to help the Irish. Affirmative Action? Minority Quotas? The Irish are always ignored; ignored because we did the noble, recognized Liberty and left each man to be his own; only for those left alone to come back demanding. Well Fuck Off! You All! There is not a soul more independent than the Irish man, no more empathetic! But no; do not wish this blood for yourself!

You are safer to be anything but Irish. We think too much, it bides alcohol, the chronic imbibing of such. Independent you say? Ask the Irish man to part from his whiskey. Depression, as our foreign kin Dostoevsky put, is our condition for thinking too much. And we are angry at our mothers while we weep over the short-comings of our fathers, only to find it was rigid independence that brought about such. And the bar is playing U2. What a happy, light-hearted day; one easily forgets, or rejects to understand: this is the celebration of plight; for what else is life?

Luck O’ The Irish. Only if there was as such. The truth, our demons eat us without our knowing. Yea, we may be aggressive, to hide insecurities, but if we come off friendly it is because we ail. Such is the Irish Plight. And they take pictures in silly green hats.

I lost an uncle to alcohol. No, make that three. And my Grandfather drank beer on his death bed. Cigarettes and drugs took four others. Go drink your green beer; it’s a celebration after all, no? My father found his way out of it, the only thing I find grace in this heritage. It was freedom. My father is a saint, but three cheers to the man who slaughtered the Celts, forced Catholicism and became the preamble for the Conquistadors. Yea, that Englishman Patrick is a saint. I understand why the DJ in the bar is African, cultural sensitivity is something to be practiced. So go find your leprechaun; I’ve never met a man so short — Fuck off! All of you! Go enjoy your water-colored shamrock tattoos and get drunk as shit; this day is not somber, but Nea! a reason to drink! Go catch your leprechauns while I sulk! And Savage Garden is playing, while everyone puts on green….


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